Chapter 6 – I Don’t Want to Be Famous at All

Zhuang Lin set an alarm specifically to watch Li Yanyao’s show.

Before Li Yanyao went to record the show, he’d tell Zhuang Lin eight times a day, “Brother, I’m going on a variety show, the super popular one recently, remember to watch it, you must, you must remember to watch it.” But after the recording, he became as quiet as a chicken, never mentioning it again.

Zhuang Lin knew he must have embarrassed himself on the show.

Now he had to watch it—even if Guan Lan was in it, he’d endure it. This incident alone would give him enough material to mock Li Yanyao for half a year. It was worth it.

But unexpectedly, he ended up watching Guan Lan’s solo performance.

Li Yanyao did embarrass himself, but he did it early on. After that, it was Guan Lan who took control of the stage. The editor seemed like a crazed fangirl, desperately making the entire show from Guan Lan’s perspective—long shots, close-ups, extreme close-ups of his face, micro-expressions, and even adding some flirtatious subtitles and effects. Everyone else was just part of the backdrop.

The more Zhuang Lin watched, the angrier he got.

He sent a message to Li Yanyao: Guan Lan has some serious issues.

Li Yanyao replied instantly: Exactly! He’s so scheming! I didn’t realize how sneaky he was until I watched the show today!

Zhuang Lin: Brother, don’t blame others for being scheming. First, reflect on why you’re so naive.

Li Yanyao: …Weren’t we criticizing Guan Lan? Let me tell you, this guy hasn’t given up on you!

Zhuang Lin snorted. It was exactly as he expected.

Zhuang Lin: This guy, even on a variety show, he’s flirting left and right. He has no principles at all.

Li Yanyao replied with a string of question marks.

Zhuang Lin: Look at Li Genggeng and Su Xinxin, they’re constantly circling around him, completely lost. Especially Chen Jin, he’s the biggest problem. I bet the two of them hooked up right after the show. Do you believe it?

Li Yanyao was silent for a while.

Li Yanyao: I didn’t notice that??

This guy’s head is filled with straw. What could he possibly notice?

Zhuang Lin: Of course you didn’t notice. You didn’t even realize that girl was trying to trick you.

Li Yanyao: Hey! That’s a personal attack!

Zhuang Lin: Look at his expressions, his eyes.

After a while.

Li Yanyao: He looks at everyone like that? He looks at me the same way?

Zhuang Lin was even angrier.

He didn’t quite understand why he was so angry, but eventually, he attributed it to a sense of righteous indignation.

What a shameless scumbag! A cancer in the industry! The Chinese music scene is doomed!

——————————————————————

Guan Lan’s official Weibo account had a cold, aloof aesthetic.

His Weibo only had two types of content: one was promotional, forwarding new song announcements or performance information, with just two words like “Support” or “Share,” not even a punctuation mark; the other was songs he personally enjoyed, either extremely niche or in languages like Icelandic, Finnish, or Czech, which only a few thousand people in the country could understand.

On a platform where his daily reposts and comments rarely reached double digits, that day, his traffic exploded.

He had never seen such a spectacle before. People praising him, cursing him, becoming his fans, hating him, as well as others unrelated to him jumping on the bandwagon, advertising, or selling porn—it was a frenzy.

And all this just because he appeared on one episode of a variety show.

He didn’t want to become famous this way at all. He wasn’t happy in the slightest.

There was one comment, not very noticeable and not particularly harsh, but it struck a deep chord with him:

“I’m an old fan. I’ve listened to every song you’ve made. I still remember my first heartbreak in school, crying over and over while listening to ‘Weary Bird.’ I remember ‘Goldfish,’ an album with ten songs that everyone in my class knew by heart. I even bought an expensive, beautiful notebook just to write down your lyrics. That kind of emotion, it feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced it. I don’t know if it’s you who’s changed, or me.”

He called Ren Xiaofei: “Cancel all my appearances this month.”

Ren Xiaofei was shocked: “Why, Boss Guan? This is the perfect time to capitalize on the hype and take on more projects!”

Guan Lan: “What hype? What do I need hype for? Have you forgotten what I do?”

His tone was sharp, and Ren Xiaofei was a bit scared: “Oh… okay, Boss Guan.”

Guan Lan: “I’m going to stay home for two days. Unless the company is about to collapse, don’t contact me.”

Ren Xiaofei felt miserable. As an assistant, when the boss doesn’t work, his workload doubles. But Guan Lan seemed to be in a bad mood, so he didn’t dare to argue: “Okay, okay.”

Inspiration is a fickle mistress. It always strikes like a bolt of lightning when you’re eating, sleeping, or too busy to eat or sleep. But when you shut yourself in, burn incense, take a bath, fast, and change clothes, ready to focus on creating, your mind is filled with the vastness of the universe, as if it contains the entire world—but in reality, it’s just a vacuum.

Like a hyperactive child, he fiddled with the guitar, played with the piano, performed “Dance of the Dolls and the Bear” a few times, and then started a remix of “Two Tigers” and “The Little Painter.” By the time he could compile a whole nursery rhyme book, he finally admitted to himself: he couldn’t write anything.

This was awkward.

He was almost driven to philosophical contemplation: Can I really write songs? Were the songs I wrote before really mine? They must have been ghostwritten, fake.

He was so annoyed.

He started flipping through his contact list. Out of habit, he scrolled to the bottom, his finger hovering over “Zhou Junzhuo,” but then he pulled it back.

Below Zhou Junzhuo’s name was Zhuang Lin.

He tapped it.

Guan Lan: Are you free?

After waiting for a while, there was no reply, as expected.

He posted on his Moments: What to do when you’re stuck in a creative rut?

Amidst the jokes about smoking, drinking, and hooking up, there was one response that stood out.

Zhuang Lin: Go for a run.

Guan Lan smiled.

Zhuang Lin still couldn’t figure out why he had impulsively replied to Guan Lan’s post that day.

As soon as he sent the reply, he knew it was a mistake. Once he responded, Guan Lan would latch onto him. This guy wouldn’t miss any chance to get closer to him!

Sure enough, Guan Lan started asking him to go for a run together.

Since Zhuang Lin had replied to his post, he couldn’t just ignore him, so he said he didn’t have time.

Guan Lan: When are you free then?

Zhuang Lin: I’ve been really busy recently.

Guan Lan: Working on a new album?

Zhuang Lin: Yes.

Guan Lan: Perfect, I’ll borrow some inspiration from you.

Guan Lan: Let’s get up half an hour earlier tomorrow. It won’t interfere with your work.

…Ah, this guy is so annoying, impossible to shake off! How can anyone refuse that?

But meeting early in the morning shouldn’t be a big deal, right?

When Guan Lan said run, he meant it. Dressed in sportswear, he went to the park, surrounded by dancing grandmas and bird-walking grandpas.

Zhuang Lin, wearing sneakers and sports shorts, looked youthful and invincible, with legs that seemed to stretch to the heavens, standing tall like a fresh spring onion.

Guan Lan—Guan Lan actually looked quite sharp in sportswear, nothing like someone who indulged in wine and women.

But inside, he was still weak. After three laps, which for Zhuang Lin was just a warm-up, the real workout just beginning, Guan Lan was already panting.

Guan Lan: “Hey, let’s… walk for a bit.”

Hmph, the scent of a weakling.

Guan Lan, who hadn’t exercised in a while, felt much more energized despite the exhaustion.

As they were walking slowly, adjusting their breathing, two middle school-aged girls approached, their eyes shining brightly: “Hi, are you Guan Lan?”

Guan Lan was caught off guard.

Guan Lan: “Yes, I’m Guan Lan.”

The two girls looked at each other, squealing with excitement, stumbling over their words to express their admiration, frantically pulling out their phones to ask for photos and autographs.

To be honest, this was the first time Guan Lan had been recognized on the street, and he was completely unused to it.

After the girls left, Zhuang Lin, who had witnessed the whole scene, teased: “Teacher Guan is really popular now.”

Normally, Guan Lan might have just smiled and let it go. But at this moment, after another night of creative frustration, he was stung by the hint of sarcasm in Zhuang Lin’s words.

Guan Lan: “Do you think I like this?”

His tone was calm, but Zhuang Lin could sense the undercurrents beneath the surface.

Guan Lan: “I can write a hundred songs, and it still wouldn’t compare to appearing on one episode of a variety show. Among artists of the same tier, a singer releasing ten albums wouldn’t earn as much as someone filming one episode of a TV drama. I’ve seen so many talented singers, gifted and skilled, who couldn’t make a living from singing and ended up as extras in Hengdian, living better off than when they were singing—do you think seeing all this makes me happy?”

Guan Lan knew his sudden fame was inexplicable, and taking it out on Zhuang Lin was unfair. But these thoughts had been bottled up inside him for too long, and once they started pouring out, it was like a dam breaking, the flood of emotions unstoppable.

Guan Lan: “I know you just returned to the country, full of youthful passion, but let me tell you the truth—it’s not too late for you to switch careers. This industry is all about appearances. The annual revenue of our music department is less than a fraction of what the film and TV department makes. Everyone still making music is doing it out of love, burning through their passion. We struggle all year, and our profits can’t even compare to what I’ve earned from a few days of appearances. Do you believe me? Are there no profitable records? Of course there are, but they’re all from idol groups, driven by fan economies. A bunch of young girls buy ten, eight, a hundred copies to boost their idols’ sales. And then what? Does it mean anything? Are they paying for your music?”

Guan Lan: “Take you, for example. I’m putting so much effort into trying to recruit you because I think you’re a good singer who can make it big. But once you release a couple of hit songs and become popular, you might just go into acting. Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t act—some people balance both. But once you’ve earned hundreds of thousands per episode, can you still come back and focus on this unprofitable business? At first, your attention is divided, then your heart shifts, and eventually, singing becomes a side gig, just a hobby—how many times have I seen this happen in the past two years?”

Guan Lan: “No, I don’t want to be famous. I don’t want people stopping me on the street to tell me they like my face or my personality. I’d rather they didn’t know me, just listen to my songs in their headphones.”

Zhuang Lin, who had been suddenly berated, strangely didn’t feel angry.

He felt that in this moment, this person had finally lifted a corner of his perfect smile mask, revealing a small, soft part of himself, exuding a bit of human warmth under the morning sun.

He thought, if this guy weren’t a lecherous pervert obsessed with power plays, they could actually be friends.

Zhuang Lin: “Teacher Guan, all I can say is, the people you’ve met before were all second-rate. I’m definitely not like that.”

Guan Lan’s dark, intense gaze shot toward him: “Then prove it to me.”

What a low, transparent attempt at provocation—but it was impossible to refuse.

Zhuang Lin: “Alright.”