Chapter Four: The Cast-iron Pot, With Tears in Its Eyes, Calls for the Repair of the Tin Kettle
Ren Qian came to Brother Liang’s studio to record the full version of “Boundless Skies.” He had two goals: first, to silence the foul-mouthed trolls on WeiBlog who were hurling baseless insults at him; second, to use this opportunity to gain some recognition.
Over the past few days, he had come across an extremely useful piece of information while flipping through various magazines.
It was this:
The Empire’s music scene had entered a period of stagnation.
A gap between generations.
The older musicians favored traditional styles, and the younger ones, eager to curry favor with the industry elders, blindly churned out songs in the same vein.
All the while, they ignored the needs of their audience.
For fifty years, the Empire’s musical style—whether in melody, arrangement, or choice of instruments—had hardly changed. Everything slavishly followed the style of the so-called God of Song.
As for why this had happened, Ren Qian speculated that a large part of it was because local musicians looked down on foreign music.
Perhaps the Empire had never experienced the kind of painful upheaval that others had at the end of the Qing dynasty and during the Republican era, and so now, in many ways, the Empire was simply too arrogant.
That was why Ren Qian’s three songs were also categorized as traditional style.
The reason Mars Entertainment had taken an interest in him was more due to luck than anything else.
To become a classic, there was still a very long way to go.
But not everyone was content to remain stagnant. The Chinese music world had been dormant for too long, and a new situation was finally emerging.
Recently, a few unconventional songs had become popular. Although their popularity was fleeting, it was enough to show that artists were seeking breakthroughs, and that the Empire’s citizens were tired of the endless sameness.
In summary, the music industry was in dire need of transformation, yet the majority remained stubbornly stuck in their ways.
Music critics were a particularly unpleasant bunch, and the industry veterans liked to throw their weight around, frequently forming cliques to disparage any pioneers who dared to innovate, accusing them of dabbling in the unorthodox or even betraying music itself.
It was all quite ridiculous.
...
“This song is the most emotional piece I’ve heard in twenty years!
No exaggeration!
Right now, the market is flooded with bombastic traditional tunes, empty as an old scholar reciting the Analects or a bald monk chanting scripture—utterly hollow.
But this song, even though I understand only a fragment of the lyrics, doesn’t need words to convey its power—it pierces the soul with an utterly unreasonable force.
The melody is both somber and uplifting, as if the singer is stumbling through inner conflicts, constantly seeking a breakthrough...
I find that this song’s meaning can be infinitely extended—it’s a mountain from one angle, a peak from another!”
Liang Chao gave a thumbs-up, racking his brain for adjectives to praise “Boundless Skies,” only to realize that the song was already far more than just a song.
Within its mournful, wandering melody, he could see his younger self, repeatedly running into walls but pushing forward with the reckless energy of youth—
The sense of identification was overwhelming!
If this song had appeared twenty years earlier, would his and Brother Lin’s lives have been completely different, inspired by its message?
With that thought, Liang Chao was moved to tears. He handed the finished recording to Ren Qian, his hands trembling.
“Could you write down the lyrics for me? I’ve kept a sample of the song. Don’t worry, I won’t share it with anyone!”
Liang Chao’s eyes were moist, his tone devout.
‘He’s a man with a story, too,’ thought Ren Qian.
He stepped forward and patted Liang Chao on the shoulder in a gesture of masculine camaraderie, then pulled out a sheet of paper and swiftly wrote down the lyrics.
Because the recording had been so emotionally charged, Ren Qian was still riding a wave of heightened feeling. Liang Chao sighed in admiration—how many years had it been since a musical genius like this had appeared?
Perhaps today’s recording would be something he’d cherish for the rest of his life.
‘Still free and true to myself, forever singing my song, traveling a thousand miles...’
As Ren Qian and Yan Yu left the studio, they could hear Liang Chao inside, singing at the top of his lungs.
Ren Qian had performed with a subtle, understated emotion, making it easy for listeners to project their own experiences into the song.
But Liang Chao, deeply moved by Ren Qian’s performance, sang along almost involuntarily—not with much technique, but with great sincerity.
Or perhaps he wasn’t really singing a song at all. He was sighing for his own youth, facing his own scars, lamenting that he was born at the wrong time.
...
Almost an hour after Ren Qian had left.
Liang Chao rummaged through a rusty tin box in the corner of the studio and took out a CD.
He carefully placed it in the player.
What played through the speakers was, surprisingly, also a Cantonese song! The melody was simple, the rhythm lively. But the song never quite managed to break free of the era’s constraints; in many places, it seemed awkward and ill-fitting.
To put it bluntly, it lacked the courage for true innovation, wasn’t bold or free enough, and never really transcended the traditional style.
“Brother Lin, your decision back then wasn’t wrong! But if you never heard this young man’s song, you’d regret it for the rest of your life, wouldn’t you?”
……
After recording the song, Ren Qian felt as if he’d been reborn—transformed, the weariness of old age reined in.
He decided that, from this day on, he should embrace a bit more youthful boldness. If he could cross worlds and still lived timidly, afraid to take risks, then what was the point of reincarnation?
After a long silence, Ren Qian finally posted a brief statement on his WeiBlog, his first since the plagiarism scandal erupted.
“Justice lives in people’s hearts. Plagiarism and being plagiarized will be judged by time itself. Any argument from me now would be empty words. I will use an original song to prove myself: with my talent, I have no need to steal from those who don’t even measure up!”
He attached the song below.
His followers were mostly university students, and today was a public holiday—they all had time to spare.
Feng Tao, a student from Jiangnan University’s Computer Science Department, was idly scrolling through WeiBlog when he saw Ren Qian—the main figure in the recent plagiarism controversy—had updated for the first time since the storm began.
Wasn’t this inviting criticism?
Curious, he clicked in, originally intending to leave a sharp comment or two, but when he saw Ren Qian’s calm words, he couldn’t help but play “Boundless Skies.”
“Today I
Watched the snow flutter through the cold night
With a heart grown cold, drifting far away
Chasing through wind and rain, lost in the mist
The sky and sea are vast, will you and I change?
Forgive me, this life, unruly and unrestrained, loving freedom...”
Feng Tao was completely won over. That hoarse, deep, weathered voice, the melody that etched itself into his mind, the plaintive, almost weeping singing style, and the underlying spirit of the song—all made him play it again and again.
Two hours slipped by unnoticed.
Meanwhile, many others were similarly struck to the core by “Boundless Skies.”
Ren Qian’s lips curled into a smile as he scrolled through the comments under his post.
Distant Tomorrow: “Damn, why am I stuck on single-track repeat?”
Obscure Path: “My god, I can’t understand a word but I can hum the melody!”
Hopeless Romantic: “Terrible song, I only looped it twenty times.”
The Past Is Gone: “Bad review, it’s got me feeling obsessed.”
Abi the Handsome: “I’m a fan now. A loyal fan!”
Sunk to the Bottom: “+1”
Silent: “+10086”
Where Dreams Begin: “Set it as the theme song for my WeiBlog page.”
Sunk to the Bottom: “+1”
Zelkova: “I really want to know what the lyrics mean!”
Sunk to the Bottom: “+1”
Child from the South: “Cantonese pride! My home dialect! I’m floored. First time in twenty years I’ve felt proud listening to a song.”
Stubborn Rhino: “Anyone else still listening on loop since the post went up?”
Sunk to the Bottom: “+1”
Lurker: “Sunk to the Bottom, why do you keep adding +1? Got too much free time?”
Ren Qian couldn’t help but laugh. Of course he was thrilled at the positive response.
He hadn’t signed to any label, had no professional promotion team, and could rely only on word of mouth and the internet. Though word of mouth wasn’t as explosive as a publicity campaign, it often grew against the odds—stronger and more enduring than any manufactured hype.
Seeing the unanimous praise on WeiBlog, Ren Qian knew that Cantonese songs had a real chance.
Just as he was riding this wave of triumph, his phone rang—it was Wenrun, the nurse.
The girl was surprisingly forward on the phone, her words bold and spicy, almost like a femme fatale. Ren Qian was taken aback—was this really the same shy, gentle girl who used to blush with every smile, now transformed into a fiery nurse on the other end of the line?
After chatting for a while, they agreed to meet for dinner.
Ren Qian, beaming, put his phone away, secretly delighted at his own good fortune. He checked his reflection in the mirror, fussing with his hair.
This face had made up for all the regrets of his past life—he’d been so unattractive before that it had overshadowed his talent, and the company executives hadn’t even bothered to look at him.
What’s it like to be handsome? Just look at me.
He grinned, his mind conjuring up the nurse’s exquisitely beautiful face—so lovely she didn’t even need makeup, with those enticing dimples. A beauty like that working as a nurse was the ultimate uniform fantasy.
Clearing his throat and smoothing his stylish hair, Ren Qian prepared to head out. Before he left, he glanced at the comments again.
Sunk to the Bottom: “I can sing this song now, too!
Steel pot,
Crying as I shout for the repairman!
My new pot’s all chipped and dented, left lying around,
Chasing pots through wind and rain,
No tears as I patch the chimney!”
Ren Qian: “……”
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