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The final notes of the qin hum beneath his fingers: rich, resonant. They flow outwards, over the polished oak stage, washing across hundreds of seats, every one of them full, before being soaked up into the sound baffles like thick golden syrup.
Lan Zhan’s concerts are always sold out. Now, as he presses his left hand slowly down on the qin’s strings, fading out the remnants of his final piece, the audience rises to their feet in applause. He is, after all, a master. China’s most famous qin player, a modern marvel. Or so the news media would have it. Someone who can compose new music just as evocative as the classics, who can play Ming dynasty pieces followed by music written in the pandemic lock-down. Hanguang-jun they call him, bringing a spotlight to the underappreciated, overlooked art of traditional Chinese music. He’s been credited for almost singlehandedly reviving youth interest.
Now he rises slowly to his feet, long white hanfu falling as he stands to bow in silent thanks. The applause stretches on: thunderous, amazed.
Lan Zhan, looking out into the darkness of the stalls, where he knows the audience are wearing suits and evening gowns, with large-faced watches at their wrists and diamonds at their necks. He wonders how many today fell asleep during his performance. How many were brought only as eye-candy on the arm of some rich financier, some CEO. How many dressed in designer wear hoping for photographers to be lingering outside the venue. His tickets retail at standard prices, but most are bought early and then resold for thousands on the black market – a problem authorities still haven’t curtailed. The only people who can afford to see Lan Zhan aren’t here to appreciate a marvel, they’re here to be seen. Conspicuous consumption.
Lan Zhan bows once more, then slips off the stage through the wings. The applause won’t stop until he leaves. There will be no encore; he is not in the mood to put himself out for a crowd who probably want to be home watching the stock market tracker. The roar of appreciation fades as he slips into the green room and takes a seat. There’s an assistant ready to hand him tea in a fine ru-ware cup – fake, of course. Just like his audience. Just like his hanfu, made from modern cotton and polyester instead of heavy, draping silk. Appearances, appearances.
The only real thing in his life, he thinks, is his music. And he can’t even perform for true fans.
***
“You could do things differently,” says Lan Huan to him, the next morning.
They’re at home in Lan Zhan’s Beijing condo, pristine white walls, gleaming white kitchen, plush blue rug beneath his white linen sofa. A corner unit with floor-to-ceiling windows with a view over the Summer Palace and Badachu Park in the distance. They’re drinking tea out of Lan Zhan’s delicate Denhua porcelain cups, white with a blue floral pattern. Lan Zhan is looking out the window; he doesn’t have to pay much attention to this conversation. They have it at least once a month.
“Ge,” he says, tiredly. “I don’t need more publicity. And I don’t want to turn myself into some classless fool to be replayed endlessly on the internet.”
“Seeking a wider audience doesn’t make you classless, a-Zhan. The reality is, unless you upend your entire touring and performance model, you’ll never reach the people you’re trying to through live performances. Young penniless fans. You have to think differently.”
“Differently does not equate to variety shows,” says Lan Zhan, septically. He takes a sip of his tea; it’s growing cold. Sighing, he slips across to the kitchen to fill the kettle.
“That’s one option. It’s not the only one. You could film a series of performances; you could appear on a hosted programme. You could release videos on Bilibili, if you’re so determined to reach people who can’t afford to see you live.”
Lan Zhan shudders delicately in the throes of a sense memory, as he opens a buff white cupboard to take down his metal tea caddy. The pattern on it is of willow bark, beat copper that shines with lovely texture. A beautiful piece, one of a kind. Like everything in his small but gorgeous home. Lan Zhan often feels like a bird who has built his own nest, feathered it from his own breast, turned it from naked concrete to something bright and clean and wonderful.
It stands in stark contrast to the noisy, plasticky, neon-hued venues that Lan Huan is talking about. Interviews by smiling fools who know nothing about music. Variety shows where hosts perform one piece, then submit to be mocked and judged through game after game. Cheap community theatres; open-air venues on market days. As if he would ever, ever take his qin out of doors and expose it to the vagaries of the weather and Beijing pollution.
The reality is, Lan Zhan wants the impossible. Audience without sacrifice. Exposure without pain. There’s no such thing as putting himself out into the open without giving up control. And that’s something he can’t bear the thought of, at any price. He’s old enough now to know better.
“No, thank you,” he tells Ge, as he scoops out little furls of tea into his pot, and pours in the steaming water. He sets the kettle down neatly on his gleaming counter, and turns to look back to his brother. “It’s not an option.”
***
Lan Zhan, naturally, has an agent. She’s a relatively recent edition, taking over from Lan Huan after some rather disastrous early advice. A distant relative on his father’s side, Lan Yi. She agrees wholeheartedly with his stance on public engagements – only the most decorous – and has helped him craft his image as a national treasure. Someone unique, to be valued highly at any price set. Lan Zhan may not agree with pricing himself out of the market reach of true fans, but he does appreciate the effect. He only plays to full, silent, appreciative audiences. And he is not called upon to appear in anything that might result in him being reclipped onto the internet as an instant meme. He is more than willing to leave that burden to idols and popular musicians.
Having just completed his latest tour publicising a new CD – a mixture of classical pieces and self-composed ones – Lan Zhan isn’t expecting to hear from Lan Yi for a few weeks. So he’s surprised, checking his phone in the morning, to see a new text train from her.
This is making the rounds on the internet. I am pursuing action for copyright infringement. Please notify me should you come across further videos.
Below it is a link to Bilibili. Lan Zhan, suspecting someone has yet again posted the full tracks from his new album, clicks through.
It’s not an audio track, though. It’s a video. It shows a man standing in front of a microphone with an electric guitar in the middle of a small recording studio. There’s a drum kit and a keyboard behind him. He’s lanky, with long ebony hair tied back in a ponytail, and is wearing all black. More than that Lan Zhan can’t say, because he has an opera mask over his face, hiding everything above his mouth and jaw. It’s jet-coloured, beaded, and twinkles in the light.
For a moment he looks at the camera. He has high-quality earpieces in, Lan Zhan sees, musician-style EMs. He tilts his head, bird-like, then snaps his fingers.
As he stands there, still, the first track on Lan Zhan’s latest album comes on. It’s a soaring, melancholy tribute to the mountains where he was born. Because he wanted it to resonate with all audiences, instead of naming it the mountains in Anhui he called it simply Gusu Mountains. A fictional name, one anyone could relate to.
Perhaps ten seconds of the song plays, thick reverberating qin notes, enough to share the major melodic theme.
Without warning, Lan Zhan’s track cuts out. And the masked man begins to play. On his electric guitar, he picks out with rapid finger work Lan Zhan’s melody – now in sharp, wailing chords. It perfectly mirrors Lan Zhan’s song, the same tune, but the feeling of it is immediately full of energy and tension. As he reaches the peak he looks up, and a drum kit kicks in – clearly pre-recorded.
He leans into the mic, and starts to sing.
Gusu peaks
A time and place where I belonged
In the past
Those are days I’ve moved beyond
He has an excellent voice – full, strong, confident, but with a warm tone that feels instantly relatable. He nods as he picks out a ripping, wailing tune – on the guitar it sounds so different to Lan Zhan’s, but also with entirely the same heart. As he finishes the first stanza, drum and keyboard kick in, overlaying his vocals and guitar.
When I left
I promised you that I’d return
Future days
When I had no more to earn
But now I see
You’ve nowhere for me
To lean on
Or grow strong
Gusu peaks
A time and place where I belonged
In the past
Those are days I’ve moved beyond
He keeps singing, matching Lan Zhan’s melody and making it something luscious, vibrant and heartfelt, perfectly embodying the sentiment Lan Zhan had intended when he wrote the song. Longing for a distant home, a place he adored but would never return to. It feels like Lan Zhan shared his inner thoughts, his heartfelt feelings, with this man on the internet. This man who has crafted something so strange – and yet so right.
The song finishes, and he steps back from the microphone. Looking up, he gives a grin at the camera – incredibly bright, his eyes glinting.
Then the video ends. Lan Zhan looks at the hits – over 500,000. And it was posted yesterday. He scrolls down to read the comments. Most of them are openly appreciative, adoring. One criticizes him for an illegal cover. And one matches Lan Zhan’s sentiments entirely: I would never have imagined this would work so well. Thanks to you, I feel like I understand Lan Zhan’s piece better.
Lan Zhan exits out of Bilibili and pulls up his text log. Replies to Lan Yi.
Who is he?
***
The clip is off the internet by the end of the day. Lan Zhan wishes he had thought to download it. As soon as he knows it’s gone, he unaccountably wants to watch it again. He finds himself tapping his toe and realises its to his own rhythm, as played on a Fender.
Lan Yi hasn’t been able to identify the artist. He posted on a burner account, and didn’t provide any details about himself. He even wore a mask. An unusual dedication to anonymity. Most posters on the internet want to make a name for themselves, whatever the legal risks. Lan Yi does inform him there’s considerable discussion going on in online forums related to Lan Zhan and classical qin – a debate on talent, intent, and copyright. On whether covers like this increase awareness and appreciation of the original artist, or diminish it.
There are also, Lan Zhan sees as he browses the forums himself, a number of posts trying to identify the masked musician. He’s clearly an accomplished guitarist and vocalist, and probably has skill in drums and keyboard as well. Netizens argue that the mask must mean he’s well-known in some other capacity.
Lan Zhan wonders.
***
It’s a week later. He’s in the middle of a composition intended to evoke the sensation of watching rain fall on Shanghai’s French Concession – a mixture of nature with the man-made world, the idea of water washing away China’s colonial past – when his phone buzzes.
Lan Yi, with a new link. Lan Zhan slowly lifts his left hand from the qin’s strings where he had been experimenting with dark, sombre tones reflective of stone and concrete, and turns the phone to watch the video.
It’s the same man, in a similar midnight-coloured outfit, long hair drawn back and beaded mask disguising his face. The fender is slung by its strap over his shoulder; his hand is resting lightly above the strings.
“Thanks for your interest, everyone,” he says. His voice is smooth, clear – an even tenor. “To dispel some rumours online: I’m not here trying to insult Lan-laoshi’s talent. Quite the opposite. He’s someone I very much admire.” He grins, white teeth flashing. Lifting a hand, he snaps his fingers.
One of Lan Zhan’s older tracks, the CD released in 2021, comes on. It’s sentimental, a piece he wrote reflecting on the difficulties of leaving his family home and striking out on his own. A clear, sweet melody echoes throughout it. Untwining the Vines is its name.
The guitarist lets the track play again for about ten seconds. When he cuts it off, it’s to pick up where it left off, re-interpreting Lan Zhan’s song into his own. He rips up immediately into a flourish that takes Lan Zhan’s simple, single-voiced melody into something that quivers and roars with vibrant emotion.
I take the pieces
(pieces)
Of you out of my heart
I fold the creases
(creases)
From the photos in a head start
To walk away from you
In the guitarist’s reimagining it’s a song of parting but with a new flavour – something aching, painful, the snarl of the drive pedal eclipsing the simplicity of Lan Zhan’s melody with its furious wail.
And yet, as the guitarist sings about the heartbreak of a broken family, he incorporates it so perfectly into the tunes and pitches of Untwining the Vines. It brings a new twist on the emotions Lan Zhan had intended to evoke with the song, something more bitter, but also with greater complexity. Lan Zhan sets the phone down on the table and lays his hands over the qin. As the video plays, he picks out his own song played overtop it. Just quiet, kitten-picks, like rain trickling down a chain.
It feels… unique. Playing alongside the guitarist. Lan Zhan always plays solo, hasn’t played with anyone else since he was a junior student in a class. And never, ever, with a modern musician. He finds his fingers drifting easily, harmonizing.
It’s – fun. Lan Zhan lifts his fingers off the qin as he realises his heart is thumping hard in his chest, a little light-headed with excitement. His music is serious, solemn. He’s never thought of it as fun. But this is – fun.
At the end of the video the guitarist kills his tracks dead, and Lan Zhan’s original song takes over for the final notes, a simple lone voice. It sounds somehow sadder now, in this strange silence left behind by the absence of the guitar’s growl. A reinterpretation that brings greater depth to the original.
And then the video ends, without further commentary.
Lan Zhan grabs his phone and texts his brother. He needs to know how to save this video.
***
The forums explode overnight. The video comes down sometime in the twilight hours, but this time copies have been made and it’s re-uploaded, posted again and again. Sharp-eyed viewers note what looks like a faded promotional poster in one corner, advertising Yiling! and suddenly, the musician is the Yiling Laozu. A master of his own art – reinterpreting Lan Zhan’s music.
“You should speak out,” Lan Yi tells him, two days later as they ride together to the recording studio. Lan Zhan’s been working on some Qing dynasty pieces and he wants to see what they sound like on a formal track.
Lan Zhan glances at her.
“About the masked thief. He’s tarnishing your sound. Already his videos are racking up more hits than yours. You can’t afford to become redundant.”
Lan Zhan raises his eyebrows. “How could I be redundant, if he’s the one copying my music?”
Lan Yi sighs, waves a hand. “Passé then. Lan Zhan, you’ve succeeded in part due to your appeal with new, younger audiences. Someone like this, who is better at hitting the algorithms and capturing online interest, could eclipse your image with them.”
“I enjoy his interpretations,” says Lan Zhan. “They are thoughtful. They understand what I am trying to communicate with my music. Not everyone does.”
“He is a rock guitarist,” says Lan Yi. It might as well be infant murderer. “You are hardly comparable. And he’s only able to make his name by copying your work. You need to speak out. Make a statement.”
“Not at this time,” replies Lan Zhan.
***
Lan Zhan doesn’t do media. He’s not a recluse – he attends events, he performs widely. But he doesn’t give interviews and he certainly doesn’t – despite Lan Huan’s urging – participate in variety programmes or other air-headed pursuits.
Largely, this is because Lan Zhan would rather make his name with his musical talent – not his looks, or his conversation, or his fashion choices.
But it’s also owing to the single interview programme he agreed to appear on.
It had been in 2018, at the very beginning of his musical career. He’d just released his first CD and was touring in China’s major classical music venues; already, he was being called a new kind of talent, a shooting star in China’s stodgy classical scene.
At the time he had still been so… sheltered. Still immersed in the childhood whose breakaway inspired Untwining the Vines. A creature of habit. Narrow, defined, comfortable habits. Simple rules formed the buttresses of his life, the walls that keep out the chaos of what his Uncle called with a sneer progress. Early to bed, early to rise – alone, in his tiny room. Silent meals – seated at an empty table.
All of which to say, Lan Zhan was highly uncomfortable in the sweaty studio set for the interview programme. He’d been bundled into a white button-down and a pair of light grey designer jeans, had his hair carefully coiffed and his skin smoothed with creams and powders. The set had been buzzing with people – assistants, light and sound techs, cameramen, hair and make-up, directors, and more. After the quiet of his Anhui home it had been so, so much.
He still remembers how rigidly he had in his chair, every nerve twisted taut, his nails – his hair follicles aching, while he waited.
Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, a shadow had appeared overhead. Looking up, Lan Zhan had come face-to-face with a young man. Spiked-up hair cut crooked, dressed in a flimsy silk shirt with strips of fine mesh that proudly displayed his chest. A wide, hearty smile; gleaming eyes. Without asking permission, he had tossed himself down in the chair beside Lan Zhan. “Hey – nice to meet you. Lan Zhan, right? Like I need to ask – you’re a break-out phenomenon.”
“Mn.” It had been so hard to focus, someone in the distance shouting about time to filming. He felt skittery, attention divided, hardly able to listen to whatever this man in the frankly lewd shirt was saying.
“‘Mn’? Really? Be a little bolder, ge, you’re only shaping up to be the most important classical musician of our generation. Or are you the modest type? Hm? Like to pretend you’re nothing too special? I can’t believe your face could be that thin.”
Lan Zhan looked back at him, irritated, hassled. “It’s not thick,” he says, eye twitching. The man in the mesh-striped shirt laughed.
“No? So you are a modest prince, then. Someone for us peasants to admire? I admit it – I could admire someone like you. And anyway, you’re very easy on the eyes. It’s no hardship.”
“Shameless,” clicked Lan Zhan, snapping back instinctively.
Those almond eyes widened, irises seeming almost to glow in the studio lights – the colour of bronze, polished until it shone. “Shameless? Aiya, how did you know? Is it so obvious?”
Who was this man? Why was he here, heckling Lan Zhan, when all he wanted is to crawl into some dark, quiet, solitary cave and be left in peace? “Why are you here?”
“Me? Same reason as you, Lan-laoshi. To publicise myself. Not that I’m in the same break-away trajectory tier as yourself. Just a humble rock singer.”
A rock singer? On the same programme as him? What was Lan Huan thinking? What value did putting some punk-haired guitarist into the same show as him bring? “You’re right,” he said. “Not the same.”
The man beside him looked at him, face slowly hardening. “Ah,” he said, quietly. “The famous Lan Zhan is like that, is he?”
“I am myself, only,” says Lan Zhan, as the cameras start flickering to life, as the rhythm of the set became frenetic. His nerves were shrieking, twisted too tight, a qin string about to snap. “And this is a hardship, nothing more.”
“Well then,” says the man in the mesh shirt. “Don’t let me intrude on your precious thoughts.” And standing, he stalked away across the room.
The filming had been agonizing. Lan Zhan was hot, baking under the blinding lights, barely able to focus on his host. He had felt all the attention on him, not his music, and it was nothing like being on stage where he could have a bag over his head for all the audience cared about him. Back then it had been the music they came to hear. But here and now his host – a small, peppy, overly-smiling woman in a red shirt – wanted only to pry into details of his life that made him cringe. Bedtime routine. Favourite coffee. Best music for the car. Dating history.
By the time it was over, he felt like he’s been chewed up and spat out by something with too many teeth, its tongue thick and slavering. He was sweating, almost shaking. The host’s attention mercifully turned to Mesh Shirt Man, and Lan Zhan sank back into himself and silently counted the minutes until the appearance was over.
It had been the end of Lan Huan’s publicity plans. Lan Zhan had performed his piece first, then left the set to stumble home and shower the cold wet sweat from his body. He had never seen the other musical segments filmed after himself, never watched the broadcast.
Never learned the name of the chirpy, irritating man beside him, trying to draw him into a conversation when all Lan Zhan wanted was silence.
***
“I like the name. Yiling Laozu,” says the Yiling Laozu, in his next video. He’s wearing a coloured shirt today, crimson at the collar shifting in a gradual ombre to black at the bottom. His jeans are shiny, and studded along the pockets and seams. “Pretty sick. Almost as sick as this music. Remember kids – check out the original artist too! Lan-laoshi’s a certified master. Oh – and – today, we’re going to do something a little different. I hope you like it.”
By now, Lan Zhan knows what’s coming. He’s sitting on his sofa, with the video pulled up on his large-screen TV so he can see the Yiling Laozu in near-HD. He’s tall, thin, with long fingers and sharp scooped collarbones. He has bright lights playing over him in his studio and they stream through his slightly-translucent shirt to show the firm lines of his flanks, the curve of his biceps. His wrists, shown off by his half-cuffed sleeves, are delicate, lovely.
Lan Zhan wants to meet him. This strange man who understands his music, who takes it in like thread into a loom and turns out vibrant tapestries. Whose voice is sweet in Lan Zhan’s ears, whose lips are the soft pink of plum blossoms.
Today’s song is Qixi. It’s one of the few songs Lan Zhan has written that’s about a wish, a longing, rather than something concrete he’s experienced. The melody is soft, dreamy, a slow piece with frequent silences left for the audience to yearn for the next note, to anticipate a fulfilment yet to come. A song Lan Zhan wrote with an empty heart, wishing for someone to fill it. As he recognizes the opening chords, he is immediately curious to see how the Yiling Laozu will interpret a piece that seems so unlikely to lend itself to a rock reinterpretation.
Admittedly, the Yiling Laozu’s guitar today is acoustic rather than electric. To his surprise, after allowing the introductory notes to play, the musician doesn’t silence Lan Zhan’s track. Instead he lifts his long fingers and joins the music. He fills the silences with sound – perfectly timed and matched chords that seem as if they belong there.
He doesn’t sing a word. Instead, as the video plays out, it’s all him adding a second voice to Lan Zhan’s qin – that of his guitar. As if to sweep away the loneliness of Lan Zhan’s song, to slip into his heart and fill all the aching empty places within him.
It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t – qin and guitar are not sounds that often mix, and beyond that the style and tradition of each is highly distinct. And yet…
It’s – beautiful. His playing is tender, rich. Sometimes he brings warm, heavy chords to fit in between the trickling sprees of Lan Zhan’s qin, but sometimes as the sound from Lan Zhan’s string hums and fades he picks out individual notes to slip into the space with careful fingers, something so poised and perfect.
It turns what has always been a solo into a sudden duet, his answering voice responding so keenly to Lan Zhan’s yearning questions.
Sitting on his sofa, Lan Zhan feels his chest ache. The sensation of being so seen, so understood is shocking. It leaves him dizzy with want – for this man who speaks his language so easily, so fluently.
He wants to flood the comments – who are you? How can I find you?
But the Yiling Laozu quite clearly doesn’t want to be found. He’s making new accounts for each post, the biographical information blank. There’s nothing to be gleaned from his recording set-up; his equipment and layout are entirely standard. A search for Yiling!, unsurprisingly, returns no results beyond the recent posts about the mystery musician.
I want to find him, he texts Lan Yi. He’s already saved the video, is already itching to replay it. He wants to experience this live, wants to play in concert with this man who seems to know him better than anyone in his life.
If you put out a statement, we may be able to track him down, replies his agent, misunderstanding him. Just as the Yiling Laozu would likely misunderstand his intentions.
Words… words are easily misunderstood.
Music is not.
***
Lan Zhan has an official Bilibili channel, with audio-only tracks as well as some HQ videos and a few live films of performances. He doesn’t release candid videos, or post original content to it. But he could.
It takes him five days to write the song, which is light-speed for him – his process is usually slow and meticulous. He does not embrace spontaneity.
But… if he wants to succeed, he needs to stretch himself. To persuade. He records the audio in the studio, then films a matching video in his home music room – it’s a lovely space with white walls and dark gleaming walnut floors, with inkwash paintings on the wall and a tall carefully curated designer bookshelf holding books, CDs, some porcelain ornaments, and potted plants. In other words, a soothing space. Lan Zhan wears his hanfu – his real hanfu, not the costume ones he wears on performance nights when the audience will never be nearer to him than the width of the stage – but true gauzy white silk wrapped layer over layer.
He operates the cameras himself, then sends them off to a family friend to edit. Despite the deficiencies in the angles and the set, the product he gets back looks surprisingly polished. It sounds professional in quality.
Lan Zhan posts it to Bilibili, then silences his phone and watches the hit count explode.
***
Lan Yi calls him four times before he goes to bed. There are three more calls in the morning, as well as a series of texts. Have you lost your mind? Answer your phone. Lan Zhan – I know you’re there. You’re too old to misbehave like this. Lan Zhan!
The comments that have flooded the video are not what he was expecting. They’re a sea of positivity, netizens thrilled that he’s actually engaging with him, to get a more candid look at him, to experience something made for them rather than a formal album release. There are thousands of comments, hundreds of thousands of views. Lan Zhan scrolls down, down, down. Looking for a comment, a response that speak to him. Several are from variants of Yiling Laozu, all throwaway accounts, supposedly replying to him. But none of them ring true.
He starts the video to see himself sitting behind his qin, looking at the camera. “I wrote this for someone who has been bringing me joy of late. I hope you reach out to me. It’s called Come Back to Gusu.”
He doesn’t know whether the Yiling Laozu will understand the message not in his words but in his song. I want to take you somewhere safe. I want to bring you happiness. I want to take you home with me.
All he can do is wait, and watch. And hope.
***
He does, eventually, answer Lan Yi. Her fury is by this time an icy chill, hard as a glacier. “You didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell your publicity team. You didn’t tell anyone – you just went ahead and released a new track without informing anyone. Lan Zhan, we’re here to make you the best you can be. We can’t do that if you don’t talk to us.”
“It is a personal matter,” says Lan Zhan, carefully.
“Personal? Personal how? You posted the video publicly on the internet. It’s been viewed six million times!”
“And I’m pleased that people enjoyed it. It was a little revelatory, in fact. But really, the song was intended for an audience of one. If he’s seen it, I think he knows that.”
“Lan Zhan, you’re not looking at the situation clearly. You shouldn’t be… serenading your competition. You should be rooting him out so you can slap him with a copyright violation big enough to make his head spin.”
Lan Zhan, sitting on his sofa alongside his tall, spotless windows, looks out over the Summer Palace. “I’m not interested in pursuing legal action,” he says. “If anything, I would like to collaborate. The results would be unique.”
“No one is listening to collaborations between rock guitar and qin music, Lan Zhan. There’s no audience for it – artistically, it could be suicide.”
Lan Zhan raises his eyebrows. “And yet,” he murmurs, “the Yiling Laozu’s videos have been extremely well-received. And what are they, if not stylistic mash-ups?”
“Lan Zhan –”
“I appreciate your intentions. But they are not mine.” Before she can protest, he hangs up. Refreshing the video feed, he scans the comments for any new posts that might be what he’s looking for. A connection with the Yiling Laozu.
***
Lan Zhan wakes up to multiple texts from his brother, as well as Lan Yi.
There’s a new video up.
He feels… nervous, almost. As he turns on his TV and navigates to Bilibili, as he brings up the search and types in Yiling Laozu. It finds the video immediately; it’s titled Back to Gusu: Remix.
The Yiling Laozu is in the centre of the shot, wearing his Fender today, and beneath it a dark shirt with mesh cut-outs. His pants are sinfully tight, his shoes shiny. His mask glistens under the lights. “I hope,” he says, as the video starts, “this gives you the answer you were looking for.”
He snaps his fingers, and Come Back to Gusu starts.
Lan Zhan wrote the main theme with the Yiling Laozu in his mind. Something strong but playful, an almost teasing curl to the strings of notes he plucks from the qin. The guitarist lifts the melody from the qin as though he were peeling dried wax from a table, his track replacing Lan Zhan’s.
Come back to Gusu you said to me
As if we had some kind of history
And you know you’re not exactly wrong
But you say it like I’m some kind of mystery
You were young
You were scared
You tried to hide it
I was unprepared
You were white
I was black
You said shameless
I said step back
Come back to Gusu you said to me
As if we were friends who never disagree
And you know you’re not exactly wrong
But I think you don’t remember me
I was young
I was proud
I tried to tease you
You weren’t cowed
I was black
You were white
I wanted more
You called me trite
Come back to Gusu you said to me
As if it was such a simple decree
And you know you’re not exactly wrong
But I can’t come on bended knee
We’re not young
We’re not the same
I love your sound
You light a flame
You’re still white
I’m still black
But if you want me
You can call back
Come back to Gusu you said to me
As if we had some kind of history
And you know you’re not exactly wrong
I’d still like to hope you missed me
The song ends, guitar chord fading. The Yiling Laozu grins at the camera, and then it cuts to black.
Lan Zhan stares at the TV. He doesn’t understand. Clearly, the Yiling Laozu thinks they know each other. Lan Zhan knows no one who even resembles him.
He sits, unmoving, staring at the now-dark TV for several minutes. Trying to parse the words, the phrases, the intonation. He’s never performed with a rock guitarist. He’s never even been in the same room as one.
Except.
One single time. Eight years ago. An event he has done everything in his power to forget. Lan Zhan goes to Bilibili now and searches for the interview. There are a couple of short clips of him available, but not the full segment.
In a fugue of anxiety and intensity, he texts Lan Yi. He needs the recording.
***
It would be painful to watch, in other circumstances. Lan Zhan can see how young he is, how insecure – and how gruff and cold he is in reaction. Fortunately, though, he’s not watching himself.
He’s watching Wei Ying.
Wei Ying is the guitarist’s name. He has short hair here, and a cocky smile, but his voice is the same – as are his lips, his fingers. The shirt is even the same one he wore in Back to Gusu: Remix. Lan Zhan watches him tease the host, play and flirt, loving the camera – and the camera loving him. When it comes time for them to perform Lan Zhan goes first, playing one of his first self-compositions, The Ice Cave.
He hadn’t realised, while performing, that Wei Ying was at the edge of the sound-stage. But several times the camera cuts to him, just watching.
He’s not at all the loud-mouthed, irritating, shameless youth Lan Zhan remembers. His eyes are wide, with focus but also appreciation. He looks transfixed by the music, astounded by it. He watches in silence, still as stone.
When the final notes have faded the show cuts to the host, and when it cuts back to the soundstage Lan Zhan is gone, replaced by Wei Ying with his guitar. He laughs and says something self-effacing about having to follow such a peerless beauty, someone who should have been carved from jade. But in his very first notes, Lan Zhan hears the Yiling Laozu.
It’s the only song by Wei Ying that he’s ever heard which has been wholly his. It’s sharp, filled with teeth, the electric guitar cutting beneath his fingers. A song about the lack of prospects for today’s youth, the inability for them to dream, all cunningly couched in a retelling of an old poem – ‘Watering Horses at the Grotto near the Great Wall.’ The two youths in question become Mianmian and Yuandao. The lyrics are both clever and moving; the music sinks into Lan Zhan’s bones and he knows he will be thinking of it an hour, a day, a week from now.
How could he not have stayed for this? How could he have been so insufferable, so self-absorbed?
As soon as the video has finished playing he opens a web browser, and searches for Wei Ying. The information is… sparse, for someone so talented. He was in an up-and-coming band called Yunmeng Brothers, but it split up years ago. After attempting to launch a new group he unaccountably disappeared.
Only to reappear now as the Yiling Laozu.
Lan Zhan watches the tape of Wei Ying performing again. Watches him give his heart to the performance, his pick dancing across the strings, sweat beading down the long column of his neck. His skin is honey-toned on screen, uniform and lovely. Lan Zhan wishes, wishes he remembered more of him.
But after all, it’s not too late to reach out. He texts his brother and asks him to connect with the interview programme. He needs Wei Ying’s contact information.
***
The phone number from eight years ago isn’t active anymore, so Lan Zhan goes to the address on file for Wei Ying. It’s a small condo in the leafy, affluent Chaoyang district. When he knocks on the door and asks for him, he’s told he left years ago. “I have his address, though,” the smartly-dressed ayi who answered the door tells him. She writes it down for him in sharp strokes.
It’s in Wudaokou, among the packed student residences and cheap dives. Lan Zhan takes the subway and then walks down narrow streets tightly crammed with bicycles and scooters, small restaurants and vendors. The smell of cooking is thick in the air – grilled meat, steamed dumplings, sizzling fat. The signs and awnings are old, faded with passing seasons. Dusty sun-bleached posters for Coca Cola and Sprite hang in windows, alongside outdated New Year’s decorations.
Lan Zhan is not as socially inept as he had been when the interview was filmed, when he was still living at home and so smothered by his uncle’s restrictive practices. But he’s still nervous. At the idea of showing up without an invitation, without an introduction on Wei Ying’s doorstep.
Then he remembers Back to Gusu. If you want me, you can call back. An open invitation? He thinks so.
He climbs the steps in Wei Ying’s building – grey, grim cinderblock with narrow windows and a dirty stairwell. He finds Wei Ying’s door, and knocks.
What if no one answers? What if Wei Ying has moved again? What if he’s working, or out eating, or with someone? What if –
The door clicks. “Yeah, what’s –”
Wei Ying stands in the doorway. Long, dark hair lit from above by a warm LED bulb, cinnamon strands highlighted among the ebony. A loose red knit sweater, the neckline so stretched it hangs over one smooth-skinned shoulder; dark khaki pants and bare feet. Wide, amber eyes; pearly pink lips. “Oh,” he says, stopping dead. Slowly he straightens, releasing the door and leaning back. He is tall, and slim, also, his too-large clothes emphasizing his fine build. “Um. Hi? Congratulations – you found me.” His smile is crooked, uncertain.
“Can I come in?” asks Lan Zhan, feeling vulnerable in the open hallway.
“Yes? Yes. Come in.” Wei Ying throws the door open a little further and steps back to lead him inside. It’s a small space and one side of the hallway has carefully stacked books lining it – they look old, more academic than frivolous. Past the hallway is a one-room space with a kitchenette, table, and fold-away sofa. There are posters from bands on the walls, not framed but carefully sandwiched between plexiglass. In one corner sit three guitars on their stands – the Fender Super Strat, the acoustic, and an LP Lan Zhan has never seen Wei Ying play.
“You seem surprised,” says Lan Zhan, not knowing where he should stand, how he should look. He had envisioned this conversation taking place in Wei Ying’s home but he hadn’t imagined his home would be so… intimate. Such a display of his life and circumstances. He had imagined something almost impersonal, professional. Standing here looking at Wei Ying’s coat folded over the arm of the sofa, at a pair of socks on the floor and a book on Han-dynasty poetry on the table, he feels like he’s intruded. “To see me,” he adds, in case it wasn’t clear.
“Well, to be honest, I kind of thought once you figured out who I was, you might not be so eager to meet me.”
“Wei Ying. It is Wei Ying?”
Wei Ying nods. A strand of hair slips over his shoulder to hang down alongside his face, framing it like a soft bamboo leaf. He positions himself beside the window, a dirty kind of light slanting in to paint his sleeve a bloody crimson, his bare foot white as moonstone.
Lan Zhan looks at him, the boy he remembered now an adult, quieter but still with humour in his face, with a sweet mouth that could smile, he thinks, so widely. “I behaved poorly, when we last met. You were right – I was nervous. And anxious. I was very used to doing things my way, or not at all. In fact, that remains a flaw of mine. But I hope – watching the video now, it was entirely clear that you were the better-behaved, and the better-adapted. I apologize, for my rudeness.”
Wei Ying laughs. “Aiya. I’m not holding a grudge. Surely that’s obvious. Surely,” he says, looking at Lan Zhan with those large, bright eyes. They’re almond-shaped, light catching on dark lashes like wet ink; lovely.
“I don’t deserve the appreciation you’ve given me. Wei Ying – you’re an excellent artist in your own right. No need to be making covers of my work.”
Wei Ying laughs again; softer this time, gentler. He shrugs, shoulders rolling, knit sweater rubbing against his bare skin. Like this he looks half undone, and Lan Zhan feels the horrible urge to further undo him. “I do it because I want to. That’s all the reason I need. And I do it for myself, no one else. I don’t care if the videos get taken down. I almost didn’t post them at all. Except that I hoped… I wondered what you would think. If you were still so icy. Or if maybe… if maybe you’d thaw, if you saw them.”
Lan Zhan wraps himself in earnestness, stepping forward, dusty wood floorboard creaking beneath his feet. “They are unique. Intelligent, reflective, intuitive. Each time, you captured with words the thoughts I could only put into notes and chords. You understood my messages – and you shared them with a broader audience. My music has become… a kind of currency. Something accessible only to a certain class, paid for and bartered rather than enjoyed. You showed me that there are ways to go beyond that – and that there are people, so many people, out there waiting for it.”
Wei Ying raises his eyebrows. “Lan-laoshi is a national treasure. Isn’t it right that his music be prized?”
“I would rather it be listened to. That it provoke thought, and curiosity, and emotion. The way you’ve achieved. The Yiling Laozu is much more talented at getting his message across than I am.”
“Ah, the Yiling Laozu.” Wei Ying raises a mocking hand to his face, his eyes peeking out between his fingers, as though from behind a mask. He drops his hand away and his smile is tight. “I suppose a part of me wanted this. Wanted to meet you again. Wanted any chance to hear you play in person. Lan Zhan – you changed something in me, that day. The way I understood music, the way I needed it. I had only just broken up my old band and started out on my own. I thought… I had such a vision, then. Of what I could be, what I could share. But it didn’t pan out.”
He leans back against the wall, lifts a hand to play with the pull for the rattan blind. He speaks to it, rather than to Lan Zhan. “No one would take me on their label even if my political messages were covert. I guess I could’ve gone underground, played to the dissident scene, but – fuck, it’s so pedestrian. I just couldn’t be a starving artist. My jie got sick, and her parents died, and I needed money.”
“I’m sorry,” says Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying glances at him. Twitches his lips – an acknowledgement. “I am too. I’ve got a day job teaching, and I can’t afford to get slapped with a copyright suit. But after eight years I just… couldn’t not play anymore. Couldn’t stay silent, while you were coming out with piece after piece that seemed written to rip up my heart. Thus, the Yiling Laozu.”
“Yiling is…?”
“The band I never got off the ground. Stifled by society.” He snorts, draws a hand through his hair.
Lan Zhan looks around again. At the dimly-lit room, the walls scuffed and scratched, the furniture worn. At the dirty dishes in the sink, the cabinet door that’s hanging by one hinge. Wei Ying is at least as talented as him. But these are his circumstances. Because he wouldn’t compromise on his music. Wouldn’t give one inch.
“Come Back to Gusu,” begins Lan Zhan, hesitantly. Wei Ying pulls his hair back, away from his face, and looks at him. He’s only three meters away, but it seems an infinite distance. It chills him, the separation. How alone Wei Ying looks, stretched out against the plain white wall while colourless winter light traces the veins in his hand. “What I wanted to convey – to you – was that… I’d like the opportunity to do something for you. To know you.”
Wei Ying steps forward, eyes flashing. “I’m not a charity case,” he says, voice stiff and creaky. “I’m not here begging for hand-outs. Lan Zhan. If you liked my music, I’m glad. But I didn’t share it so that you could pity me.”
“No,” replies Lan Zhan, immediately, repulsed. “Wei Ying. I don’t mean – I’m sorry. That was poorly phrased. I meant – I would like to work with you. No need for publicity, if you don’t want it. No need for anything you don’t want. I just… would like to play with you. If you would consider it.”
Slowly, Wei Ying softens. The flintiness fades, the sharpness in his mouth, the corners pricked like arrowheads, smooths out. “Are you asking for a jam session?” he says. His tone is almost flat, but his eyes are bright, curious.
“Yes,” says Lan Zhan, eager for whatever he can get.
“Well. We could probably do that. No recordings – no commitments?”
“No recordings, no commitments,” repeats Lan Zhan, solemnly.
For a moment, Wei Ying looks at him. In his eyes Lan Zhan sees the hesitation of a man who has been wronged before, who’s been beaten down by external forces, again and again. But then, like sun breaking through thick clouds, he smiles and pulls out his phone. “Okay, then. Let’s pick a date.”
Lan Zhan knows, knows he was speaking only to the act of scheduling a time. But his heart squeezes, just a little, at the word date.
***
They meet in a location Wei Ying chooses – the studio where he films his videos. There’s more space behind where the camera usually sits; enough for Lan Zhan and his qin. “A friend rents the space out to struggling artists,” laughs Wei Ying, who’s brought his Fender and the acoustic too, one case slung over his back and the other in his hand.
He’s in black today, and his hair is pulled up in a high tie with a scrap of red cloth. It emphasizes the lines of his face, the clean-cut cheekbones and the dip of his chin. He kneels on the floor to unpack the guitars and looks up at Lan Zhan through the fan of his lashes, head tilted so that the warm halogen light cups his cheek.
Lan Zhan regularly plays to sold-out venues, to thousands of listeners. He’s more nervous now than he ever is stepping out on stage, and more excited. His nerves are thrumming, singing beneath his skin, his fingertips already anticipating the stiff strings. He unpacks the qin and sets it on the thin board he brought with him, then takes a seat behind it. He’s wearing a long linen jacket, and he lays its tail out on the floor behind him.
“Lan-laoshi looks like some ancient sage, like a being of great perspicacity and power,” laughs Wei Ying, unfolding a chair and taking a seat.
“Hardly that,” replies Lan Zhan, heat throbbing in his body. He runs his hands over the strings, plays a brief trickle of notes. Wei Ying lifts his Fender, plugs it in, and echoes it effortlessly.
Lan Zhan smiles. “What would you like to play?”
Wei Ying plucks the opening to Gusu Mountains and raises an enquiring eyebrow. Lan Zhan nods and bows his head. He puts his hands on the strings again, and closes his eyes. In the silence, he starts the song.
Anticipation is beating in his chest like something feathered, trapped beneath his ribs. His heart is aching, hot then cold. But as soon as Wei Ying starts playing he relaxes; for the first time they’re in complete harmony. Wei Ying’s new chords, his wailing echo just… fit. Not exactly smoothly, because the sound of the guitar is completely different than the qin’s deep thrum, but properly. Like two pieces of a broken plate put back together – all sharp, jagged edges that scrape against each other to fill the gaps.
It’s even more apparent, as Lan Zhan plays, how Wei Ying’s voice adds to the soundscape. His warm tenor rises over the low rumbles of the qin and the harsh rips of the guitar, bringing their disparities together. Lan Zhan watches him as he sings, head low as if crooning to his instrument, to their combined sound. The dark fall of his hair just visible behind his clean-cut neck, his clever fingers on the frets, the pale flash of his wrist like a cabbage moth’s wing.
Wei Ying picks the next song, one Lan Zhan hasn’t heard him play before – Candles in the Snow. Evocative of long winter nights, softly falling snow and warm lights in distant windows. Wei Ying accompanies on the acoustic guitar, his voice soft, sweet.
Then Untwining the Vines, a rough-edged wail, Lan Zhan’s bones humming in his chest. Such a validation of his own complicated feelings regarding his family – his uncle – and how it’s affected him.
They relax the mood with another piece Lan Zhan hasn’t heard from Wei Ying, a reflection on the Forbidden City called simply Forbidden. Then the piece Lan Zhan has been looking forward to, Qixi. He watches Wei Ying as they play the instrumental song, watches as he looks down to his guitar and strums the chords. He looks up and their eyes meet and Lan Zhan feels the jolt of it, his attention, his connection. This thing that they’re creating between them, a sum larger than each of their parts.
Wei Ying has to know. What he’s feeling. What he wants. The message is in the song itself, longing made manifest.
It finishes, the final hum fading from the room. Lan Zhan presses his hand to the qin, silencing it, then stands. Wei Ying looks up at him, elbow resting on the guitar’s body. “You knew I would look for you,” Lan Zhan says. “You knew I would be compelled.”
Wei Ying’s head falls to the side; his smile is small, soft. He says nothing.
“You know exactly what you do to me. Picking apart my empty heart and writing yourself into it.”
“Lan-laoshi said it, not me,” he murmurs. His tone is respectful; his eyes are ablaze with heat.
“Am I wrong, then?”
Wei Ying puts the guitar down, and stands. He steps forward and puts his hand over Lan Zhan’s heart. “Lan Zhan. The media, the critics, they all behave as though you’re someone so unreadable, so incomprehensible. And that seems wild to me. Because I look at you and I see what’s there. Someone thoughtful, and inquisitive. Someone quiet, but principled. Someone lonely. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head. His chest feels hot where Wei Ying is touching him, his palm like a brand, searing into his skin and the bone beneath it. “You know you’re not.”
“I hear the things you want and I just… want to give them to you. Because you’re you. Because you helped me realise what it meant to be me.”
“Wei Ying wants to give me what I want?” asks Lan Zhan, voice low.
“Aiya. Do you want me to prove it, Lan Zhan?”
He swallows. Nods.
Wei Ying steps closer. Their faces so close he can feel his breath, can smell the sweet cinnamon scent of his soap. He reaches up, touches Lan Zhan’s face and it’s both a request and a wish.
Lan Zhan leans in and fits their mouths together.
The first touch is soft, tender. Then, like the wail of his guitar, Wei Ying presses forward and claims more. Lan Zhan catches him under the arms and pulls him to the side, pins him to the wall and devours him. It’s frantic, feverish; Wei Ying twists beneath him, panting, catching hold of Lan Zhan’s shoulders and holding him close. Absolutely unwilling to let him go.
They only break apart when they’re both breathless and dizzy, mouths wet and kiss-bitten. Lan Zhan leans his forehead against Wei Ying’s as they pant. “We could do more,” he says.
Wei Ying’s eyes widen teasingly. “Does Lan-laoshi have such designs on my person?”
Lan Zhan feels heat rise in a fierce wave. “I meant musically,” he says.
“Oh, musically. Is that the euphemism we’re using now?”
“Wei Ying…”
Wei Ying wiggles a little beneath him, Lan Zhan’s hands on his hips. “Yes, yes. Your intentions were pure as the driven snow, hm? Is that what you were thinking about when you stuck your tongue down my throat?”
Lan Zhan leans forward and kisses him again, just a peck. “I meant what I said. Musically, we could work together. Both our videos have been extremely popular. A collaboration would be well-received.”
Wei Ying slips his hands beneath the long fall of Lan Zhan’s jacket, tucks his thumbs in beneath the cinch of his belt. His hands are warm against Lan Zhan’s back, like two little coals. “Is that the only reason?” he asks.
“I would greatly enjoy it,” admits Lan Zhan. Wei Ying laughs, and kisses him again.
“If I know you, then you must know me. Lan Zhan, it works both ways. You must know I would give you whatever you wanted. In any way,” he adds, pointedly, rolling his hips.
“Come home with me,” says Lan Zhan, heady with the thrill of his touch, his presence.
“Back to Gusu?” asks Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Home should be a place we could both fit. Someday. If that happens,” he says, trying to back-peddle on the fact that he practically just proposed to a stranger.
Wei Ying just laughs. “If Lan Zhan calls, I’ll answer. Haven’t I proven that?”
Lan Zhan kisses him once more, alight with ardour, hot with it. Wei Ying fits his body against him, a perfect mirror.
“Yes,” says Lan Zhan. “So let’s go.”
They break apart just long enough to pack away their instruments. Then, shoulder-to-shoulder, they go.
Home.
END