Chapter 55: Ignorant of One's Own Limits

For an ordinary female graduate, applying to a company with only one employee—who happens to be male—would surely be unnerving. Especially when the company provides nothing but a bottle of mineral water, and the only conference table is littered with takeout boxes.

Yet after her initial surprise, Lin Zhiling quickly composed herself, returning to that serene calm. As she answered Gu Cheng’s questions, she maintained an elegant poise, her words always accompanied by a subtle, enigmatic smile—graceful and composed.

Perhaps some women are simply born for social grace—not in the pejorative sense, but as ladies with a refined, cool demeanor and a touch of intellectual sophistication.

Through brief conversation, Gu Cheng understood Lin Zhiling’s intentions and her reasons for seeking a position as an agent: she wished to enter the entertainment industry, though her family preferred she not be in the limelight. So they compromised, and Lin Zhiling decided to try her hand at second-line management in an entertainment company, accepting Jiang Youbo’s referral.

When Gu Cheng asked how she knew Jiang Youbo, Lin Zhiling simply explained they met as ordinary friends while studying in Canada. Later, Jiang Youbo’s girlfriend, Guan Ying, introduced Lin Zhiling to two summer jobs, and with time they became close.

Gu Cheng pondered, confirming, “Miss Lin, when you mention ‘performance experience within the entertainment industry,’ are you referring to those two summer jobs? Could you tell me what you did specifically?”

Lin Zhiling’s cheeks flushed lightly, just as any inexperienced graduate would when asked about work history. But she quickly adjusted her breath and tone:

“Yes, that was during the summer break of my first year of graduate school, when I returned to Taiwan to visit family. Ying invited me to try some summer work, and through her connections, I participated as one of the models in a music video for Mr. Leslie Cheung’s song. The MV required a group dance by female performers, so I was merely one among many—not particularly prominent.

Later, after the album caught the attention of peers in the industry, Brother Yu Chengqing noticed my performance. So, during the next summer break, he invited me through his agent to be the lead female in another MV. Afterwards, I also appeared in a few print advertisements.”

Gu Cheng considered: she only appeared in two music videos, as a “female college student doing summer part-time work,” which hardly qualifies as familiarity with the entertainment industry. But since she intended to focus on agent work, her social skills mattered most; everything else could be learned. Especially with her high academic credentials—a rarity in showbiz—she should adapt quickly.

Weighing these factors, Gu Cheng felt that guiding Lin Zhiling to become a talent scout and negotiator in the industry might be more successful than letting her remain a model for life.

Besides, he currently presented himself as running little more than a shell company—hardly in a position to be selective.

“Miss Lin, I appreciate your trust—sticking around to talk with me despite this mess of a company,” Gu Cheng said, carefully choosing his words. Yet he seemed not very adept at speaking with women, and Lin Zhiling interpreted his remark as rejection.

“So it’s still not enough... It seems I’m not suited for being an agent.”

“Huh? Is that how you understood me? That’s not what I meant. I just mean my company is newly established, so I can’t promise you much yet; on the other hand, you need to learn and develop your skills in this field. How about this: if you’re willing, we give each other two months—I'll pay you two months’ salary in advance. In a few days, if there’s business, you’ll work with me; we may sign a few artists.

But at the start, the workload won’t be full, and your position won’t have much to do. If you have modeling or acting gigs on the side, I won’t restrict you in any way. If next year you decide to stay, we’ll sign a formal contract. What do you think?”

In Taiwan, with its high cost of living, graduate starting salaries had been around 40,000 NTD before the Southeast Asian economic crisis (undergraduates at 22,000). Though these had dipped in recent years, Lin Zhiling, as a prominent overseas graduate, would start at no less than 50,000.

Gu Cheng sincerely offered her 100,000—a monthly salary equivalent to what Fang Wenshan earned for writing a lyric.

The key point: she was allowed to take freelance jobs during downtime.

“Thank you. Monthly payment is fine. Mr. Gu is a man of integrity; I trust you won’t cheat a young woman like me.”

“Agreed. I have a meeting with Alpha Records the day after tomorrow. Take these materials home and study them, then draft a cooperation model.”

Gu Cheng handed her a stack of information about Jay Chou’s merchandise, wanting to test Lin Zhiling’s learning ability. After all, apart from those versed in history, who could truly gauge Jay Chou’s value?

Lin Zhiling took the documents, left her bank card number, and rose to depart.

Gu Cheng watched her graceful figure, then, out of a mischievous curiosity, asked tentatively, “By the way, Miss Lin, while studying in Toronto, did you know a Professor Geoffrey Hinton? He’s supposed to be in computer science.”

Lin Zhiling turned elegantly, her brows slightly furrowed. “I’m sorry—I was at the Mississauga campus, and the leading researchers are mostly at St. George. I did attend a large lecture by a Professor Geoffrey Hinton, but he taught psychology. I remember the class topic was ‘Exploring the Fundamental Mechanisms of Thinking.’”

“Oh, then I must have received incorrect information.”

It was a bit awkward. After all, textbooks rarely mention Geoffrey Hinton’s early years before he became famous. Gu Cheng was no research fanatic; it was normal not to know.

The internet’s ubiquity depends precisely on lowering barriers, allowing people from all walks of life to come in and solve industry-specific problems.

...

Two days later, at Alpha Records.

In the CEO’s office, Yang Junrong, close confidant of Hu Zongxian and the company’s actual decision-maker, gazed at a proposal letter with a bemused expression.

Hu Zongxian was a senior figure in Taiwan’s entertainment arena, often organizing various shows and participating in performances himself. He had no time to manage business operations directly.

Yang Junrong, a professional agent without a performance background, was naturally entrusted as Hu’s confidant.

“This is a classic Japanese-Korean style second-level agency contract—no signing fee, just a regional market agency based on sales commitments. Is this some powerless small company gambling for a shot? They promise, after signing Jay Chou, to achieve 500,000 album sales in mainland China for the debut year? And from the second year onward, cumulative annual sales of 500,000? In that piracy-ridden market, can a newcomer sell so much?”

Few in Taiwan’s music circle understood the market as well as Yang Junrong. The peak of album sales was before the 1998 Southeast Asian crisis. Back then, internet music hadn’t emerged, piracy was inconvenient, and Taiwan’s economy was at its height, with people flush with cash—until Soros dealt a blow, and recovery was slow.

The hottest star then was Richie Jen; his album “Sad Pacific” sold over a million copies, roughly one for every four Taiwanese households. After economic downturn and the rise of the internet, Richie Jen’s numbers were seen as unmatched, past or future.

Currently, the best-selling albums by the top stars barely reach 500,000 annually—the limit for this island of twenty million.

Yet, despite its small population, historical data shows Taiwan’s market for cultural products is four times that of mainland China—because Taiwan’s legitimate purchase rate is two hundred times higher.

So many internet novelists on the mainland nearly starved due to piracy, some even resorted to publishing only in traditional Chinese to revive their fortunes. The same applies to music: Taiwan nurtures four times as many cultural workers as the mainland.

(Note: This is the worst-case scenario before the rise of mobile internet, around 2008 or 2009. Afterwards, precise targeting of smartphone consumers curbed piracy; now, mainland China’s legitimate purchase rate is estimated at over one-thirtieth of Taiwan’s.)

Now, Yang Junrong saw a mainland company daring to guarantee a debut artist 500,000 album sales in a year—a wager contract?

Was this not a reckless gamble, trying to profit with empty hands?

Despite his admiration for Jay Chou’s talent as a composer, the company felt Jay’s image and voice weren’t suitable for singing.

Hu Zongxian was worn down by Jay Chou’s persistence a few months ago, and gave him an impossible task to discourage him: “You have ten days to compose fifty songs, complete with arrangements. No filler. If you succeed, we’ll select ten and release your debut album. If not, settle for being a composer for life.”

Everyone thought Jay would fail, but he unleashed his potential, working ten days straight without sleep, and produced fifty songs, all of reasonable quality.

Hu Zongxian’s reputation demanded he keep his word, so Alpha Records had no choice but to let Jay Chou, despite lacking looks or vocal suitability, give it a try.

“How could that mainlander be so optimistic about Jay? Five hundred thousand is absolutely impossible in that market. If we sign a yearly settlement contract and fail to meet sales targets, at most we’ll forfeit rebates and terminate the contract next year. But that would delay Jay’s promotion for a year. No, unless they provide a substantial deposit or commit to monthly purchase volumes, with immediate termination for underperformance. Otherwise, the risk to Jay is too great.”

With that in mind, Yang Junrong had already settled on his negotiation strategy.