Mysterious Assistant of the Washed-Up Queen-Chapter 444 - 299: Anything else? The second half? Cantonese song!
Not long after the first group of people returned from listening to the songs, other netizens and fans who heard the news also started to arrive.
"What’s going on? Did I miss something?"
"New songs released? Three of them?"
"I just listened. Three new duets have been added, making a total of twelve songs. A full-length album! President Xu is awesome!"
"A complete album with twelve songs! That’s Xu Qingqiu for you. It’s been years since we’ve seen such a generous singer."
"Exactly! Singers these days drag their feet releasing albums. If they have a few good songs, they’d rather split them into several albums, with everything but the title tracks being crap. Only Xu Qingqiu is this sincere."
"So far, none of the songs I’ve heard have been bad. Even if some weren’t entirely to my taste, I have to admit each one seemed pretty good."
"They’re really, really good—unexpectedly so. The quality doesn’t feel inferior to songs from the golden era."
"I’m willing to call Xu Qingqiu the last conscientious singer in the Chinese music industry!"
"Don’t say that; you’re attracting too much hate. You think others don’t want to be like her? They just don’t have a powerhouse like Youmeng backing them."
"That’s uncertain. One shouldn’t overestimate the conscience of some capitalists. If they had a few good songs, I’d sooner believe they’d split them into several albums to milk the public. I find it hard to believe they’d craft a meticulous, thankless album just for the sake of reputation."
"Hahaha, that’s the absolute truth! In this fast-food society, a singer’s career might only last three to five years. Who would be willing to spend so much to create a high-quality album?"
"Exactly! Celebrities are like consumables, ideally replaced annually. Making money is enough; they’re not nurturing artists, so they definitely wouldn’t spare the effort."
"I’m so grateful Xu Qingqiu has her own studio. She treats music as a career, not just as a tool for some company to make money."
"You should be grateful that this era still has a Xu Qingqiu. Otherwise, who knows when we’d get to hear such excellent work again."
Nobody expected that what was initially about an album had inadvertently escalated to such a discussion.
Although no one explicitly discussed the "internal entertainment is doomed" topic, everyone spoke as if the music industry had long since decayed.
And the reality was indeed so. In this fast-paced society, everyone is busy making money—who would pay for sentiment? It’s far easier to just package a minor celebrity, guide their image a little, and market them. Countless brainless fans will pay up, like ’leeks’ harvested one crop after another.
The money seems endless; it simply never stops rolling in. With so much easy money to be made, why bother with thankless, risky ventures like crafting a quality album?
Release a quality album? Like Xu Qingqiu? Stop joking.
There’s only one Xu Qingqiu. Selling albums makes so little money; I’d make back more with a single endorsement deal from a fresh young face. Not to mention, Xu Qingqiu might be famous, but how many commercial performances can she do? How many endorsements can she get? Even if she worked over ten hours a day, all year without a break, pushing herself to the limit, she’d still only earn so much.
Switch to a fresh young face? Train a batch each year, change styles every three years.
With just this one album of twelve songs, they could split it into six parts, producing three albums for two different artists. Or they could give two albums each to three artists, all with popular main tracks and groundbreaking signature works. Add a bit of marketing and packaging, and keeping each of them popular for two or three years wouldn’t be a problem.
Three artists more popular than you, with less investment than you, earning more than you—how can you possibly compete?
In their eyes, perhaps Xu Qingqiu’s approach was truly foolish. Why miss out on making money like that? It was just wasteful.
But Chu Tian didn’t see it that way. Was making money his priority? Not at all. What he valued was Xu Qingqiu’s development.
Fresh young faces could be discarded and replaced at any time because entertainment companies always had new people to use, always alternatives.
But there is only one Xu Qingqiu—now, in the future, for her entire lifetime.
Three to five years later, those fresh young faces might have vanished, but Xu Qingqiu would still be here.
Thirty to fifty years later, those fresh young faces will have long since vanished, replaced by countless new batches. But Xu Qingqiu’s name will be etched in history, an indelible presence.
By then, she would be a legend, her name an inescapable part of music history.
This was what Chu Tian wanted, and what Xu Qingqiu dreamt of.
Of course, it wasn’t just Xu Qingqiu; many people aimed for this level of success, but not everyone got the opportunity.
For instance, some of the top-tier singers currently enjoying immense popularity were all looking at their phones.
Some looked on with livid faces, consumed by jealousy.
Others were practically drooling with envy, wishing they could take her place.
"Sigh, these songs are just too good! Could you spare one for me?"
"Xu Qingqiu! Youmeng... Who on earth is this Youmeng? What’s their relationship with Xu Qingqiu? Why is there no information about them at all?"
"Has the song request been sent? Why haven’t they replied?"
"It must be that bitch Xu Qingqiu who blocked it! She’s not afraid of stuffing herself until she bursts!"
It wasn’t just the singers; even the capitalists were practically in tears.
Although they might not be willing to lavish so many songs on a single artist, it didn’t mean they didn’t want more good songs.
After all, good work was the most crucial resource, a universal hard currency in the hands of whoever possessed it.
