47: Chapter 47 Coachella

The Pechoin commercial went live on April 1st with a single line of text: "A blue tin box, the memories of two generations. @Jay Chou @Chen Mo"

Jay Chou reposted it with the caption: "My mom has one, what about yours?"

Chen Mo reposted Jay Chou's post with the caption: "My mom has one too. She used it all up, but she still kept the box."

Both reposts were shared over two million times within twenty-four hours.

In the comments section, some said, "Two top stars of the Chinese music scene are endorsing a blue tin box," while others wrote, "I suddenly cried when Jay Chou said 'My mom has one.'"

Others added, "The moment Chen Mo filmed the tin box and said he was going to send it to his mom, it wasn't acting. His eyes don't lie."

Someone replied, "Who says his eyes don't lie? He looks at telephone poles like he's confessing his love."

The official Pechoin Weibo account replied underneath: "We are already rushing to restock. Thank you to both teachers!"

Chen Mo didn't have any extra time to rest, because—

In April, the Coachella Valley was hot as an oven during the day and cold as a refrigerator at night.

Chen Mo stood in the waiting area on the side of the main stage, watching the sun sink behind the sand dunes in the direction of Palm Springs. The sky shifted from orange-red to deep purple, and then to ink blue.

The main stage in the distance lit up, with lights pouring down from the trusses, turning the entire stage into a sea of silver-white light.

The area below the stage was already packed, stretching from the edge of the stage to the horizon—a dark, dense mass that looked like a breathing ocean.

Jessica stood next to him, her iPad never leaving her hand.

"You're the third act on the main stage tonight. AC/DC is headlining, and Jack White is after you. Tame Impala is before you."

Chen Mo nodded.

Tame Impala, an Australian psychedelic rock band, Kevin Parker's band.

Their last album, "Lonerism," received a nomination for Best Alternative Music Album at the Grammy Awards.

AC/DC, the Australian rock legends, with Angus Young having bounced around on stage in his school uniform for forty years.

Jack White, the lead singer of The White Stripes; the moment his guitar riff sounds, the whole crowd goes wild.

He was scheduled right in the middle of these people.

Scott had flown in from Los Angeles. He was wearing a dark gray official Coachella jacket, standing in the corner of the waiting area, speaking in a low voice with Coachella founder Paul Tollett.

Paul Tollett was a white man in his fifties with silver hair and round glasses, who had a habit of using his hands to gesture when he spoke.

Chen Mo saw Paul pat Scott on the shoulder and say something, to which Scott nodded.

Tame Impala's performance ended. Kevin walked off the stage and paused when he passed by Chen Mo.

He was wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead.

"The stage is yours."

He extended his hand, and Chen Mo shook it.

"Alright."

Kevin smiled, patted his shoulder, and walked toward the backstage area.

The main stage lights dimmed. The audience below began to stir; some whistled, others held up their phones.

The sea of silver-white light turned into a sea of stars made of mobile phone screens.

Then the lights came on, row by row, moving from the back of the stage toward the front.

Each time a row of lights illuminated, the cheers from below grew louder.

When the final row of lights clicked on, illuminating the black Steinway in the center of the stage, the cheering reached its peak.

Chen Mo walked out from the side stage, wearing a custom Dior performance outfit.

Below were tens of thousands of eyes.

He didn't speak. He walked to the piano, sat down, and let his fingers fall onto the keys.

The intro to "Stressed Out" surged from the soundboard of the Steinway.

Someone in the audience recognized the intro and started screaming.

He played the entire intro, replicating the hazy tone layered by synthesizers in the original track using the piano's sustain pedal and an extremely light touch on the keys.

Only then did he begin to sing.

"I wish I found some better sounds no one's ever heard—"

Tens of thousands of people in the crowd sang along, starting from the very first line.

The sound stretched from the edge of the stage deep into the desert, turning into an ocean composed of human voices.

When he sang, "Wish we could turn back time to the good old days," he dragged out the final note of the chorus by half a beat, and then the piano caught it.

When the first song ended, the cheering below was like a pot of boiling water.

He didn't stop; his fingers slid directly from the final chord of "Stressed Out" into the intro of "Believer."

The drums kicked in—

Of course, it wasn't pre-recorded; it was a live band, which was the only way to get that music festival atmosphere.

Evan sat behind the drum kit at the back of the stage. The force of the kick drum and the snare was controlled perfectly, a rhythm pattern simulating a heartbeat, going from slow to fast, from fast to explosive.

Chen Mo stood up from the piano, walked to the front of the stage, and gripped the microphone stand.

When he sang the final chorus, he pulled the microphone from the stand. His voice carried a sense of tearing—a relaxation that came only after being pushed to the limit.

The third song was "Stay."

He only played the first four bars of the intro before the crowd quieted down, everyone holding their breath.

The venue, filled with tens of thousands of people, was so quiet that one could hear the sound of the desert wind passing through the stage trusses.

When he sang the final chorus, he took the microphone off the stand and walked to the very edge of the stage.

All the phone lights below lit up, creating a sea of silver-white stars.

He stood in front of that sea of stars and sang the final line.

"I want you to stay"

The screaming was louder than the previous two songs; a muscular man even tried to jump onto the stage but was stopped by security.

The fourth song was "Flowers."

When he sang the chorus, "I can buy myself flowers," he pointed the microphone toward the audience.

Tens of thousands of people sang the second half of the line for him.

He stood on stage listening, his left hand hanging at his side, his right hand gripping the microphone, not singing.

Then came "Timber." The atmosphere of the entire venue exploded, even more intense than that night on American Idol.

Chen Mo spoke his first interlude of the night.

"The next one is a new song. It hasn't been officially released yet, and you are the first group of people to hear it."

The screaming from below was enough to tear a hole in the desert night sky.

Chen Mo walked back to the piano, sat down, and played the first chord.

C Major, the simplest major key—so simple that anyone who had studied piano for three months could play it.

But the piano part in the intro of "Closer" didn't win through complex chords—it relied on rhythm.

The melody line in the right hand jumped back and forth between the on-beats and off-beats, while the bass line in the left hand stepped steadily on the downbeat of every measure.

He wanted to express a sense of tension, like two people very close to each other, but always separated by a layer of glass.

He played the intro, then began to sing the first verse. He only sang the first verse and one chorus, then stopped before the bridge, lifting his fingers from the keys.

"You can hear the rest on May 20th."

A unified wail came from the audience.

He stood up and bowed to the audience. When he straightened up, he said the last sentence of the night: "Thank you, Coachella. Goodnight."

The moment the lights dimmed, the applause stretched from the front of the stage and continued for nearly three minutes.

Chen Mo walked back to the side stage. Jessica was standing there, the iPad screen lit up, but she wasn't looking at it.

Scott was standing next to Jessica, his hands in his jacket pockets.

He watched Chen Mo walk down. He didn't say "good performance" or "that was amazing." He simply reached out and patted Chen Mo's shoulder with a gentle touch.

Scott raised an eyebrow and turned to walk toward the backstage area.

Jessica followed behind. After walking a few steps, she looked back at Chen Mo and said something.

"For that half of the new song, you're going to get scolded."

The backstage artist lounge area was a row of white tents pitched on the sandy ground behind the main stage.

The tents were covered with Persian rugs and furnished with low sofas and coffee tables, the lighting set to a warm yellow.

The air was filled with the scent of scented candles and the smoky smell drifting from a barbecue stand in the distance.

When Chen Mo walked in, The Weeknd was sitting on a sofa in the corner. He was wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, huddled into the sofa, holding a glass of whiskey without ice.

The Weeknd's hairstyle today looked like a meticulously trimmed piece of art.

He saw Chen Mo and raised his glass.

"Half a new song—you've got more guts than I do."

Chen Mo sat down opposite him, grabbed a glass of juice, and said, "The bridge for that song hasn't been mixed yet."

The corner of The Weeknd's mouth twitched, and he said, "I can't really accept that excuse."