Chapter 57: The Friendship of Gentlemen is as Pure as Water

Many years later, when Jay Zhou recounted his memoirs on a reality show, he said, “Without Brother Xian, there would be no Jay Zhou; without Brother Cheng, I wouldn’t be the Jay Zhou I am today.”

The audience erupted in amazement: “No way! So before your debut, you were actually forced to become that kind of Jay Zhou!”

As for why Jay Zhou addressed Gu Cheng, who was five years younger than him, as “Brother Cheng,” outsiders could only speculate. Perhaps it was a kind of respect for artistic accomplishment.

For a newcomer, anxious on the eve of his debut, to have a stranger fly over from afar and tell him: he had high hopes for him and that, in the future, he could sing whatever he wanted, make any kind of music he liked, and need not worry about commercial constraints—

No matter how his music turned out, Gu Cheng guaranteed him sales of one million albums a year in the mainland.

Such encouragement was nothing less than a stabilizing force for a fledgling artist. Even though Mandarin albums cost only a fraction of those in Japan or Korea, an artist could still earn three or four yuan per disc. That was a promise of at least three million yuan in annual income, no matter what kind of music Jay Zhou made.

In the year 2000, Jay Zhou had no ambitions for money; he only wanted to create the music he loved.

Because of Gu Cheng’s appearance, his life trajectory changed dramatically. Those songs he wrote purely for commercial reasons but didn’t truly like—such as “Dual Blades” and “Chaotic Dance of Spring and Autumn,” which were later composed for commercial endorsements in 2002 and 2003—vanished from history, never to be written by Jay Zhou.

Nor would anyone else write them.

Gu Cheng could barely remember Jay Zhou’s songs; even if he did, he wouldn’t stoop to plagiarizing works the artist himself didn’t like, composed solely for commercial aims.

Jay Zhou’s words years later—“Without Brother Cheng, I wouldn’t be the Jay Zhou I am today”—clearly referred to this.

Gu Cheng made his music purer, more artistic, and less compromised by commercial interests.

With such a confidant who showed him such respect, what more needed to be said? That night, Jay Zhou naturally treated everyone to a feast. They found a private kitchen in the military dependents’ village—Gu Cheng, Lin Zhilin, Fang Wenshan, and Jay Zhou himself—four people, drinking until they could drink no more.

After five bottles of beer, Jay Zhou began to vent: “Back then, Brother Xian asked me to write fifty songs and then pick ten for the album. At first, I couldn’t understand why I had to write so many! Only after I finished and he picked the songs did I realize—Brother Xian was afraid I’d be too unconventional. The songs I didn’t think were my best were, in his eyes, the best ones. The ones I thought were the coolest, like ‘Nunchucks,’ were rejected. He told me sincerely: these songs aren’t bad, but I have to wait until I’m truly famous to sing them. To be honest, Brother Xian treats me well, but I really can’t accept this!”

Gu Cheng could fully understand this. Commercial creation and artistic creation are, after all, viewed from different angles.

Just like, twenty years later, those web novel platforms would have editors earnestly advise writers: “Why bother innovating? Write a formulaic story first, build fame—that’s what matters. Once you’re a star, you can talk about innovation. If you’re not, what’s the use? No one will even see your work.”

Gu Cheng had been the data director of an online entertainment platform for seven or eight years in his previous life. He’d seen all kinds of ups and downs, the warmth and coldness of people—nothing surprised him.

So he comforted, “Jay, just hang in there, grit your teeth, and you’ll get through it. There was once a screenwriter who brought a script to Chaplin. Chaplin said: ‘When you have my fame, you can write this kind of script. But now, you don’t, so you have to write something better. Or, you can be a ghostwriter for my studio, and after you’re under my label, then write this kind of script.’”

Jay Zhou, a little tipsy, listened to Gu Cheng’s odd anecdote and sobered up somewhat: “Who’s San’er?”

“Oh, just Chaplin. I drank too much just now, tongue slipped,” Gu Cheng smoothly covered up his slip, glad for his quick thinking. He had so many anecdotes in his head from his previous world, he almost got them mixed up.

Jay Zhou didn’t suspect a thing.

Then the group spent some time debating, “Why is it that what artists love most isn’t what the market loves most?” Gu Cheng, as always, cited examples and drew on his knowledge of the future “era of AI-driven content delivery,” using terms that made sense to people of this era, dropping just enough hints to leave the other three stunned, as if they’d found a soulmate worthy of a blood oath.

They drank into the night. Gu Cheng was about to excuse himself when Jay Zhou clung to him, refusing to let him go. “Brother Cheng, you know so much—you can’t just be a businessman. Did you ever make music yourself? Tried writing songs?”

“No, I just listen and observe a lot. I’m not skilled myself.”

Hearing Gu Cheng’s denial, even Fang Wenshan couldn’t help but jump in, “Impossible! Otherwise, you wouldn’t have this kind of insight! If you’re a real brother, share something—even a draft, something casual, let’s study it together. We’ve told you so much about our creative journeys; you can’t leave without giving us something real in return!”

With arms around each other’s shoulders, they returned to the Alpha set’s recording studio, chicken in one hand, a bottle in the other, swept up in the excitement.

“Come on, Cheng, did you or didn’t you?” Even Lin Zhilin, the empathetic one, was tipsy, her starry eyes hazy as she looked at him, trying to see if he’d tell the truth.

Gu Cheng did have some material in his mind. Though he wasn’t much of a composer, at least… after crossing over, he could recall a few tunes.

He didn’t want to use plagiarized works to make money—he knew that wasn’t right. But since it was just for fun among friends, as a way to extricate himself, it wouldn’t hurt.

However, most of what he remembered were tunes from the 2020s and 2030s, quite out of step with current tastes, and some couldn’t even be played with instruments from 2000.

As for music from before he was born, he really couldn’t recall much, just as today’s kids can’t sing “Sad Pacific.” Unless it was a masterpiece famous enough to be recorded in history.

After racking his brains, Gu Cheng settled on Eason Chan’s “Exaggerated”—a song with a simple melody, easy to play, and a looping theme that was easy to remember. As for the details he couldn’t recall, he’d improvise on the spot.

As the saying goes, after reading three hundred Tang poems, even if you can’t write poems, you’ll know how to recite them. Gu Cheng had been a “talent scout” for years; though only slightly skilled at composing, arranging, and performing, it was enough for the moment.

He searched the recording studio, found a keyboard, and sat down to play.

“This song was my inner journey back when I was a trainee at an entertainment company before going into business. It fits tonight’s theme, but the song isn’t finished, nor is the arrangement. Let’s discuss it together.”

Jay Zhou and Fang Wenshan both grew solemn, watching Gu Cheng’s posture at the keyboard—he looked every bit the professional.

A three-note looping piano theme, like the low murmur of contemplation and struggle. After the introduction, Gu Cheng switched the keyboard’s tone to a dark brass sound, a blend of organ and saxophone, mournful and plaintive.

“If someone asks me, I’ll speak, but no one ever does.

I wait in vain, wanting to speak, but have nowhere to put my words.

My feelings hesitate, like a bottle’s cap waiting to be opened, yet my lips grow moss.

In a crowd, the quieter I am, the more I’m ignored—so I must do something unexpected.

Wanting to burst into song, anywhere I go feels like a stage surrounded on all sides…”

He sang the lyrics in Cantonese to maintain the rhyme. The melody was simple, yet the emotion was intense, leaving the other three utterly transfixed. The compromise for success and the persistence for art intertwined in the music.

A cry from the soul—a blow to the head, yet also a stabilizing force.

It fit the moment perfectly; in the context of their conversation over drinks, it couldn’t have been more apt.

Jay Zhou sobered up completely as he listened. Even after Gu Cheng finished, he was still murmuring, “The arrangement isn’t finished yet? What a pity—leaving a song like this incomplete is a crime.”

“It’s fine. The song is simple. Lyrical pieces are written for the occasion—if it fits the mood, it’s a good song. But if the general public hears it, without that same artistic struggle in their hearts, they might not even understand it, let alone think it’s a good song. Besides, I’m not a singer, not releasing albums—just playing around. Finished or not, it doesn’t matter.”

But Jay Zhou wouldn’t let it go, burning with enthusiasm: “No way! Such a good song—if you trust me, let me try arranging it for you in a while. Don’t worry, I absolutely won’t steal your song.”

“Do as you wish. It probably won’t get published anyway,” Gu Cheng relented, dropping the subject.

But if this song really never saw the light of day, what if Eason Chan’s songwriter composed a similar tune years later? Gu Cheng mused to himself—if it didn’t become an album, at least let people in the industry know it existed, just in case. If it meant shortchanging Eason Chan, he’d make it up to him someday with money or support.

After all, Gu Cheng genuinely didn’t want to jeopardize the careers of creative artists.

With these concerns, the four finished their drinks outside the studio and each found a place to sleep.

That night, for the three besides Gu Cheng, would leave a profound impact. The confusion about their life’s direction seemed largely swept away.