Chapter One Hundred and Two: The Glory of Wang Jie

Beyond had begun to make its presence known in the music scene, and Yan Xu, who had been buried in composing and rehearsal, found that one day Liu Yida brought him a young man before him.
At the sight of the handsome, slightly dashing face, Yan Xu realized that the fourth band of his company, the Daming Faction, was about to be officially formed.

He already knew the other member would be Huang Yaoming, but Yan Xu knew nothing at all about Huang’s background. He had already asked Lu Guanting to look for him in the circles, and had even enlisted Shan Liwen, who was well connected in the underground independent scene. There had been no leads. The only thing left was to let Liu Yida handle backstage production work.
And now the sharp-faced youth standing there was the very Huang Yaoming Yan had failed to find for so long.

It seemed that although Yan Xu had fluttered his butterfly wings a hundred times, some things were still destined to unfold in the same way.

Before this, Huang had actually been a DJ at Hong Kong Commercial Radio, so it was no wonder he could not be found in the underground non-mainstream world. His appearance was the result of Liu Yida placing a singer-search notice in Swing Biweekly. Seeing other bands forming one after another and records hitting the shelves, Liu Yida was eager with envy; he knew the label’s plan for him and decided to find the right voice himself by putting an ad out.

Though their pairing was newly formed, Yan Xu felt the chemistry between them was already there. With a bit more polish, they would be formidable. Lately, Liu Yida had already written and refined a great many songs.

In Hong Kong’s music world, the Daming Faction was unquestionably top-tier. In PolyGram’s top twenty Hong Kong album-sales list for its fiftieth anniversary, it had a secure place, and it was the only band among the entries. Its triple-platinum sales were the highest sales figure ever achieved by any Hong Kong band in the region.

Just two weeks after the label’s third record had been released—at the moment when Farewell to Ideals had passed gold and was moving toward platinum—Dragon Clan Records unleashed its fourth album. It was, in fact, only the company’s second major vocal artist release.

With a stern face, dressed entirely in denim, a cross-body bag slung at his hip, and standing on a field of dull, yellowing grass, he looked lonely to the point of pain. That proud and aloof image graced posters that soon appeared in record stores across Hong Kong of every size.

When his singular, crackling style of phrasing rose from the speakers, its sorrow and bleakness spread instantly through every street and alley. The grief already in his voice seemed to awaken the secret loneliness in city men and women; burdened by years of pain, his austere and solitary presence in that faintly weeping tone carried still more melancholy.

“A Game, A Dream” was, to many, exactly what its title promised—a game, a dream. It stunned critics and even the record companies themselves.

His taciturn, roving-artist image, his weathered voice—these became his hallmark. Sales in the first few days were modest, but after several days of chart-pushing and promotion, the record climbed like a rocket. In a week it crossed gold: respectable, but not exceptional among many artists. In nine days, it had reached platinum, which could not fail to amaze people.

Even after platinum, sales did not flatten; they had not yet peaked. In just two more weeks the double-platinum mark was reached, and suddenly people saw what extraordinary results this plainly unremarkable-looking man could produce.

The comparison was unavoidable: Tan Yonglin’s Love Trap, released earlier this year, and Red Sun, just issued, had both shown momentum. One had achieved an unprecedented ten-platinum run; the other, still selling, had already reached nine-platinum. Though growth had slowed, breaking ten-platinum seemed all but certain, and eleven-platinum was no longer impossible.

On the major charts, eight of Wang Jie’s ten songs entered the pop chart. Most notable, both “A Game, A Dream” and “Annie” cracked the top ten on multiple charts. “A Game, A Dream” even shook Red Sun, which had sat atop the chart for weeks, becoming the second number-one single Dragon Clan Records had produced since its founding.

With fame, reporters swiftly unearthed Wang Jie’s past: his impoverished, hard life, his varied jobs. Everything stirred public sympathy. From a wandering martial-arts instructor to a bestselling singer, his story was pure, compelling modern success lore—and it validated Yan Xu’s rare instinct for talent.

Within two weeks, double-platinum sales caused a stir across the industry and in the halls of Dragon Clan Records alike. Though they believed in Wang Jie’s prospects, such numbers were beyond expectation. If he continued at this pace, his album could even reach five-platinum in Hong Kong; beyond that, the figures seemed unimaginable.

Yet Yan Xu knew this double-platinum figure was only Wang Jie’s first small step. This was a Mandarin-language record; Taiwan and the mainland were his main arenas. If it sold a million copies on the mainland and more than eight hundred thousand in Taiwan, total sales across Asia would exceed 2.8 million, with eventual cumulative sales likely to pass ten million.

That single album alone would eventually generate tens of millions in profit for Dragon Clan Records. In practice, though, breaking into the mainland market alone would take one or two years of careful planning.

Now Yan Xu’s immediate goal was this: beyond mainland China, he wanted Asian-wide sales to pass one and a half million. Even after paying Wang Jie’s royalties and all the publicity costs, the label could still profit three to four million.

For Wang Jie himself, the royalty share would be seven to eight million; after the manager’s cut and taxes, four to five million would remain in his own pocket—instant millionaire status in one stroke.

Even though Tan Yonglin had reached ten-platinum in Hong Kong, the language limitations of Cantonese meant his overall Asian sales could never match Wang Jie’s, and he could not earn the same level of income.

Yan Xu’s contract for Wang Jie was no predatory pact like those offered by many labels; it was a grand deal of the kind only a top-line star could command.

Yan Xu believed that only when a company truly treated its artists and staff well could they, in turn, truly serve the company.

By contrast, at Wang Jie’s previous label in another era, he had been squeezed relentlessly—made to release several records in a single year. No matter how well the albums sold, his royalties were meager, sometimes less than the leftovers from one record.

That overuse of his voice left him with anorexia and eventually unable to work at all; doctors once gave him only seven months to live.

All that was over now. Wang Jie was no longer destined for that ruin. What awaited him was a life far more brilliant and radiant.