123: Chapter 128 American Music Awards

"It's precisely because I'm afraid that I need to bring it up; once it's brought up, I won't be afraid anymore." Chen Mo stood up from the armchair and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window to take a look at the Hudson River.

Under the afternoon sun, the river water was a grayish-blue, blending into the light mist of Newark on the opposite bank.

The sound of the orange ferry's whistle was blocked out by the glass, leaving only a quiet silhouette.

Chen Mo turned back and said, "I'm twenty years old this year. Standing here saying these things, some might say it's too early, but I just feel that one cannot only look forward. Occasionally looking down to see where one's feet are is more important than looking up to find a direction, because direction is determined by the feet."

Lorin put down her pen, moved her hand from the edge of her glasses back to her knees, and the voice recorder sat quietly on the coffee table between them, its red indicator light still blinking.

She tapped the edge of her notebook lightly: "So the words on that wooden sign at the entrance of the music shop weren't a joke."

Chen Mo said they weren't; he could practice "Für Elise" for a lifetime because someone had managed to keep a person with just this one piece of music.

On the third day, while waiting for his flight at JFK Airport, Chen Mo bought a cup of black coffee and sat in a seat next to the boarding gate, opening the notes app on his phone.

Outside the window, the runway lights on the tarmac formed two parallel chains of light in the evening sky, and the aircraft was being pushed back from the gate.

He put his earphones in and casually played a piano prelude in B-flat major, using only the virtual keyboard on his phone.

The melody wasn't complex, and the first two lines of lyrics popped into his head on their own—

Standing on Fifth Avenue not knowing which way to go, the diamonds in the display windows are brighter than the stars.

He recorded this melody in his notes and wrote a whole verse. After finishing, he read the lyrics from beginning to end, then typed the song title at the very top: "Fifth Avenue."

It was about a young man standing on Fifth Avenue not knowing where to go, surrounded by lights, diamonds, and the sound of champagne glasses clinking, but he was just waiting.

At the crossroads of fame and fortune, I don't want to bow my head, but they tell me to go left.

He left a note at the bottom of the lyric file to make the bridge a little darker, but not completely dark.

The underlying tone of "Fifth Avenue" should be warm; he seemed to have found the anchor point for this space-time.

The flight attendant's announcement played, and he began to board.

The lights of New York slowly shrank outside the porthole; he switched his phone to airplane mode and leaned his head against the seat back.

Cyril had sent a text message last night saying that the re-engraved Tank watch would be shipped to Los Angeles next week. He replied with a "Merci," and the other party responded with a handshake emoji.

He closed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tapping along to the low-frequency hum of the airplane engines on his knees.

The next stop was Los Angeles. The countdown to the Grammy Awards nominations was just over ten days away. The dream of the music shop was still far off, but the B-flat major melody was already looping in his head.

November 22nd, Los Angeles. Today was an important day.

The Walk of Fame in front of the Microsoft Theater had been congested since the afternoon.

The red carpet for the American Music Awards was laid out on Figueroa Street, and behind the metal barricades on both sides were throngs of fans who had flown in from all over the country.

Some people were holding up light boards that read "Chen Mo Artist of the Year," and someone had painted a Darth Vader helmet white—it was the same model as the black one from Halloween last time.

The evening breeze in Los Angeles blew in from the direction of Santa Monica, carrying the salty scent of seawater and the dry fragrance emitted by palm trees after being baked in the sun all day.

At the start of the red carpet, a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up. The door opened, and the first thing to step out was a foot in a black leather shoe, followed by white trousers, and then the whole person.

Chen Mo stood at the start of the red carpet and adjusted his bowtie.

Tonight, he was wearing a white Dior suit, with only the shirt and bowtie being black. A Cartier panther brooch was pinned to his left chest pocket, creating a sharp contrast with the white, and this was also his first time wearing white on the red carpet.

When Jessica saw him come out of the dressing room in the hotel suite, she didn't say anything, just walked around him once, and then spat out two words: "You've won."

Scott stood at the entrance of the red carpet, wearing a dark gray cashmere coat with a scarf draped over his arm, standing straight in the evening breeze of the Golden Gate Bridge.

He reached out and tugged Chen Mo's bowtie up a fraction, scrutinized it for a moment, and then loosened it back to its original position.

"You will win a lot tonight, but no matter how much you win, you must remember—you are Chen Mo."

I have always remembered.

The red carpet host was the same loud-voiced Black male host as before. Seeing Chen Mo walk over, he stepped back two paces and exaggeratedly spread his arms, waving them down from above his head.

"White! You're wearing white! Are you here to win an award tonight or to get married?"

Chen Mo took the microphone and joked to the camera: "To win an award; it's too early for marriage, because my family doesn't know I'm out here messing around."

The host laughed and took the microphone back, saying: "Scott should be nervous hearing this."

Chen Mo said: "He's already nervous; he's afraid the next thing I'll say is that the way he ties his tie is like my dad."

In the backstage lounge, Scott stood in front of the monitor watching the red carpet live stream, while Jessica stood nearby holding coffee, repeating it with an expressionless face—

"Boss, he's talking about you again."

Scott closed his eyes for a moment, and two words flashed inexplicably through his mind.

Unfilial son.

Inside the Microsoft Theater, the lighting for the American Music Awards bathed the venue in interwoven shades of deep blue and gold tonight.

In the center of the stage hung the iconic giant trophy sculpture of the AMA, and rotating lights swept across the audience, each pass igniting a wave of cheers.

Chen Mo was arranged in the second row by the aisle, with Ed on his left and The Weeknd on his right.

Ed had also brought the Orange Cat; the cat was wearing that little deep blue vest, and its red bowtie had been changed to gold to match the color of the AMA trophy.

It had attended more awards ceremonies this year than most newcomers would in a lifetime.

The Weeknd was wearing a dark red velvet suit today, his signature "potted plant" hairstyle trimmed meticulously.

He took the box of mints out of his suit's inner pocket, poured one for himself, and then placed the whole box in Chen Mo's hand.

He said this was a reverse tactic for the past two awards ceremonies where both of them had been runners-up.

Today, Chen Mo wouldn't be a runner-up; he was handing over the candy first.

Chen Mo took the mint that had just been poured out from his palm and put it in his mouth, then returned the rest of the box to The Weeknd.

When the presenter for Favorite Pop Album read the nominations, the album cover of "Epiphany" appeared on the big screen—

When the name was announced—

""Epiphany," Chen Mo!"

Chen Mo walked onto the stage, stood for a few seconds after receiving the trophy, and then held it up.

"This award is mine, but every song on the album was completed with your help. Without your streams, these songs would just be files."

He looked down at the trophy in his hand, then raised his head, his tone becoming flat: "Thank you for turning the files into songs."

When the presenter for Favorite Pop Male Artist opened the envelope, the audience was already rhythmically chanting his name—

For his second time on stage, Chen Mo stood in front of the microphone and didn't speak immediately.

He looked at the thousands of faces in the audience, looked at the hands holding up light boards, looked at the lips chanting his name, and then raised his right hand, splayed his fingers, and pressed down.

The whole venue went quiet in almost the same second.

"Quiet for a second, I want to hear you call my name."

The whole venue really went quiet, quiet enough to hear the slight metallic expansion sounds of the lighting trusses on the dome, quiet enough to hear the rustling sound of someone in the back row switching their light board to their other hand.

Chen Mo's mouth curled up slightly: "Just kidding. Never quiet, never stopping. Cheers!"

Laughter and screams rolled from the first row to the dome and back again. Some people were applauding while stomping their feet, and the floor of the Microsoft Theater was vibrating slightly from the stomping.

Artist of the Year, the highest honor of the American Music Awards. The list of nominees flashed across the big screen one by one—Taylor, Ed, The Weeknd, Adele, Chen Mo.

Everyone's face appeared on the screen, and every time a face appeared, a burst of cheers erupted from the audience.