Chapter Thirty-Eight: Zhang Yichuan

After the episode of "The Life We Long For" featuring Summer of Bubbles aired, online discussions erupted over whether Zhou Miao was too much of a straight shooter—how could he say such ruthless things even to beauties like Li Qin and Zhao Li? Rainbow Records' official account seized the opportunity to stir the pot, releasing a candid photo of Zhou Miao scowling in the recording studio, caught mid-tantrum. They even paired it with a photo of Zhao Li imitating his expression for a side-by-side comparison.

Netizens were in stitches—if you couldn't call it identical, it was certainly an uncanny match! Some went further, photoshopping all sorts of humorous captions onto Zhou Miao's photo: “The Gaze of the Miao God,” “Come here, I won’t hit you!” “Just look into my eyes and you’ll know how much I like you,” and so on.

Yet some fans argued that Zhou Miao’s attitude was an expression of his dissatisfaction with the company. Though the boost from “Chinese Words” had stemmed much of the criticism against Summer of Bubbles, Rainbow itself was still a frequent target.

Naturally, Zhou Miao and Zuo Qiu were aware of all the outside noise, but neither cared. Even before signing, Zhou Miao knew what kind of company Rainbow was and what its weaknesses were. What drew him to Rainbow, aside from the flexible and liberating contract, was above all its well-established promotional channels.

The fact that “Rice Fragrance” and “Chinese Words” shot to the top of the major music charts in such a short time was not only due to their high quality—Rainbow had invested heavily in promotion: prominent app launches, trending topics purchased on Weibo, recommendations from music radio stations, and so forth. Each of these resources was hard-won through negotiations with major platforms and cost a fortune.

Thankfully, the investment paid off—a girl group that goes viral can rake in terrifying amounts of profit, enough to sustain the entire company.

Moreover, after two consecutive smash hits with “Rice Fragrance” and “Chinese Words,” many companies were reaching out to Rainbow, eager to commission songs.

As Zhou Miao’s temporary agent, Yang Yan handed him a thick stack of song requests. “These are all people asking you to write songs. See if there’s anyone you’d like to work with.”

Zhou Miao glanced through them. On top was the current hottest young idol, Lin Zhiqi—center-stage debut from a talent show, with strikingly androgynous looks and a gender-neutral stage persona. As for his music, Zhou Miao couldn’t recall a single song of his.

Without blinking, Zhou Miao tossed Lin Zhiqi’s song request straight into the trash. Though Yang Yan had anticipated this, she couldn’t help but give a wry smile.

If Zhou Miao collaborated with Lin Zhiqi on a song, the news would absolutely explode—the hottest star and a rising supernova in a dream team-up. The buzz alone would be electrifying.

Unfortunately, Zhou Miao detested these effeminate types most of all. He felt that the current state of the Chinese music industry had been led astray by guys like this.

He skimmed through the rest—most were requests from young idols and groups with abysmal vocal skills. Even a few internet celebrities trying to transition into singing had joined the fray, offering hefty fees. Zhou Miao didn’t spare them a glance; all went into the trash.

“In the future, don’t bother showing me requests from these types. It’s a waste of time—just reject them outright.”

Yang Yan nodded her understanding.

“I have three principles for writing songs for others,” Zhou Miao continued. “First, they must have good character—anyone with a scandalous past is out. Second, they must have real singing ability. I don’t want to have to record their vocals word by word. Third, they have to be a normal person.”

Yang Yan was puzzled. “Normal person? What do you mean by that?”

Zhou Miao pointed to the trash can. “At the very least, I should be able to tell their gender at a glance. I can’t stand these ambiguous types.”

Yang Yan broke out in a cold sweat. This guy was fearless—if outsiders heard this, fans would tear him apart. She quickly nodded, “Understood.”

“Besides those people, Director Zhang Yichuan also called. He wants you to write the theme song for his new film, but he’d like to meet you first.”

Zhang Yichuan? Zhou Miao was taken aback—this was the country’s renowned kung fu director. With so many top-tier producers vying to write for his films, why would he come to him?

After a moment’s thought, Zhou Miao said, “All right, set up a meeting. My schedule is open these days.”

The following evening, Zhou Miao met Zhang Yichuan at a traditional Beijing hotpot restaurant nearby. The man, nearing fifty, was plain and thin-faced, with a scruffy goatee that made him look somewhat sly.

As Zhou Miao arrived, Zhang Yichuan greeted him warmly, lacking any airs of a big-name director.

He didn’t rush into business. Instead, he studied the menu with practiced calm, ordering his favorite hotpot ingredients, then asked Zhou Miao about his preferences and added more dishes and drinks.

As he stirred up a small bowl of dipping sauce, Zhang Yichuan spoke: “You’ve got good bone structure, and it’s obvious you haven’t had any cosmetic work done. Ever thought about acting?”

Zhou Miao smiled and shook his head. “Not for me. I have no interest in acting, nor talent for it. I’m content just singing well.”

Zhang Yichuan looked up at him. “Young, but you see things clearly. If everyone thought like you, things would be better.”

He sucked up a mouthful of food with his chopsticks, nodded in satisfaction at the taste.

“These days, the entertainment industry’s in a weird state. Idol actors flood into film, while trained professionals, even after slashing their fees, can’t get roles. Who are you supposed to complain to?”

This had become increasingly pronounced in recent years, with music talent shows churning out idols like a factory assembly line.

And what do they do after the show? Release albums? These days, making music is done for love, not money. To really make a living, you have to act!

A top idol in a drama can command at least tens of millions, while a professional actor who’s clawed their way up from bit parts might only get a few million per project—unless they’re truly famous.

But in this era where popularity reigns supreme, directors would rather spend tens of millions to hire an idol than pay a fraction for a skilled professional.

And it’s not just an isolated issue—the entire film industry is heading in this warped direction. The quality of productions is sinking, plots grow ever more mindless, and acting keeps getting worse.

Zhang Yichuan utterly despised this trend, but felt powerless to change it. All he could do was focus on making his own films as well as possible.

Despite their nearly thirty-year age gap, Zhang Yichuan and Zhou Miao hit it off surprisingly well. In temperament, they were quite alike—both had a sense of righteous indignation and couldn’t help but speak out against what they found intolerable.

Their conversation soon wandered far from business, as they vented at length about the many absurdities plaguing the entertainment industry.