Chapter 87: The Music Cobbler

Li Xuan let out a quiet sigh. Zhang Qiyang made it sound so easy, but given the current state of the Mandarin music industry, where could she possibly find so many stunning new shoes to wear? Times had changed. This was no longer the golden era of the Mandarin music scene from a decade or two ago.

Twenty years ago, when the industry was flourishing, countless musicians poured their hearts into creation, and great songs emerged one after another. Singers could effortlessly produce works that became their signatures. But now, with the record industry teetering on the brink of collapse, never mind how many people are still working in music—those who remain, overwhelmed by a restless environment, find it nearly impossible to settle down and create with dedication.

Looking at the scene today, if ten truly influential new songs appear in one year, that’s already remarkable. Whenever top singers encounter a great song, it’s like a starving wolf finding a chunk of fresh meat—who wouldn’t want to claim such treasures for themselves?

Li Xuan, a newly crowned queen of the music scene, was enjoying considerable influence. The entire music division of Eastern Entertainment was working tirelessly to promote her, yet even so, the number of new shoes—new hit songs—she could wear each year could be counted on one hand.

For Zhang Qiyang to ask her to find a new song on the spot to go head-to-head with Zhao Ziqi was truly a tall order.

Li Xuan was not especially skilled in songwriting, but after so many years immersed in this world, her understanding of music theory was profound. She knew well that the creation of pop music largely revolved around fixed patterns and arrangements. By now, musicians had squeezed nearly all the juice from the classic modes and combinations.

The further one goes, the narrower the path for creators becomes, and innovation grows ever more difficult. This is an undeniable objective reason for the increasing decline of pop music. Pop music wasn’t killed by piracy alone; its own inherent limitations played a part.

Western pop, for instance, suffered little from piracy, yet compared with the glory of decades past, it too was on a downward trend, far from its former vigor.

Chen Ke also felt Zhang Qiyang was oversimplifying things. With a wry smile, she said, “Expecting Xuan to find a dazzling new shoe that fits at this point is probably too late. That girl from Chu Entertainment ran off wearing Xuan’s shoes; all Xuan can do is wear someone else’s and try to make them shine in her own way.”

Li Xuan nodded in agreement; for now, this was indeed the safest course.

Zhang Qiyang took another bite of stinky tofu and said, “Actually, I’m pretty good at making shoes. Calling myself the Zhuge Liang of songwriting might sound conceited, but claiming to be the cobbler of the music industry is quite apt.”

Qin Xueyang, mouth full of shrimp, nearly choked with laughter, covering her mouth as she teased, “Cobbler—what an image! You really are a cobbler!”

Li Xuan and Chen Ke both burst out laughing.

“Don’t underestimate this cobbler of mine. I’m first-rate at making shoes. If you need it, Li Xuan, I can custom-make beautiful new shoes in any style you want. Whatever outfit you’re wearing, whatever mood you want to bring to the stage, I can provide the matching shoes—rustic, country, metal, rock, ballad, fresh, even retro styles—I welcome them all. As long as you have the need, I’ll craft the pair that fits your foot best and brings out your unique allure.”

Hearing this, Li Xuan felt a secret stirring in her heart. Her bright eyes flickered down to the deep red velvet pumps on her feet. Both her feet and her heart were itching with curiosity—she truly wanted to try on a few pairs of these custom-made shoes from this “cobbler.”

Chen Ke, seasoned in this industry and no stranger to grandiose talk, found it hard to take such claims at face value. Still, unwilling to embarrass Zhang Qiyang, she simply smiled and said, “Young Master Yang, thank you for being so considerate toward our Xuan, but I still think it’s safer for her to compete in those classic old shoes. On a stage like ‘I Sing,’ where there’s only one shot, wearing new shoes is too risky.”

Zhang Qiyang countered, “Risk and reward go hand in hand. The greater the risk, the greater the reward. Look at me—I’ve been blazing a champion’s trail in new shoes all along. I suggest you try a bold step too. You can’t always cling to old songs; only by moving forward can you truly outpace your rivals. Isn’t Li Xuan about to face her challenge tomorrow in the retro, family-inspired boat shoes I’ve just improvised for her? Let’s see how it turns out. If the result is delightful, I hope you’ll seriously consider my proposal. We can collaborate after that. If my cobbler’s shoes don’t fit you, you don’t have to wear them—I’ll wear them myself.”

Qin Xueyang, lips glistening with oil, laughed, “So if you make a pair of high heels for Sister Xuan and they don’t fit, you’ll wear them yourself? Ha!”

“What’s the problem? I’ll just do a reverse performance. Men singing women’s songs, women singing men’s—there are plenty of classic examples.”

Zhang Qiyang spoke with conviction. In another world, many of Emil Chau’s hits were sung from a female perspective, yet he brought his own flavor to them—most famously with “Tomorrow I’m Marrying You.” There were plenty of similar cases in this world’s Mandarin music scene as well.

Listening to Zhang Qiyang, Li Xuan was increasingly convinced of his extraordinary talent. For him, composing seemed like a game he played with ease, unlike other musicians who had to lock themselves in a studio for years, wracking their brains to produce a single work.

This young master, it seemed, could write a song while having fun. Such innate flair and a carefree spirit were rare among musicians.

Having been won over by Zhang Qiyang’s words, Li Xuan’s delicate feet itched even more—she truly wanted to try on a few pairs of these beautiful custom shoes he’d make just for her.

But now was not the time. It would be best to discuss further collaboration after tomorrow’s performance and seeing the outcome.

Chen Ke, still hesitant to let Li Xuan wear Zhang Qiyang’s shoes, deftly changed the subject and brought up a new matter with him.

Eastern Entertainment’s Variety Department had teamed up with Magic City TV to produce a celebrity outdoor reality show called “Infinite Challenge.” This “Infinite Challenge” bore no relation to the classic Korean show of the same name from another world; in terms of production value and creative vision, the difference was vast.

The version produced by Eastern Entertainment simply invited some celebrities outdoors to play games and take on various challenging tasks. The format was outdated, the stars’ performances unremarkable, and as a result, the show’s ratings had plummeted.

The most recent episode’s viewership had slipped below 0.3%, ranking near the bottom of the Friday night variety slot—a disgrace for Eastern Entertainment.

The Variety Department was at a loss. Without something fresh and compelling, “Infinite Challenge” would end its season in disappointment, and a second season was out of the question.

Currently, there was still one episode left to record for the first season, and it had long been decided that Li Xuan, one of Eastern Entertainment’s biggest stars, would participate in this final episode, along with several of the company’s young male idols.

Their presence would likely provide a slight boost in ratings, but it probably wouldn’t create any major buzz or draw significant attention to the show.

But seeing how Zhang Qiyang’s popularity and public interest had skyrocketed recently, the “Infinite Challenge” team wanted to take one last gamble—inviting him to participate in the final recording, hoping his presence would bring the kind of explosive attention that “I Sing” had achieved.