Chapter Four: Make a Name for Yourself First!

“Alu, come take a look—this is the contract that Rolling Stone is offering you!”

At noon, Mo Yan Records hosted a lunch. Those who felt their connections were too distant or their status too low usually left on their own, not trying to freeload. Yet even so, five large tables were filled.

As always, this was basically the entire pop music scene of the capital city.

And in this era, the capital’s pop scene accounted for more than half of the entire mainland’s market.

So today’s meal was essentially a grand gathering of the mainland’s pop music factions—the underground, the independent, and the individual artists—up to the end of 1995.

But it was just eating and chatting; there were no burdensome rituals like mandatory toasts or pressure to drink. Many lead singers didn’t drink at all, only those who enjoyed alcohol brought a couple of beers. The atmosphere was lively but not rowdy.

By the end of the meal, Lin Jianlu’s cotton coat pocket was already bulging with a thick stack of cards—business cards. Some were professionally printed and exquisite; others were handwritten.

There were mobile numbers, telephone numbers, notes indicating a specific corner store, and even pager numbers.

Singers, bosses, producers, agents—all kinds of contacts.

As soon as the meal ended and they returned to the Metropolitan Hotel room, Xue Zhongding immediately pulled out a warm contract. The formal “Mr. Lin” had already been replaced by the more familiar “Alu.”

“I called the head office this morning,” he said with a chuckle. “While you were singing, General Duan basically listened to your entire performance. He personally approved and signed off.”

Lin Jianlu took the contract and flipped through it briefly.

There were two copies, each only three thin pages.

This was the first time in his past and current lives he had ever signed a record deal, but it didn’t feel strange.

Three years, two albums, with a guarantee that the production budget for the first album wouldn’t be less than one million New Taiwan dollars. They promised distribution in Taiwan and Hong Kong, priority for contract renewal, 8% royalties, an incentive system, capped at 10%.

Whether the terms were good or bad, Lin Jianlu didn’t know, nor did he care. He took the pen and was ready to sign.

What he wanted was a debut—a chance to release an album.

Whether the terms were favorable or not, as long as the album sold reasonably well, it would be a substantial sum for him—earning that kind of money in the ’90s was crucial for his plan to take it easy!

But before signing, he added one condition: “I want to produce it myself.”

Upon hearing this, Xue Zhongding almost immediately pulled out two more contracts from the table. “Of course! We respect your creative rights. See? We’ve already prepared these—an agreement on songwriter royalties and a producer contract. All set!”

Lin Jianlu looked over them. Sure enough.

While he was reading, Xue Zhongding explained, “Rolling Stone has always been fair, especially valuing songwriters and producers. Even for newcomers, we’re never harsh.”

The songwriter and composer each got 1.5% royalties, arranger 1%, producer 1%.

So… if sales were poor, the total was 13%; if sales hit the top tier, the maximum split was 15%.

Not bad at all!

He had seen pirated CDs from Hong Kong and Taiwan in several music stores. Most CDs from Hong Kong were priced at 98 Hong Kong dollars—a currency stronger than the yuan—equivalent to just over 100 yuan. Taiwanese CDs were mostly priced around 180 New Taiwan dollars, roughly 40 to 50 yuan each.

But regardless of the source, original Hong Kong and Taiwan CDs uniformly sold for about 150 yuan each. Take it or leave it—ha, even the temporary workers at Uncle Gao’s factory earned only 120 yuan a month!

So why make records in Hong Kong or Taiwan? Why not on the mainland?

Mainland sales mostly relied on cassette tapes, priced at only 10 to 12 yuan, but rampant piracy made them unsellable. As for CDs, how many CD players even existed domestically was unknown. Who would spend tens of yuan on a CD, let alone 150 yuan for a pirated Hong Kong or Taiwan import?

But in Taiwan and Hong Kong, CDs were already widespread, with sales focused on that format.

Prices were high, and efforts to combat piracy were relatively strong.

If in Hong Kong an album sold 10,000 copies, one could earn over 120,000 Hong Kong dollars—roughly 120,000 yuan. Taiwan’s 10,000 copies earned over 230,000 New Taiwan dollars, about 50,000 to 60,000 yuan.

At lunch, Xue Zhongding mentioned that in 1993, Jacky Cheung’s album “Goodbye Kiss” sold 4.2 million legitimate copies across Asia—the highest ever in Chinese pop music.

Not comparing to Jacky, but the songs were truly good!

Selling 42,000 copies of an album should be no problem.

Selling just over 20,000 copies each in Hong Kong and Taiwan would suffice.

That could earn 400,000 yuan.

If it sold 420,000 copies…

Well… in the capital, courtyard houses in old communal compounds cost about 4,000 yuan per square meter. For 4,300 yuan per square meter, you could buy the north-facing main house—not the west wing where Lin’s family lived, nor the east wing of Uncle Gao’s family, nor the dark, damp rear quarters, but the proper main house, which was much more comfortable.

A neat little quadrangle courtyard with its own gate occupying two or three hundred square meters could command prices up to 5,000 yuan per square meter. Note: for courtyard houses, only indoor area is counted, the yard isn’t priced!

Fangcheng Garden, Phase Two, near the South Second Ring Road, was currently on sale—one of the few commodity housing projects in the capital sold to ordinary people, not the foreign exchange profiteering Asian Games Village or gated company compounds where even a bag of cash wouldn’t buy you a place. The price there was 2,400 yuan per square meter.

In short, although incomes were low these days, money was truly valuable.

If the album sold, Lin Jianlu would be eager to record one every six months.

He wanted to seize the moment to earn money now!

Even if it didn’t become a hit immediately, years later when the internet age came and people dug into the archives, “Wow, back then we had such an outstanding singer and songwriter in China!” Trends always come back around—retro is forever in style. When that time came, joining a show like “Wave Brother” would relaunch his popularity!

Besides, how could it not be a hit?

Sign!

Release the album first, make a name, and then talk!

Lin Jianlu picked up the pen and, ignoring Zhang Peiren sitting disappointedly on the nearby bed, swiftly signed all the contracts.

Xue Zhongding took the contracts, handing one copy each to Lin Jianlu and keeping one for himself, all smiles. Then he turned and pulled a thick wad of bills from the desk drawer.

“Oh, this is…”

“The usual signing bonus! But since this is the mainland, and you’re the first artist to sign with our Rolling Stone here, the rules start with you—ten thousand yuan!”

Lin Jianlu grabbed it without hesitation and flicked the bills in his hand.

The crisp sound was satisfying.

Though it was a payment for “selling himself,” Lin Jianlu was very happy. “Alright then!” He turned and pulled a thick stack of manuscript paper from his bag. “Here are all the songs for my first album. I’ve prepared eleven tracks, lyrics, melodies, and arrangements all included. I’m ready to record anytime. My circle isn’t very familiar, so if you could help me find good studios and musicians here in the capital, Xue Ge, that’d be great! I have the production budget, one million New Taiwan dollars. Let’s start spending, shall we?”

Xue Zhongding’s eyes widened, and he didn’t even catch the last part.

But before he could reach out, Zhang Peiren suddenly sprang forward and snatched the manuscripts away. Only then did Xue snap back to attention. “Oh, good! Actually, the six songs you sang just now are enough for an album! You really prepared eleven, huh? Very good, very good—eleven is even better! Shows sincerity, good for promotion!”

As he spoke, he leaned over and peered over Zhang Peiren’s shoulder.

“Wow! Your arrangements… you even do the arrangements yourself? You really haven’t formally studied music? Just retired from the PLA?”

“What PLA! The Chinese People’s Liberation Army!”

The deal was done, surprisingly smooth and complete. Lin Jianlu slung his backpack on again along with his guitar.

“Let’s go! When the studio and musicians are ready, contact me. Let’s get to work! No need to see me off…”

The two senior music managers looked up in astonishment as he opened the door and walked out on his own.

After a moment, they exchanged glances.

“How can there be musicians like this on the mainland?”

“He seems to be able to do everything?”

“Too bad his heart’s not fully in rock!”

“Singing pop’s great—he’s so handsome, can sing and write, he’ll be famous!”

“If he sings rock, he’ll be more famous than Black Panther or Dou Wei!”

“But if he sings pop, he might surpass Qi Qin and Wang Jie!”

“You can’t make music just thinking about money!”

“But he seems to really like money!”