177: Chapter 182 won several awards

As the awards ceremony entered its latter half, the pace quickened.

Chen Mo's seat was in the front row, toward the left; Taylor was to his left, and Ed Sheeran was to his right.

His white suit shimmered with a warm, pearlescent glow under the colorful stage lights. A program booklet rested on his knees, but he hadn't opened it.

His hand rested on the armrest, his fingertips unconsciously tapping out a rhythm—the drum beat from the chorus of "Closer": off-beat, on-beat, off-beat, on-beat.

Taylor turned her head to look at him, the corners of her mouth curling up slightly, but she didn't say anything.

She knew he didn't need comfort, didn't need encouragement, and didn't need anyone to tell him, "You will win."

He just needed to wait.

The presenter for Best New Artist was last year's winner, Sam. As he walked onto the stage, the spotlight turned his dark green velvet suit into a flowing river of dark gold.

He stood before the microphone, placed the golden gramophone trophy on the podium, tapped the base lightly with his finger, and then looked up at the audience.

"Last year, I stood here and said this was the best night of my life. A year later, I've discovered that the best nights can be repeated—provided that you give this award to someone who deserves it."

He opened the envelope slowly, as if unwrapping a gift. His gaze swept across the audience, paused for a moment in Chen Mo's direction, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

"Best New Artist—Chen Mo."

Applause rolled from the front row to the very back.

Shawn, sitting in the back, was the first to stand up. He clapped vigorously with his hands raised above his head and let out a long, loud whistle, making the audience in the adjacent row laugh.

Charlie's mouth hung open, and he forgot to close it. The glass of champagne in his hand nearly spilled onto the knees of the person sitting next to him.

The Weeknd sat in the second row, wearing sunglasses. He clapped expressionlessly, but his palms met firmly, each beat landing steadily on rhythm.

Ed Sheeran turned around, raised his fist, and shook it at Chen Mo, muttering, "Yes! I won the bet!"

Taylor stood up to hug him, wrapping her arms tightly around his back. She whispered in his ear, "The first one. Two more to go."

He stood up and walked onto the stage. The spotlight chased the back of his white suit, and the three letters embroidered in gray silk thread inside his collar shimmered faintly in the light.

Sam handed him the trophy and gave him a firm hug.

"You deserve it. Everyone tonight was waiting for you to win this award, except for yourself. What kind of beat were you tapping while waiting for the results in the audience? I saw your hands from the side; it didn't look like '7 Years'."

Chen Mo took the trophy. The golden gramophone was heavier than he had imagined, and the nameplate on the base reflected a cold light under the stage lights.

" 'Closer.' The off-beat. Tapping the off-beat makes me less nervous while waiting, because the off-beat is supposed to be in the gaps anyway."

Sam smiled, released him, and stepped back to yield the microphone to him.

Chen Mo stood before the microphone, switched the trophy to his left hand, and the audience quieted down.

He looked at the faces in the front row—Taylor, Ed Sheeran, Shawn, Charlie, The Weeknd—each of them someone who had walked this path with him.

"Thank you, Grammy Awards! Thank you to the judges! Thank you to everyone who has listened to my songs!" His voice was steady, though his Adam's apple bobbed slightly.

"I came to Los Angeles when I was fifteen, and that's when I started dreaming of being a singer. I came back in 2013, all alone, washing dishes in a restaurant, not knowing where tomorrow would take me!" Chen Mo choked up, a rare occurrence, but he still smiled.

"I didn't know Scott would find me and believe I would succeed. I just wrote songs late into the night. Those songs saved me. It was those melodies that made me feel—no matter what tomorrow brings, at least today, I am alive."

Chen Mo paused. In the front row, a female singer placed her hand over her chest, her mouth slightly agape.

He held up the trophy toward the camera, his voice suddenly becoming light and cheerful.

"Mom and Dad, this is the first one. During the Chinese New Year in Changsha, Dad said, 'You sang all right at the Spring Festival Gala.' That is currently the only evaluation that makes me more nervous than the Grammy Awards."

Laughter and applause mixed together in the audience.

Ed Sheeran cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "He said first! He's gonna win more!"

Chen Mo bowed slightly and walked off the stage.

Record of the Year is awarded to the single's producer, mixing engineer, and recording engineer, testing the sound quality of a song.

The presenter was legendary producer and The Roots drummer, Questlove.

He didn't carry an envelope when he walked onto the stage. Instead, he took drumsticks out of his pocket, placed them on the podium, and said into the microphone, "This award goes to the song that healed us the most over the past year. It's not the most popular, it's not the loudest, but it is the cleanest."

He opened the envelope, scanned the audience, and smiled.

"I knew it. Record of the Year—'Closer,' Chen Mo, producer Chen Mo, mixing engineer..."

Chen Mo was stunned when he heard his name. He knew he had been nominated, but he hadn't expected to win.

'Closer' was his first electronic pop single. In terms of production, he pursued cleanliness; no track fought for dominance, and they layered together just right.

David once said that the production of this song was like contact lenses: you can't feel them, but they let you see everything clearly.

He stood up, but this time, instead of hugging Taylor, he turned to look toward the side stage.

David was standing there, his hair gray, holding a thermos, head bowed as he unscrewed the lid, preparing to drink some water.

Chen Mo waved at him and pointed to the stage.

David was taken aback and pointed to himself. Chen Mo nodded vigorously.

David shook his head and waved for him to go up alone. The audience had already noticed this little standoff, and some began to laugh.

Chen Mo pointed again, his gesture resolute. David still shook his head, but this time he smiled, his beard trembling.

The laughter throughout the venue grew louder, and people started clapping and cheering him on.

Chen Mo walked to the edge of the stage, bowed toward the side stage, and made a "please" gesture.

The entire Staples Center was laughing, and the applause grew denser.

David had no choice but to put down his thermos and walk out from the side stage. As he walked, he pointed a finger at Chen Mo. Someone in the audience recognized him, and a mixing engineer in the front row stood up and clapped vigorously.

David walked onto the stage and stood beside Chen Mo. With his gray hair and old shirt, he formed the simplest yet most moving contrast to Chen Mo's white suit.

Chen Mo handed him the trophy. "You hold it."

David looked down at the golden gramophone. In his life, he had recorded for countless singers, but he had never stood on an awards podium.

"You wrote it, you sang it, you produced it. I just helped you press the record button. Every time, I thought it was good enough, but you wouldn't listen. Yet, I didn't rush you," he said, gently pushing the trophy back into Chen Mo's hands, his voice sincere. "Because good things cannot be rushed."

"You understand one thing better than I do as a producer: it takes more courage to leave blank space than to fill it. Those two bars of silence in 'Closer'—you left them, not me."

Chen Mo took the trophy, paused, and then spoke into the microphone.

" 'Closer' isn't a sentimental song. It's about two people meeting at night and parting at dawn, but it isn't sad—because when dawn came, they remembered each other, and music is that 'remembering'."

"...Tonight, this award proves one thing: those 3:00 AMs were not in vain."

A young mixing engineer in the front row held up his headphones and waved them.

Chen Mo held the trophy high and glanced at David.

"Thank you, David. Thank you to everyone who stays awake for music and insists on perfecting every detail. We are not crazy—we are just people who haven't found the finish line yet."

The whole audience stood up and applauded; the venue was practically being lifted off its foundation.

David took the microphone from his hand and added, "He can't find the finish line every day, but he knows exactly where every track should go."

David walked off the stage, picked up his thermos, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip. This was the only time he drank water in front of the camera that night.

After winning Best New Artist and Record of the Year, the Grammy Awards ceremony was more than halfway through, but netizens were still immersed in the scene where Chen Mo dragged David onto the stage.

On the Twitter trends, "Chen Mo Grammy" was firmly in first place, and "David finally got his moment" followed closely, rushing to third.

A tweet that had been retweeted millions of times read:

"This man stuffed the Record of the Year trophy into his producer's arms and said, 'You take it.' Then that old man with gray hair said, 'I just helped you press the record button.' And then he said, 'You pressing that button countless times is the reason I can stand here.' I was crying in front of my computer so hard my mom thought I'd been dumped."