Chapter Twenty-One: The Throbbing Pain

Although Li Mu had always been just a music enthusiast—his college days spent playing guitar in a band could only be called amateur—he was, at the very least, a dedicated devotee with years of immersion in the craft. He had explored and could distinguish with precision the various singers, bands, and genres from both home and abroad. Generally, even if a band was still at the stage of imitation, it shouldn't be dabbling in every song and every style. If they did, they'd be no different from a bar's resident band. Anyone truly aiming to build a real band should first establish their own style, then relentlessly absorb the essence of that style, so that even when covering other people's songs, they could infuse them with their own character.

Yet, what Zhang Kexuan and his friends were doing was truly uninspired.

“So, do you have any suggestions?” Zhang Kexuan scratched his head, his expression a little awkward.

Li Mu shrugged, grinning as he replied, “If you want to do this seriously, you should all put down your instruments and have a meeting—talk about what style and direction everyone prefers, and then work together towards that path.”

Then, a little more bluntly, Li Mu added, “But if you’re just playing around, trying out every style from here and abroad, that’s easy enough. After all, there’s a live music bar right at the street corner—you could go there and play at night.”

These days, with the cost of living in Jinling, a resident band of four people earns at most four hundred yuan for singing one or two hours a night. But all four of them were bona fide rich kids—who would care about that kind of money? Besides, playing at a bar was, for them, a rather lowly thing to do.

The four looked displeased, but Li Mu's words were nothing but the truth, filled with solid reasoning. Even if they were cursing him in their hearts, they couldn't find a retort.

One of the guitarists spoke up, “Hey, little brother, don’t you write songs yourself? Why not show us in the studio?”

The bassist and drummer echoed the suggestion, the drummer’s tone oddly provoking: “Yeah, show us. Let us see what you’ve got—anyone can talk a big game. These days, few can actually cook, but everyone claims to be a gourmet.”

Li Mu glanced at the drummer, half-hidden among a mountain of cymbals, and shook his head in resignation. Clearly, they weren’t convinced. They were mediocre to start with—he hadn’t wanted to comment, but they’d asked. Now they didn’t want the truth? Were all rich kids this hypocritical?

He turned to the drummer and asked, “Man, your kit is insane—top of the line, no doubt about it.”

He saw a flicker of pride on the drummer’s face, and then continued, “Let’s not talk about the hi-hat—every drum set needs one. But you’ve got three crash cymbals: sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen inches, plus a splash, a bell, even a China cymbal. But in the three songs you rehearsed, aside from the hi-hat and the crash right next to you, you haven’t touched the other five cymbals at all. Tell me, what’s your mindset? Are you here to drum or just show off your wealth?”

“You—” The drummer had thought Li Mu was complimenting him, but upon hearing the latter part, he nearly coughed up blood.

Musicians all have this mentality: regardless of skill, they try to get the complete set of gear, especially when they can afford it, buying everything they can. But what actually gets used is minimal. Those cymbals were there just for show—his technique couldn’t keep up.

This time, Zhang Kexuan dared not underestimate Li Mu. Despite his youth, his eyes and tongue were razor sharp—he could tell at a glance who was truly skilled and who was just pretending, and his barbs came without a single curse word. That knack for complimenting before cutting down was ruthless.

So Zhang Kexuan tried to smooth things over. “Li Mu, I didn’t realize you were such an expert. Come on, let’s go to the studio.”

Li Mu shrugged indifferently. “Let’s go, then.”

After all, he was already there. If the rich could show off, why couldn’t he, the underdog, do the same?

Once inside the recording studio, Li Mu realized the equipment here was even more professional, even more impressive than outside. The studio was split into two rooms behind soundproof glass doors: one for vocals, the other for drums and other amplified instruments.

There was also a Martin acoustic-electric guitar—in simple terms, an acoustic guitar that could be plugged in. A top-end Martin costs tens of thousands. Truly, money was no object here.

Zhang Kexuan led Li Mu and the others into the outer room of the studio and said, “Take a look. You can use any of the equipment here. If you need us to accompany you, we can help.”

“No need,” Li Mu thought to himself. Wasn’t he just recording “Zebra, Zebra” for Chen Wan? With such a fine guitar, such excellent microphones and mixing gear, it was more than enough.

So he said, “I’ll just record it live, guitar and vocals together.”

“Amateur,” the drummer muttered. “Vocals should be recorded separately. When you sing and play together, the guitar sound gets picked up by the vocal mic, and the effect is worse.”

“You’re not wrong,” Li Mu nodded, then countered, “But isn’t that like you not using those five cymbals? If our skill isn’t that professional, what’s the use of such professional equipment and techniques?”

“Damn—” The drummer nearly lost his temper, but Zhang Kexuan shot him a warning look and quickly said to Li Mu, “Whatever you think works best. Let’s start.”

With a playful attitude, Li Mu plugged in the guitar, adjusted the mic, and Zhang Kexuan gave the OK signal from outside. Everything was ready.

Li Mu began playing the intro to “Zebra, Zebra.”

At first, the others thought a guy his age couldn’t possibly write anything worthwhile. But as soon as the simple, melodic fingerpicked intro sounded, their expressions changed. If nothing else, the melodic line and guitar arrangement showed real skill—not just the ability to play, but true arranging talent.

When Li Mu began to sing the first line, Zhang Kexuan felt his mind explode. He couldn’t yet grasp the song’s meaning, but just Li Mu’s slightly raspy voice paired with the melody and the perfect tone of the Martin guitar was enough to amaze him.

Chen Wan had been entranced from the very first notes. The guitar he’d used at Li Mu’s home didn’t compare, and without professional equipment, the atmosphere there was a world away from this. This was top-of-the-line. Listening to the song here, she felt herself meld into the music.

Li Mu finished the song in one take, his singing and playing flawless. He was completely satisfied and stood up, opening the soundproof door to tell Zhang Kexuan, “I think this should be good enough. It’s just a demo—no need to be too perfectionist.”

Zhang Kexuan looked at Li Mu as if he were a monster. The drummer—his face was now red.

Chen Wan felt as though she were waking from a gentle melancholy, the kind that only music could inspire—the creation of an atmosphere that draws you in, evokes emotions deep inside, and leaves you feeling hollowed out after the last note.

Snapping back to herself, Chen Wan clapped enthusiastically. “That was amazing! Absolutely amazing!”

Zhang Kexuan was also feeling a bit ashamed. Here was someone only eighteen, already composing so brilliantly, while he himself was twenty-four and hadn’t even written a complete song.

The realization made his heart twist with envy and regret.

Just a few days ago, he’d been trying to write a song expressing a young rebel’s dissatisfaction with society. Not surprising, since nine out of ten rock musicians have that attitude these days. The trouble was, he was an amateur and didn’t realize most people write the music first and add lyrics later. Not knowing this, he tried to start with the lyrics, aiming for something pretty, rebellious, and critical, with the working title “Mama, Please Take Me Home Soon.”

The gist was: the writer is sick of society’s injustice, fed up with the world’s coldness, and hopes his mother will take him home, far from all this filth.

Unfortunately, he only managed two lines before getting stuck. Then his mom happened to see the draft and scolded him: “You want me to take you home? You’re never home yourself! I can’t even find you half the time! Do all you rockers just lie so brazenly?”

That did it—already blocked, he gave up entirely after that scolding.

Now, seeing the four band members silent, Li Mu asked, “Can you play it back for me?”

Zhang Kexuan snapped out of it. “Sure, sure, just a second.”

After replaying the recording, not only were the five of them satisfied—Li Mu himself was as well. He turned to Chen Wan and said, “Sister Wan, will this do?”

“Yes, it’s perfect!” Chen Wan’s admiration for Li Mu was boundless.

“All right, we’re done. Brother Zhang, could you cut and copy the track for me? No need for post-production.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhang Kexuan cautiously asked, “Li Mu, do you… do you have any other original songs?”