136. Sales Records for Chinese-Language Singles

To describe China in the twenty-first century as changing with every passing day would be no exaggeration. Although the country still has all kinds of problems, where on earth is there truly a paradise?

Once the living standards of the Chinese people had improved, an old saying was proven true: when people are well fed and warmly clothed, they begin to think of desire. The true meaning of that saying is not what many pure-minded people imagine. Apart from lust, the word “desire” encompasses an extraordinarily broad range of things. In general, it refers simply to both material and spiritual life.

Watching movies, shopping, traveling, and similar activities had brought the Chinese people no small amount of pleasure. Yet there was one imperfection: many blockbuster films, digital products, luxury goods, and even tourist destinations were all foreign.

China was a vast and bountiful land with five thousand years of history. How was it that, in peacetime, foreigners were always invading us culturally—or using cheap goods to make outrageous profits from our pockets?

Could our culture and our products not leave the country? Could they not amaze and impress foreigners?

Against this backdrop, the king of a country truly ten thousand miles away had fallen in love with Chinese culture and taught himself the Chinese language. What sort of spirit was that?

A genuine international friend, without question.

What was more, he had flown over ten thousand kilometers from his own country to China, asking the Chinese leaders to send domestic construction teams to help develop his New Tuvalu.

Most importantly, unlike assistance projects in other countries, this overseas construction effort would be paid work—and profitable at that.

The king had said that money was no issue. All he wanted was guaranteed quality.

Good grief. Even our own people did not trust the quality of our country’s construction projects, yet this foreign king had eagerly come all the way here to ask us to help build his country. This was no longer merely the behavior of an international friend. This was a man who had far too much money and far too little sense.

Foreigners like him were immensely welcome, especially since, unlike those “idols” who were clearly Chinese yet insisted on speaking nothing but English whenever they held events in China to show how “awesome” they were, this man always replied to Chinese netizens’ questions in Chinese.

In peacetime, that alone counted as bringing glory to the nation. Had this been the Tang Dynasty, the King of Tuvalu would practically have been presenting tribute to Emperor Taizong.

That was why the Chinese people’s affection for Li Daniu came straight from the heart. In their eyes, a famous foreigner like him was practically a Chinese undercover agent who had infiltrated the foreign camp. The more like him, the better.

What they did not know was that Li Daniu truly was an undercover agent through and through—an undercover agent from China in another world. His method of infiltrating the foreign camp was simply rather unusual: he had traveled through time to get there.

When netizens jokingly suggested that Li Daniu write a Chinese song, they had not meant it seriously. Even the later poll to select a singer had been conducted in a playful spirit. Through sheer force of numbers, the users of Facebook had pushed Li Daniu—who was not a Chinese singer at all—onto the list of candidates and then propelled him into first place.

No one had expected Li Daniu not only to agree to write a song, but also to personally sing it at the request of countless Chinese netizens—and release it to the public.

The attitude of the overwhelming majority of netizens was this: even if Comrade Daniu sang like a ghost howling, they would still support him with reposts and clicks. At worst, they could simply turn the sound off.

Yet with his powerful inner energy and the technical support of the Lion’s Roar, Li Daniu’s singing ability reached a heaven-defying level.

“My mother asked why I was listening to music on my knees. I asked her in return: How do you know that, just because I’m wearing headphones, I’m listening to music?”

“The person above put it very well. I feel as if I’m not listening to a song at all, but to ‘Kiss Goodbye.’”

“It sounds good, it sounds good—but is there really any need to put it so poetically? Everyone above, take note: being overly literary is an illness. It needs treatment.”

“I cried while listening to this song because it reminded me of my first love. It was also on a snowy night. She and I stood together in the street beneath her house and kissed passionately. Then… her father chased me for five miles, and the next day he even had our teacher summon my father to school…”

“I’m the father of the person above. I deeply regret not supporting him back then and helping him pursue that girl. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have to nag him to get married every day now. His son ought to be in primary school by this point.”

“Don’t you think the lyrics are especially beautiful? What I want to ask is this: Comrade Daniu, would you like to come to China and take the advanced Chinese-language examination?”

“After listening to this song and looking at the lyrics, I can’t help wanting to tell all the singers in China: you should learn Chinese from His Majesty the King.”

“I’m a professional musician and have worked in this industry for twenty years. I can say with absolute certainty that this song will become a classic Mandarin song. Ten or twenty years from now, it will still be a classic.”

“I’m not a professional musician. I’ve never worked in this industry, but I can also say with certainty that this song is a classic. To the person above: could you use the time you spend talking nonsense to make music instead? Do you really want our children to ask why such a beautiful Chinese song was written by a foreigner?”

“The person above has the wrong attitude. Strictly speaking, Comrade Li Daniu cannot be considered a foreigner. If he were not the King of Tuvalu, I’m sure he would move to China.”

“Has the thread gone off topic? Then I’ll set it straight again. My girlfriend asked why I cried while listening to the song. I didn’t dare tell her it was because I was thinking of my first love. But… just now… she cried while listening to this song too! She cried! She cried! Can someone please give me a reasonable explanation?”

“After reading the comment above, I can only smile in silence. Do I really have to tell you that I’m your girlfriend’s first love? Do I really have to tell you that she just called me and asked to meet?”

…

The best part of Chinese online posts was often the comments below them. Li Daniu had never expected that simply releasing a song would earn him so many replies that sounded like comedic sketches.

When the song was released, Li Daniu had not actually intended to make money from it. After all, Chinese piracy was truly…

What he had not expected was that within twenty-four hours of its release, the number of downloads would reach an astonishing 6.8 million. And these were paid downloads.

In China, a song’s copyright holders generally made money by licensing it to music players, karaoke venues, ring-back-tone services, and other providers, earning a certain amount in royalties.

No copyright holder had ever tried to make money through paid downloads, because this was related to the environment in which the Chinese internet had developed. In its early days, copyright protection was practically nonexistent. From the moment Chinese netizens first encountered the internet, they had formed the idea that music could be heard online for free, movies watched for free, and television dramas viewed without advertisements.

“I’ve already paid for internet access, and I bought the computer with my own money. Why should I pay for online content too?”

Many content creators failed to receive the returns they deserved and consequently lost the motivation to create. The result was a vicious cycle: Chinese manufacturing became Chinese imitation and knockoffs, while consumers became even less willing to pay.

Against that backdrop, the fact that Li Daniu’s song had achieved 6.8 million paid downloads in China was nothing short of a miracle. It was unprecedented.

The song had been priced at the same rate as before: fifty cents per download. Chinese users could pay directly in Chinese currency, while Facebook handled the exchange-rate conversion and related matters.

At the current exchange rate, fifty cents was equivalent to three Chinese yuan. With 6.8 million downloads, that amounted to twenty million four hundred thousand yuan.

The Chinese music industry was stunned. In China, apart from the handful of singers known as the Heavenly Kings, few people could earn twenty million yuan in a year, even after exhausting themselves with commercial performances and concerts.

You made that much money from a single song in twenty-four hours. Wasn’t it uncomfortable having so much cash?

If Li Daniu had known what people in the Chinese music industry were saying about him, he would certainly have replied, “I don’t mind money burning my hands. I just think twenty million is too heavy for one person to carry.”

In addition to the paid downloads by Chinese netizens, the number of paid downloads from other countries was also extremely high. Americans in particular had downloaded the song 3.7 million times within twenty-four hours.

After listening to the preview, these foreigners left comments praising the song’s beauty. At the same time, they unanimously suggested that Li Daniu rewrite the lyrics in English so they could listen without any language barrier.

“An English version?” Li Daniu smiled. The problem was absurdly simple. In his previous life, the song had already been adapted into English by a band called Michael Learns to Rock, and it had become popular throughout the world.

To be continued.