Rap

After coming downstairs and feeling the cool breeze, Song Ya thought it over calmly. Although he hadn't solved any practical problems, he'd still accomplished what he'd come for: at least he'd sorted out his priorities and didn't have to stumble around in the dark anymore.

"Going by Goodman's advice, the most important thing right now is to record a demo of 'Thrift Shop.' Then I'll take it, along with the sheet music, to register with that Songwriters Association. Finally, I need to find a reliable manager!"

Once he'd made up his mind, he got to work. He found a phone booth with a phone book, looked up the number for ASCAP (which he'd refer to as the Songwriters Association from then on), and called.

After a long wait, the call connected. Once he'd explained what he wanted, he was passed from one person to another, with wait after wait in between...

While he was waiting, he started planning how to record the demo.

"For a demo, there's no way I can handle the accompaniment. I'll have to get someone to help... Forget it. I can't ask anyone for help right now."

The original Alexander Song had been the lead trumpet player in the school band. He had a decent musical foundation and could read sheet music. That foundation, combined with the English Song Ya had crammed after his transmigration, had enabled him to cut down the original "Thrift Shop" into a version suited to this era. He'd removed those inexplicable opening "shouts," for instance, replaced the electronic parts, changed lyrics with references he didn't understand—quite possibly because they hadn't even existed yet—and cut the white singer's self-deprecating use of "honky," among other things.

But that wasn't enough. Song Ya's musical ear was awful now, and his creative ability came from his "Apocalypse cheat." He knew how to do many things without understanding why they worked. Recording a demo was part of the creative process, and involving outsiders risked exposing him.

At last, someone in charge came on the line. If he only wanted to register the work, the process was simple: the Songwriters Association had an office in Chicago, and he just needed to make an appointment and go there to handle the paperwork.

"Then I'll record an a cappella demo. Time's tight. The school has all the equipment, but it'll be difficult. I'll have to give it a shot. Ideally, I'll get everything done in one day and register it tomorrow. If I can't, I'll forget the demo and just register the lyrics and music."

After making an appointment for the next afternoon, he went to a flea market near Chinatown. He bought two blank cassette tapes and an extremely cheap plastic digital watch with an LCD screen, a MIC brand, a CASIQ.

The morning flew by, and Song Ya started to feel hungry. He didn't dare go into any of the nearby Chinese restaurants—they were too expensive. After finally finding a white-owned street stall, he bought a hot dog to fill his stomach.

"I spent way too much money this morning. Sigh, I'm so broke... I'm probably the most embarrassing transmigrator ever."

He ate his hot dog as he hurried toward the subway station. He had no idea when the Apocalypse cheat would descend again, and he couldn't put all his eggs in one basket. "Being a lawyer sounds pretty good. Goodman's such a down-on-his-luck lawyer, and he charges thirty-five dollars for an hour of consulting. He sells two thin pages of paper for ten bucks... Maybe I should become a lawyer too? They say lawyers are part of America's ruling class, or the ruling class's spokespeople. At least once I've studied the law, people won't be able to fool me into making a fool of myself."

He was only in ninth grade, the equivalent of the last year of middle school back in China, so there was plenty of time. Recording the demo was what mattered most. On the way, Song Ya kept tapping out the beat on his leg, muttering to himself.

When he'd first transmigrated, he hadn't cared much about the musical talent of the body he'd taken over, and he couldn't appreciate rap songs that sounded like "chanting." But who would've thought that after nearly a month of struggling for credits, he'd end up having to work hard to get his musical ear back so he could make it big?

When he got back to school, he went straight to the music teacher's office.

"I'm deeply ashamed of how carelessly I played during band practice."

"Because my grades in my other subjects improved, I let up on my musical pursuits. I regret it so much."

"Please, you have to give me another chance!"

"Yes, I wasn't feeling well this morning, so I called in sick. I'm feeling better now..."

"It's fine, I'm okay now. I'm completely better. Look, would you like me to do a little dance for you?"

"Um, I was hoping to borrow the instrument storage room and the equipment inside to record something..."

"No, no! Do I look like the kind of guy who'd sneak off to fool around with a girl?"

"You're giving me too much credit. I can't even get my hands on weed... or anything else..."

"I really, really apologize for the way I've been acting these past few days. I swear I'll practice hard and get back to my old level as soon as possible."

"I used to be your lead trumpet player! Please give me another chance, teacher!"

"I promise I won't play a single wrong note again... Whoa, where did you get that necklace? It's gorgeous."

"Yeah, it really suits you..."

"Honestly, I think that teacher Cheryl has absolutely terrible taste... Right, right, right. That hairstyle with such huge earrings looks ridiculous."

"She can't hold a candle to you!"

"Sorry, I shouldn't talk about another teacher behind her back. But you know me—I'm a straight shooter. I say what I think..."

After a whole lot of flattery, he finally had the music teacher eating out of his hand and got the key to the Orchestra's small storage room.

He locked the door, put the new cassette into Sony's double-deck recorder, then plugged in the Canadian-made metronome.

"I'm gonna pop some tags, only... Ahem."

"I'm... No, no, no. Let's record that again."

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna... Damn it, I messed up again..."

Everything was hard at the beginning, and there was nothing he could do about all the mistakes. Song Ya could only keep at it. Classes ended, then club activities ended, and by the time the music teacher knocked and came in, a laid-back, well-behaved Chinese student had been forced by his cheat to take up rap.

The finished track was nowhere near satisfactory, but it basically matched the sheet music, and that was good enough. He only needed it as a safeguard for establishing copyright ownership; artistic merit wasn't a concern.

After thanking the music teacher, he hurried home. That evening, he took Tony outside and laid everything on the table.

"FXXXYOU!" As soon as Tony heard him out, he flew into a rage, just as Song Ya had expected.

In Tony's eyes, Little Lowry's debut album was on the verge of success. It was as good as certain to happen. Little Lowry would become a star, and Tony would help him out and then enjoy the good life. But now his fifteen-year-old little brother was standing in front of him with a song he claimed to have written entirely himself, saying he wanted to find a way to get it onto Little Lowry's new album!

That wasn't wishful thinking. That was seeing dollar signs.

Tony thought Song Ya was jealous of Little Lowry's success and had come up with an absurdly clumsy, laughable excuse to get in on the profits!

Being Little Lowry's sidekick and helping him spend money was one thing. Infiltrating his core business and splitting the profits was something else. Tony wasn't good at school, but he wasn't stupid.

"You're a piece of shit. How the hell did I end up with a little brother like you? If you weren't my brother, do you know what I'd do? I'd rip your head right off!" Tony grabbed Song Ya by the collar with both hands and lifted him off the ground. "You... How did you get so greedy... so stupid...? I knew something was wrong with you. Something was wrong. Where did the old Ya Li go?"

"Hey! Hey..."

Song Ya hadn't expected Tony to react so strongly. It seemed he really valued his friendship with Little Lowry. "Don't get worked up. Hear me out. You'll understand!"

"Talk!" Tony let him down.

"Ahem. First of all, I could've kept this from you. My plan was to find a chance to meet Little Lowry's record company boss first, but I decided to tell you before anyone else because you're my brother, and I respect you."

"Second, without my single, Little Lowry's new album has no chance of succeeding. I overheard Little Lowry's manager talking to the record company boss the other day..."

"Seven thousand cassettes for the first release. No vinyl records, no digital CDs, just seven thousand cassettes... Does that sound like a successful album to you?"

"Why would I lie to you? It won't be long before the truth comes out."

"Forget that you're his friend. Put all your feelings aside and look at the facts. Out of the dozen or so songs on Little Lowry and Al's album, which one sounds good? Which one sounds like it could be a hit?"

"If his debut only sells seven thousand copies, will he even get to make a second album? If his first album loses money and he doesn't get the chance to make another, how's he going to support you and Silencer? And he's got AK and Al to look after too..."

"Yeah, I've changed. I've become calculating. But this change will only be good for our family! I want to get out of this hellhole just as much as you do. Do you want to stay here for the rest of your life?"

"I got the idea for this song the last time I went to Thrift Shop, the day we shot the music video..."

"Of course! I guarantee you, this song is absolutely, absolutely, absolutely going to be a hit!"

"Have you forgotten I'm the lead trumpet player in the school band?"

"Fine, you don't have to believe me. I never expected you to, but anyone who knows music will get it as soon as they hear it."

"You want to hear it first? Sure. I recorded a demo."

After spending the whole day talking and singing, Song Ya's throat was parched. At last, he'd managed to convince Tony halfway, and for now he'd gotten past him.