Chapter Sixty-Five: Wei Bo Le

The next day, the three of them took an air taxi and quietly arrived at a villa in the outskirts of Xiangzhou. This was the site agreed upon for their meeting—not at Xiangzhou Satellite TV, nor at a grand hotel. Clearly, the other party was determined to maintain absolute secrecy, being cautious even in preliminary discussions with interested but not yet confirmed artists. Perhaps it was because the show’s popularity hinged on such measures; one could never be too careful.

“For this program, I suppose you choose a different location each time you meet with a singer?” Lin Qihua asked with a smile.

“Quite possibly,” Shen Manni replied, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. Lin Qihua’s question reminded her of how the program’s staff always seemed to be ducking and dodging about, and she couldn’t help but laugh, her anxiety dissipating.

At the villa’s entrance, someone was already waiting to guide them into the living room. As expected, besides their escort, only two people were present. The middle-aged man seated in the center stood up and extended his hand to Lin Qihua. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Wei Hongbo. Welcome.”

“Director Wei, it’s an honor,” Lin Qihua replied, a little overwhelmed by Wei Hongbo’s warmth, and quickly offered a polite greeting.

Introductions complete, they all sat down again. The two people beside Wei Hongbo were his personal assistant, Yu Hezhi, and the associate director—also a renowned music critic—Ge Shengyang.

Seated, Lin Qihua took a good look at Wei Hongbo, the producer and chief director of “The Vocalist,” the top live-broadcast variety show. He was slightly balding and his attire was unremarkable, but what made him impossible to ignore were his eyes: shrewd, decisive, and piercing—those were Lin’s first impressions.

“So,” Wei Hongbo said with a smile, “are you disappointed? Am I not what you expected? No air of authority as the rumors say?”

Everyone present chuckled in agreement.

“Not at all,” Lin Qihua answered with a grin. “I was just thinking that your reputation as a talent scout is well-earned; you truly have the eyes of a connoisseur.”

“Are you trying to flatter me?” Wei Hongbo feigned annoyance, but his eyes betrayed his pride. Being known as the music industry’s great talent spotter was his proudest achievement. Thanks to his discoveries, every year unknown singers gained instant fame on “The Vocalist,” launching new careers. Whether newcomers, fading stars, or obscure foreign artists, if they had true talent, he could bring them into the spotlight, where they’d shine brilliantly. Over time, his reputation grew so great that half the industry would rally to his call. All this he owed to his discerning eye.

“No, I’m sincerely praising you. Although, you can take it as calculated if you wish,” Lin Qihua said with a soft smile. “We are here with a clear purpose—if we can win your recognition, no amount of flattery would be too much.”

“Very direct, and I like that.” Wei Hongbo looked at Lin Qihua in surprise. Most singers he met would beat around the bush, but this man was refreshingly candid, which made him likable. After all, with everyone gathered here, wasn’t their intention obvious? Why bother with pretense?

“I like it too,” Ge Shengyang, the associate director, said with a laugh. “You came well-prepared.”

“If we weren’t prepared,” Shen Manni picked up the thread with a smile, “how could we dare compete for a spot on ‘The Vocalist,’ the nation’s premier stage? Wouldn’t that be disrespectful to the show?”

“Well said.” Wei Hongbo clapped his hands and laughed. “To be honest, I agreed to this meeting mainly because I didn’t want to overlook any interested singer, and partly out of curiosity. Now, I’m glad I came. You’ve piqued my interest. So, go ahead—convince me.”

“I’ll take it from here.” Lin Qihua reached for Shen Manni’s hand, giving her a reassuring look before turning to Wei Hongbo. “Since you’re being so forthright, Director Wei, I’ll speak plainly as well. I dare to recommend myself for several reasons.”

“Please, go on.”

“First,” Lin Qihua raised one finger and spoke softly, “ability. That’s the most fundamental and crucial aspect. I have the talent, especially for live performance. I’m confident I can surprise the national audience on this stage and satisfy you.”

“Good, you’re right—talent comes first. Without it, nothing else matters,” Wei Hongbo agreed. “But there are many talented singers in the industry. If I put out the call, who wouldn’t want to come?”

“That’s true. Which brings me to my second point: I am a songwriter. I bring original songs. I can guarantee that on this stage, each of my performances will be of songs the audience has never heard before. I can provide the show with a continual sense of novelty,” Lin Qihua continued. “I believe that’s a major selling point—enough to excite and intrigue the viewers, isn’t it?”

Wei Hongbo nodded in strong agreement. He understood Lin Qihua’s implication well: after so many seasons, “The Vocalist” had covered nearly every song worth covering. Innovating had become the greatest challenge. Classic songs, with their original brilliance, were nearly impossible to rework to meet audience expectations. In recent years, the program had sought breakthroughs—switching from recorded shows to live broadcasts, shifting from mere covers to actively encouraging original works and recruiting musicians with fresh ideas. Lin Qihua’s proposal struck right at the heart of the matter; if he could deliver on this promise, he could well become the show’s X-factor.

For a program to maintain high attention, sometimes all it needs is a single topic, a single explosive moment to set the pace and elevate the whole show. The “catfish effect”—one singer’s breakout performance inspiring the others—could raise the bar for everyone. This was why Wei Hongbo was committed to discovering talented but unknown singers. Each season, one or two would shine, and that was the goal.

“You really did your homework,” Ge Shengyang observed, glancing at his longtime colleague before smiling at Lin Qihua. “Ever since we switched to live broadcasting, ‘The Vocalist’ has scared off many. Without audio tweaking, fine-tuning, or post-editing, even big names have shied away, which has affected the quality of the show. We’ve been wracking our brains for highlights this season. You’ve brought Director Wei just what he needed.”

Lin Qihua smiled. This was indeed what they’d discussed beforehand. Though “The Vocalist” remained at the top, the live format, while advantageous, had its drawbacks compared to recorded shows. Several famous singers had stumbled, making others wary. For them, there were plenty of other programs with just as much exposure and less risk—why take a chance here, where a single misstep could be disastrous? This had led to a decline in the caliber of contestants and, consequently, the overall quality of the show. Audiences loved the live format, but if the quality slipped, criticism followed, giving other programs a chance to catch up. Wei Hongbo was undoubtedly under pressure. At a moment like this, handing him a sure-fire crowd-pleaser—a chance to ignite the stage—would be hard to refuse.

“I believe the live format is absolutely the right direction,” Lin Qihua asserted. “Our music industry has come from lip-syncing to real singing, and in the future, it must move from recorded to live performances. Without the convenience of editing, artists are pushed to improve. In this, Director Wei, I deeply admire your pioneering spirit. You’ve ushered in the live era, and for that alone you deserve our respect. Maybe there are some challenges now, but history will remember—it was you who first opened this new chapter.”

Wei Hongbo applauded as he shook his head. “I can feel your resolve. Just how much have you prepared for this stage? You’ve studied us thoroughly. I’m genuinely starting to feel a kinship with you—impressive.”

“I mean every word,” Lin Qihua replied. “Even if I don’t make it onto this stage, I’d still say the same. I’m confident: if not this year, then next, I’ll have Director Wei invite me personally. Give me a year—I have that much faith.”

“Well, I admire your confidence,” Wei Hongbo said, nodding in approval.

“My third point,” Lin Qihua continued, “is about my attitude: as long as I’m given the chance to participate, I have no demands regarding the results. Even if I’m eliminated in the first round, I won’t mind. After all, I’d still have the opportunity to sing two songs. What I need is this platform for my comeback. Give me the chance, and I’m confident the entire nation will come to recognize and appreciate my talent—that’s my true goal. The results themselves aren’t my concern; I promise not to put you in a difficult position.”

“Are you questioning the fairness of the competition?” Ge Shengyang asked angrily.

“No,” Lin Qihua shook his head. “I’m only stating my attitude as a contestant. For singers at this level, the competition is tough, and the eliminations are harsh—it’s difficult for many to accept being voted off, which can put the production team in a tough spot. In that case, I can be the one you rely on. It’s not a matter of fairness—music, after all, is often impossible to judge in terms of victory or defeat. If needed, I’m more than willing to cooperate.”