Chapter 53: The Most Talented Electrician in History

At first, Jiang Youbo brought up the topic of “interpretivist art” simply out of personal sensitivity and pride. As a descendant of the Jiang family, he often encountered people in Taiwan with ulterior motives wanting to befriend him or stir up gossip. It was understandable that, having only just met Gu Cheng that day and already being asked to help design renovations for Gu Cheng’s company in the future, Jiang would suspect that Gu had picked up some of the bureaucratic-business habits from the mainland.

But very quickly, the conversation turned into a one-sided rout. Jiang Youbo realized that his lifelong pride in his understanding of art had run straight into a brick wall.

“We don’t even need to give many examples. We can set aside ninety-nine percent of classical musicians—let’s just talk about Beethoven. Beethoven left behind over thirty piano sonatas, more than twenty string quartets and violin sonatas. Yet, what do our music textbooks feature? Aside from professionals, most people only know three or four major works. In the arts, the treasures left to us by our predecessors are already more than enough for most people to appreciate, but the world stubbornly ignores these achievements, locking themselves away to pursue novelty and innovation for its own sake. Even worse, many amateurs, after hearing these so-called ‘new pieces’ that barely hold together, will worship contemporary creators who are just muddling through.

This isn’t genuine or serious innovation; it’s simply creating for the sake of creating. In my view, it’s much more valuable to open people’s eyes and let them appreciate the vastness of what already exists in the world, rather than to disguise routine as innovation.”

Gu Cheng, sipping his tea, translated his point of view into plain, direct language.

Jiang Youbo listened, stunned, feeling as though everything he’d learned at Parsons School of Design had been laid bare by Gu Cheng in just a few sentences.

“It’s really a pity that someone like you is working in the internet industry,” Jiang said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sighed with difficulty. “I never used to believe there were people born with innate knowledge, but now I do.”

“I don’t think it’s a pity,” Gu Cheng replied. “The internet isn’t a standalone industry—it’s just a tool, something anyone can use. The internet won’t overturn or replace traditional industries; it will simply become their eyes, ears, and voice, helping them keep up with the times and improve themselves.” Gu Cheng didn’t spare Jiang Youbo’s pride one bit, directly pointing out the limitations of his lofty but isolated views.

These ideas would seem rather trite a few decades later—going from “Internet Plus” to “Plus Internet,” as the barriers to entry kept dropping and no bigwig in the content industry would hold the internet in awe. But in the year 2000, when the web was still in its infancy, Gu Cheng’s words were enough to shake people to their core.

Gu Cheng pressed on, intent on broadening the other’s perspective: “For example, all musicians today encounter a major challenge: it’s much harder to promote instrumental music than songs with lyrics. Whether it’s classical, pop instrumentals, or pure electronic music, it’s always harder to spread than similar tunes with lyrics. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this.”

Jiang Youbo thought for a moment. “That does seem to be the case. Maybe it’s because instrumentals don’t have lyrics—so unless you’re a professional, even if you like a piece, you can’t describe it or search for its title on Yahoo.”

“Spot on! That’s exactly it.” Gu Cheng confirmed, then boldly speculated, “But have you ever thought: what if, in the future, Baidu lets people search for music by humming the tune instead of typing in a song title? Wouldn’t that make promoting instrumental music ten times easier? If a musician could work with the internet to create such a search engine, wouldn’t that benefit far more people than composing a hundred famous pieces?”

In this field, even forty years later, no one in the world could match Gu Cheng’s keen insight, let alone the “primitives” of his own time.

Jiang Youbo was so stunned by this vision that he was speechless. He hadn’t expected that the vague principle he’d held for years—that cultural interpretation was more important than blind creation—would be so thoroughly dissected by Gu Cheng.

It was akin to Left Leader Zuo, who could only say, “Combining forces strengthens us, dividing weakens us, so the Five Mountain Sword Schools should merge,” suddenly hearing Yue Buqun deliver a grand speech, drawing on classic references and great virtue—an inexplicable rush of joy in his heart.

He almost wanted to kneel in worship right then and there!

“I’ve hardly ever truly admired anyone in my life. And you’re the first person to win my full respect on the very first day we met,” Jiang Youbo said after a long pause. “Once you’ve rented a place, I’ll design it for you—no design fee, just charge for the renovation.”

Only then did Jiang Youbo carefully draw a business card from the pocket of his jacket and hand it to Gu Cheng.

That made them friends.

Gu Cheng accepted the card with both hands and glanced at it: “Orange Fruit Studio, Jiang Youbo,” plus a phone number—very simple.

After exchanging cards, Jiang Youbo saw that it was getting late and prepared to leave. As he was about to go, he thought of something and turned to ask, “Will you have trouble recruiting staff for your talent agency here? I know a few people in the industry.”

Gu Cheng replied politely, “My company in Taiwan isn’t going to do much business—at most I’ll need a manager or talent scout, nothing else.”

Jiang Youbo thought for a moment and said, “Alright, a few of my ex-girlfriends are in the modeling world, so if you only need a manager, that’s probably the best place to look. If you get calls from unknown numbers in the next few days, be sure to answer. Don’t worry—I won’t recommend anyone unreliable.”

“Thanks, then.”

…

After Jiang Youbo left, the Long family began to see Gu Cheng in a new light—they all knew Jiang Youbo was a proud man with high standards. For Gu Cheng to make a friend out of him over just one meal and a cup of tea was, in itself, a remarkable feat.

That very day, Gu Cheng finalized arrangements with his uncle and submitted an application to register a talent agency, renting two small offices as the company’s official address.

In fact, before coming to Taiwan, Gu Cheng had considered that negotiating Jay Zhou’s mainland agency rights didn’t necessarily require setting up a company in Taiwan. Legally, he could negotiate entirely in the name of his newly registered audio-visual e-commerce company on the mainland. But that would have created a lot more hassle later, especially in terms of reporting to the relevant authorities.

More importantly, in 2000, cross-strait economic cooperation was quite limited. Mainland individuals couldn’t proactively apply for business visas—only after a Taiwanese company first issued a formal business invitation could a mainlander obtain one. Gu Cheng had used a family-visit visa this time, which only covered himself. Once the company was up and running, he could issue business invitations through the company to other people from the mainland—essentially passing the invitation from one hand to the other. In this way, whether it was his cousin Pan Jieying or other friends from the mainland, they could all sidestep legal restrictions to come and do business.

After renting the office, Gu Cheng, with no assistants, wandered through the empty space by himself, checked that everything was in order, and planned to fax an invitation to someone at Alpha Records in a few days to talk business.

The office was located in an unremarkable office building outside Xiaonanmen. The building was obviously from the early 1980s—there wasn’t even an elevator. Fortunately, the office was on the third floor, so climbing the stairs wasn’t an issue.

Such buildings were common throughout the city center in North Bay. Redevelopment was a huge headache in capitalist areas. Taiwan’s economy had taken off early, and by the 1980s, the central districts of North Bay were already fully urbanized. Twenty years later, even if technology had advanced enough to rebuild skyscrapers, developers simply couldn’t afford the demolition costs.

The interior decor was leftover from the last company and saved Gu Cheng a lot of trouble. He could make do for now, and after negotiating the Jay Zhou deal, he’d have Jiang Youbo’s studio redesign everything.

However, security doors, access control, and surveillance systems all needed to be replaced immediately for safety.

He thought about it and called Jiang Youbo the next morning. “Youbo, does your studio work with any renovation companies that do security systems? I don’t need anything fancy, just quick work—preferably all done today.”

Jiang Youbo was clearly still in bed when he answered, sounding like a groggy low-blood-pressure demon. After some thought, he texted Gu Cheng a number.

After sending the number, Jiang seemed to wake up a bit and asked sleepily, “So you’re at the company today? The address you mentioned yesterday?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Alright, someone might come by today. See if they’re suitable.”

“No problem,” Gu Cheng replied cheerfully and hung up.

He called the number Jiang had given him, which turned out to be a renovation company. Gu Cheng explained that he needed someone to install new security cameras and electronic door access—no other requirements, just as fast as possible.

The renovation boss thought and said he’d need three days. Gu Cheng insisted that was too slow—even offered to pay extra for same-day service.

After a bit of haggling, the boss demanded an extra ten thousand Taiwan dollars, promising to send someone that day.

Gu Cheng had planned to go out for a stroll, but since someone would arrive soon—and a candidate recommended by Jiang Youbo might show up as well—he decided to stay in. He picked a desk, took out his laptop to check emails, and dealt with some operational matters for “Legend,” all while waiting.

As the boss, Gu Cheng had endless emails to process every day and couldn’t just dump them all on Pan Jieying back home—she didn’t yet have the experience to handle everything solo.

Once he got into a “flow” state, time flew by. After replying to dozens of emails, two hours had passed. With lunchtime approaching, Gu Cheng was debating whether to order delivery and keep waiting.

Suddenly, a scruffy man in his thirties appeared at the door—stubbly, slightly shifty-looking, in dirty work overalls, carrying a bag and a large electric drill. He poked his head in and called out, “Hey, are you the ones who called Captain Chen for security installation? Why don’t you even have a sign up?”

“That’s us,” Gu Cheng replied, closing his laptop and standing up politely. “We only registered yesterday, so there’s no logo yet.”

The man didn’t waste time chatting. “Full set of Honeywell surveillance, full set of Honeywell access control—thirty-six thousand in total, plus a rush fee of ten thousand. Boss Chen told me on the phone, you pay up front, I’ll give you a receipt, and the invoice will be mailed later.”

“Cash only?” Gu Cheng hesitated—he’d expected to pay by bank transfer and hadn’t realized this sort of contractor was so informal. After a moment, he offered, “Will you take renminbi?”

The man was reasonable and did a quick calculation. “Sure. I won’t rip you off on the exchange rate—just give me ten thousand, and I’ll round off the rest.”

Gu Cheng pulled out the cash but paused, suddenly wary. He asked, “Do you have a business card? I don’t even know your name, and Boss Chen didn’t mention cash payment on the phone.”

The man bristled at Gu Cheng’s hesitation. “Hey! I’m not about to rip you off! To be honest, I haven’t taken this kind of job in half a year. If you hadn’t offered that ten-thousand rush fee, I wouldn’t have bothered. Where would I get a business card?”

Gu Cheng became even more cautious. “So what do you actually do? If you can’t give me a straight answer, I’m not paying today.”

“Hey! Are you trying to be difficult? You insisted on a rush job, so Captain Chen called me in. Fine, fine, I won’t argue.”

The man gave in and reluctantly fished out a business card—obviously from his current line of work—and handed it over, looking embarrassed.

“Fang Wenshan? Signed lyricist for Alpha Music?” Gu Cheng was dumbfounded.

The man showed no sign of embarrassment. “Songwriting doesn’t have to be a full-time job. I used to be an electrician. Can’t I take some side gigs to make ends meet when there’s no lyric work?”