Chapter 58: If Clarity Eludes Us, Let Time Be the Judge

Two days later, on November 13th, Jay Chou’s debut album, “JAY,” was officially released across all channels. Of course, for now, it was only available in Taiwan, as the mainland’s online platforms and payment systems were still under construction, and offline distribution channels had yet to be established; work on those wouldn’t begin until January next year.

The plan was to use Taiwan as a testing ground for two months, while simultaneously releasing a few popular tracks for online preview in the mainland, so that consumers there would at least become aware of Jay Chou’s existence as a singer. This, too, was beneficial.

Moreover, the pirate market in the mainland was still rather cautious at the time—rarely would they bother to pirate songs from a newcomer, especially one from outside the region. So, delaying the mainland release by two months wasn’t a problem. After all, pirates were wary of pressing too many discs that might not sell, risking losses from unsold stock. It wasn’t until after 2003, when MP3 downloads became rampant online and the cost of piracy dropped to almost nothing, that pirates began to indiscriminately copy anything and everything.

In just its first week, “JAY” sold nearly 40,000 copies on the island, shocking countless music critics—this figure was already comparable to the best-selling albums of the year.

After all, aside from the lead single “Adorable Woman,” which seemed rather conventional, the rest of the album’s musical styles were strikingly unorthodox, heralding an entirely new era. For example, “Indian Jujube,” which critics dismissed as trash, left them utterly baffled—what on earth was that supposed to be?

The soaring sales were met with a countercurrent of criticism, accusing the artist of “mumbling” and having a “thin voice.”

In truth, many people who later claimed they disliked Jay Chou’s music and accused him of unclear articulation or muddled phrasing simply failed to understand his unique style. Most spoken languages in the world—English, Japanese, and so on—do not have the complex tonal system found in Mandarin, with its four tones and rich alternations. As a result, each Mandarin syllable carries a much denser meaning than in other languages. However, this tonal richness also makes traditional Mandarin ill-suited for rap, a genre that is distinctly Western or, at times, Japanese-influenced.

Jay Chou’s rap, in order to highlight its distinctiveness, deliberately employed a somewhat “overcorrecting” approach to tones: flattening those that should be rising, and vice versa. Unexpectedly, this brought about an immense artistic tension. In comparison, the resulting “muddled articulation” was a trivial price to pay.

As for the “Chinese style” that would later become his hallmark, it was not yet so evident in “JAY,” making it somewhat easier for critics to accept.

This was precisely what Gu Cheng admired most. An artist’s greatest contribution to musical art lay not in the pleasantness of their own voice, but in their ability to pioneer a new mode of musical expression for their native language. Such experimentation, innovation, and courageous pursuit in the absence of clear commercial prospects were all worthy of respect.

As someone aspiring to be the savior of the entertainment industry, Gu Cheng naturally wanted to encourage such innovation.

As Jay Chou’s album sales soared, Hu Zongxian at Alpha Records felt a complex mix of emotions, but was, on the whole, gratified by his star protégé’s success.

However, for company general manager Yang Junrong, the mood was far less lighthearted. He was plagued by a deep sense of regret: how could he have sold off Jay Chou’s mainland distribution rights for a fixed annual quota of 500,000 copies?

Moreover, the contract was for six years—almost the same length as Alpha’s contract with Jay Chou himself. As long as Chengpin Audio & Video met its sales targets, Alpha would be unable to terminate the agreement...

“I never imagined that mainland guy had such sharp instincts. Damn it. What a miscalculation.”

Regrets aside, Yang Junrong was a man of integrity; he could handle gains and losses without resorting to breaking contracts. He merely sighed over not having secured the best possible deal for the company.

…

As the saying goes, flowers bloom at both ends, each with its own story.

After signing Jay Chou—the biggest “black swan event” of all—Gu Cheng’s work in Taiwan became much more relaxed. He now had more time to manage business remotely via email, directing his cousin back home in the running of Legendary Entertainment.

By mid-November, the closed beta for Legendary Entertainment’s main project had officially ended. Next came a month and a half of open beta testing before the official launch.

Accounts and characters created during the open beta would be retained after the game went live, so the player base naturally saw another surge. According to daily updates from Pan Jieying, who was glued to the phone, “Legend” had already surpassed 30,000 concurrent players during peak evening hours, with 50,000 by December well within reach. Monthly active accounts had already reached nearly a million—four times the number claimed by “Dragon Tribe,” a rival game still in its own beta.

Internally, Legendary Entertainment took a rigorous approach to defining “monthly active users,” counting only those who logged in at least three days in the month and spent a minimum of five hours online—effectively filtering out those who tried the game for a few minutes and immediately quit.

By contrast, other gaming companies were still using the old metrics from the pre-dotcom bubble era: counting anyone who logged in once, no matter how briefly, as an active user. They were more concerned with making their data look good to attract higher valuations and more investment from venture capitalists, rather than reporting honestly.

Little did they realize that, in the investment winter with no VCs around, such inflated numbers were nothing but self-deception.

Because Gu Cheng was preoccupied with the game, Lin Zhiling found herself at loose ends in Taiwan, unsure what to do with her time. Each day, she would read, call friends in the industry, and study how to be a good agent and talent scout.

A few days later, once the game’s open beta was running smoothly and Gu Cheng was free again, he realized that leaving Lin Zhiling idle was a waste. So, on a whim, he assigned her a new task: to seek out struggling artists who had fallen out with their management companies, as well as to gather information on film and television projects in Taiwan currently seeking investment.

Once Lin Zhiling brought back these reports, Gu Cheng, with his sharp eye, could easily pick out any worthwhile opportunities.

Moreover, this kind of targeted effort would help Lin Zhiling grow far more quickly than simply sitting around reading biographies or textbooks about successful agents.

Lin Zhiling found the work intriguing. With the entertainment expenses Gu Cheng had advanced her, she immediately began reaching out to every contact she knew in the industry, treating them to meals and coffee, probing for news and business opportunities.

Naturally gifted in social situations, highly educated, and possessing an air of intelligence and grace, Lin Zhiling quickly made a name for herself. In just over a week, many in the Taiwanese entertainment scene had heard that a mainland-born entrepreneur, fresh from the world of internet startups, was searching for promising projects and artists to invest in.

Soon, Lin Zhiling’s desk was piled high with project proposals.

By now, it was already late November. Gu Cheng, feeling there wasn’t much left to do in Taiwan, decided to review all the information Lin Zhiling had gathered. If nothing seemed worth investing in, he would return home.

Lin Zhiling watched nervously as Gu Cheng skimmed through each file and tossed it aside, as anxious as a young bride awaiting judgment.

After all, truly worthwhile projects were rare; Gu Cheng was merely hoping to find a hidden gem and familiarize himself with the local scene. If even one out of every twenty film, TV, or artist investment requests Lin Zhiling had uncovered proved viable, that would already be a sign of good instincts.

“Jolin Tsai… The female singer I asked you to investigate—what’s her current status? Your report doesn’t clarify whether she’s a free agent or still under contract with a label. It’s all rather vague.”

Gu Cheng finished checking off the items he cared about most and began questioning Lin Zhiling point by point.

After all, there weren’t many singers from this era whose names stuck in his mind—apart from Jay Chou, the only one he knew from Taiwan was Jolin Tsai.

Lin Zhiling explained patiently, “Jolin Tsai debuted last year and enjoyed a brief period of popularity. The reason I reported her status as I did is because she’s currently not releasing records with any management company, but she also isn’t a free agent…”

“Be specific,” Gu Cheng gestured for Lin Zhiling to sit and explain at leisure, sipping his tea as he found the situation increasingly interesting.

Lin Zhiling began, “Here’s the story: Jolin Tsai signed with Da Sheng Studio as her management company prior to her debut in ‘99. After releasing two albums, she felt the company was exploiting her—forcing her to release two albums a year after becoming famous, and making her sing songs she disliked. She felt over-commercialized as the so-called ‘goddess for otaku.’ So, in August, she issued a statement that she would no longer work with her current management, but since her contract hasn’t expired, she’s just idle at home, waiting it out.”

With this explanation, Gu Cheng understood: she wasn’t breaching her contract, but also wasn’t releasing new music—just biding her time.

But this was only Jolin Tsai’s own public version of events; it was entirely possible she was presenting herself in the best possible light.

Gu Cheng didn’t know the inside story and didn’t care to speculate.

At heart, he had a genuine appreciation for artists who honored their commitments—especially in an era when management companies took on considerable risk to promote a solo artist, much like venture capitalists. Although the rise of the internet had given artists more bargaining power, Gu Cheng could not approve of those who “treated investors as VCs when they needed money, but as mere lenders when they made a profit.”

This was why he had admired Kwon Bo-ah’s integrity and strongly advised her to sign a long-term contract with S-M.

If Jolin Tsai couldn’t prove her own trustworthiness, Gu Cheng wouldn’t sign her, not even for a guaranteed profit.

He thought for a moment and asked, “So, has Jolin Tsai been in contact with any other management companies?”

To this, Lin Zhiling answered readily, “I haven’t heard anything. She seems to be staying at home, quietly working on herself.”

Hearing this, Gu Cheng’s confidence in Jolin Tsai grew.

He instructed, “Let’s wait and see. If she can endure a year of inactivity and takes no action, it’ll show she truly wants to escape over-commercialization and a music style she dislikes. If she can’t, it’ll mean she’s just looking for a bigger cut after getting famous.”

If her retreat was due to creative differences and a refusal to be pigeonholed as an “otaku idol,” Gu Cheng felt that was entirely forgivable. Time would tell.

With Jolin Tsai’s matter settled, Gu Cheng moved on. The other female singers were unremarkable. He finished reviewing their files and turned to the film and TV projects seeking investment in Taiwan.

After skipping over a dozen hopeless ventures, his eyes finally landed on a proposal titled “Meteor Garden.”