Chapter 70: Finding a Teacher for Chen Sicheng

“Brother Wu, what do you think of my novel?”
“It’s readable, but honestly, it’s only worth about five bucks per thousand words.”
“Brother Wu, then what do you think of my music?”
“Are you really set on a singing career? Not acting anymore?”
“Well, I don’t think I can suppress myself. That would be irresponsible. Since I have so many talents, why can’t I be a triple-threat in film, television, and music like others?”
“…Fine.” Wu Xiang could now confirm, without a doubt, that this was Chen Sicheng—no imitations here. Wu Xiang actually wanted to tell Chen Sicheng, “Young man, focus on your own business; don’t waste your time daydreaming.” But he suppressed the urge; he felt he was becoming kinder these days.

They were no longer at the Film Academy as they talked. After meeting and getting acquainted, Wu Xiang naturally felt obliged to help Chen Sicheng. “You want to sing? Let me find you a teacher. That counts as helping out.”

“Xiangzi! You’re here.” The teacher arrived on cue—it was none other than Wang Feng, the old maestro.

In fact, Wang Feng had chosen the venue: a bar near Houhai. At this time, it wasn’t a trendy spot; the drinks weren’t fancy, and there weren’t many bars with unique culture or creative flair yet. But the place was comfortable—not too crowded, not too empty.

The three sat down, not bothering with formalities. Wu Xiang naturally started the conversation.
“Let me introduce you.” With the main players present, he began, addressing Wang Feng first: “This is a distant relative’s kid. He wants to study music; he’s got some ideas and a bit of a foundation. What do you think?” Then, turning to Chen Sicheng: “You know who this is, right? He may not be following your path, but Teacher Wang knows way more people in the music industry than I do, and he’s a true professional.”

“Fantastic!” Chen Sicheng was clearly thrilled. The moment he saw Wang Feng, his eyes practically shone. “Teacher Wang, please take me on. I can rock too! Brother Wu doesn’t really get me—I’ve always looked up to you.” As he spoke, he flashed a classic rock hand sign.

“He wrote this—take a look.” Wu Xiang didn’t say much more, simply handing Wang Feng the lyrics to “Watching the Sea.”

Wang Feng didn’t answer right away. He studied the song carefully, then finally looked up. “Not bad at all. Really good. Alright!”

“That’s great!” Chen Sicheng was elated.

With Wang Feng’s agreement, Wu Xiang still felt a bit uneasy. “Don’t do this just for my sake. I’m just making the introduction—say whatever you really think. If there’s something wrong, don’t hold back.”

Wu Xiang was worried Wang Feng might give Chen Sicheng too much leeway because of their friendship. For someone as cocky as Chen Sicheng, Wu Xiang thought a bit of tough love was necessary.

“No, the song is genuinely good. I can feel the emotion; it’s heartfelt. That’s the truth.” When it came to music, Wang Feng wasn’t one to sugarcoat.

“That’s good.” Wu Xiang was finally at ease.

His concern wasn’t unfounded. Not long ago, Wang Feng had released “Fireworks,” the third album from Baojiajie, which included Wu Xiang’s “The Heart of a Dreamer” and “I Love You, China,” plus a bonus soundtrack album for “First Intimate Encounter.” The album had sold extremely well.

And why wouldn’t it? It was essentially two albums in one, released alongside a hit movie—the film’s massive success gave the album a boost too.

But the real key was that Wu Xiang had a major hand in the album’s production and publishing.

This was Wang Feng’s own company, but Wu Xiang was the main shareholder!

That’s why, despite being a famous director and celebrity, Wu Xiang still took the train to school. He simply didn’t have much spare cash. Most of his money came from his royalties, which the publisher paid out quickly since the novel had become a bestseller before the movie even hit theaters—early publicity, after all.

Fortunately, producing an album didn’t cost too much anymore—ten or twenty thousand would do. The reason was simple: piracy.

Because of piracy, selling official albums was tough, but you had to do it or else go out of business. To survive, you had to lower prices.

It wasn’t just the record business that was suffering; even signed singers struggled to make money from albums. Take Cui Jian, the legendary pioneer of Chinese rock—his contracts for an album didn’t even reach two hundred thousand.

So, how did singers make money? Simple: gigs and commercial events. You couldn’t pirate a live performance. Piracy had forced everyone to hustle—singers were always busy.

Since Wang Feng was self-publishing, there were no copyright contract issues. Wu Xiang also had great connections at Hualu, a state-owned company with excellent distribution channels, so the album was produced cheaply and efficiently.

This third album finally let Wang Feng see some real money. Before, even after two albums, he’d been living off commercial gigs. In the rock band world, unless you’re one of the very top acts, you’re stuck at the bottom of the live circuit—playing in bars, unable to land more formal stages. In the industry, they were known as “migrant workers”—that was the reality of being in a rock band. (No disrespect to real migrant workers intended.)

“Alright! I’ll take your little brother under my wing.” Wang Feng made it official, then turned to Chen Sicheng: “No need for formal lessons. Just give me a call when you’re free, and we’ll practice together. If there’s a chance to perform, that’s even better. The most important thing is stage experience.”

To be honest, Chen Sicheng’s birthday in February was making Wu Xiang anxious.

“Deal!” Chen Sicheng was delighted. But he always had his own ideas. “Uh, Brother Wang, I actually want to enter a campus original singer competition. What do you think about that…”

“Great! When the time comes, I’ll get a few friends together to help with arrangements and really polish things up for you.” Wang Feng truly loved mentoring others—he was genuinely enthusiastic.

“Thank you so much.” Chen Sicheng was sincerely grateful.

Seeing that things had worked out, Wu Xiang figured his mother wouldn’t lose face, and he’d fulfilled his obligation to Chen Sicheng. In the future, when Chen Sicheng tried to repay the favor, Wu Xiang could start scheming how to take advantage of him… In any case, with his part done, he was ready to leave.

“Hold on.” Wang Feng stopped Wu Xiang just as he was about to go.

“Is there more on the agenda?” Wu Xiang was suspicious—was there some sort of setup at this place Wang Feng had chosen?

“Heh heh, wait a bit longer.” Wang Feng was being mysteriously secretive.

Wait for what, exactly?

Wu Xiang wondered, but not long after, he heard a familiar lyric:

“In a world filled with flowers, where could it be?
If it truly exists, then I surely must go there.
I want to stand atop the highest mountain peak,
Unfazed by cliffs or precipices…”

It was the resident singer at the bar performing.

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