48: Chapter 48 Half a New Song

The Weeknd set down his whiskey, pulled an unopened bottle of mineral water from under the coffee table, and tossed it to Chen Mo.

"Coachella rules: drink water first after performing, then alcohol."

Chen Mo caught it, twisted it open, and drank half the bottle.

The mineral water in the desert had been chilled by the air conditioning in the tent. As it slid down his throat, it slowly extinguished the heat he had built up on stage.

"I listened to your whole set from backstage," The Weeknd said, his voice still that trademark husky bass.

"The drum beat in 'Believer'—the way you played it with a live band—had an extra layer compared to the studio version. The heartbeat in the studio version is precise; the heartbeat in the live version is alive."

"The drummer practiced hard for a month."

"He wasn't just drumming." The Weeknd picked up his whiskey and watched him from behind the rim of the glass.

"He was listening to your breathing. When you sang the chorus, your breathing frequency changed, and the force of his kick drum changed with it. That kind of rapport is something you guys forged together in the recording studio."

Chen Mo didn't deny it, raising an eyebrow with a smile. "Your ears!"

The tent flap was lifted, and someone walked in. Drake.

He was wearing a white T-shirt with a gold chain around his neck. He looked taller and broader in the shoulders than in his photos.

His pace wasn't fast, but every step was firm, like he was moving on stage.

He saw Chen Mo, paused for a moment, then walked over and extended his hand.

"Drake."

"Chen Mo."

When they shook hands, Drake had several rings on his fingers, the cold metal pressing against Chen Mo's knuckles.

"That song of yours, 'Stay'."

Drake let go, sat down on the sofa next to The Weeknd, picked up a bottle of mineral water from the coffee table, twisted it open, but didn't drink right away.

"I listened to it in a studio in Toronto. Someone sent me your project files. Forty-seven tracks, each one named, and the names were very interesting."

"Which version did you listen to?"

"The one with the four-bar cello, the final version." Drake rested the water bottle on his knee and shrugged helplessly.

"After I heard it, I canceled the song I was supposed to record that night. In front of your forty-seven tracks, the arrangement of my song felt like a demo."

The tent was quiet for a moment.

The Weeknd held his whiskey, his gaze shifting back and forth between Drake and Chen Mo, saying nothing.

Drake leaned back on the sofa, the collar of his white T-shirt soaked with sweat.

He was one of the headlining guests on the Coachella main stage tonight, with AC/DC waiting behind him, and the desert night sky hung low.

But here he was, sitting with a Chinese man and a Canadian, talking about the forty-seven tracks of a song.

"That half-finished new song of yours," Drake said with conviction. "C Major."

"None of your previous songs were in C Major. 'Stressed Out' is B-flat, 'Believer' is B-flat, 'Stay' is B-flat, 'Flowers' is E minor."

"Your habit when writing songs is to head toward the shadows. This one is different; it's bright."

Chen Mo looked at him, gesturing for him to continue.

"C Major is the simplest major key, so simple that most people don't dare to use it because it's too simple—it can't hide anything."

Drake twisted open the water bottle and took a sip.

"You dared to use it, and you only sang half of it before stopping. It definitely wasn't because the bridge wasn't mixed well; it's because you knew that if you stopped at that point, everyone would remember it."

Chen Mo opened his mouth, paused, and said, "You're too professional."

The Weeknd hummed softly on the side and said, "Drake, you analyze his songwriting habits more seriously than you write your own songs."

"Because he's worth it." Drake didn't turn his head, his gaze still fixed on Chen Mo.

"I've been in this industry for almost ten years. I've seen geniuses, I've seen hard workers, I've seen lucky ones. He's all three."

Drake looked at Chen Mo with a candid, appreciative gaze. "But what I respect most about you isn't your talent; it's how you use your talent as a tool. Talent lets you write good melodies, and you use those good melodies like nails, hammering them into people's ears."

A cheer erupted from outside the tent; AC/DC had taken the stage.

Angus Young's guitar sound drifted over from the main stage, like an electric drill piercing through the desert night sky.

The three people in the tent fell silent at the same time, listening to the guitar sound surging from afar.

The Weeknd was the first to stand up.

"I'm going to the side stage to watch Angus Young. He's fifty-nine and still jumping around in a school uniform, and I'm only twenty-five; I have no reason to be sitting down."

He walked to the door, looked back at Chen Mo, tilted his chin, and said, "I'm pre-ordering your new album first."

Drake also stood up and said, "I'm headlining tomorrow. You can come watch from the side stage; Madonna might come."

"Madonna?"

"My agent said so, but I'm not sure." Drake adjusted the collar of his T-shirt, the gold chain swaying under the warm yellow light.

"But if she does come, I'll tell her on stage that tonight a Chinese man sang half a new song in C Major, and made tens of thousands of people remember it."

He extended his hand, and Chen Mo shook it.

This time, Drake's grip was a bit firmer than when he first entered. He said, "May 20th, looking forward to your new song."

Only Chen Mo remained in the tent, along with three bottles of mineral water on the coffee table.

Chen Mo sat for a long time, then stood up and walked out of the tent.

The stars in the desert were far more numerous than in the city, spreading from one end of the horizon to the other.

On the main stage, AC/DC's 'Back in Black' was tearing up the venue, Angus Young jumping around on stage in his school uniform like a beam of light that would never be extinguished.

Jessica walked over, handed him his phone, and said, "Scott wants you to post on Instagram."

Chen Mo took the phone and snapped a photo—

The lights from the main stage shone from afar, casting a long shadow on the desert ground, with his own silhouette at the end of the light.

The caption: "Coachella, half a new song. May 20th, come hear the other half."

Three minutes after posting, the likes exceeded 800,000.

The top comment in the section read: "You sang half a song, I remembered it all night."

The next morning, Chen Mo was woken up by his phone vibrating.

Scott sent a message, just one sentence: The official Coachella YouTube channel posted the live clip of your half-song 'Closer,' and it hit over 100 million views in six hours.

He calmly replied with one word: "Hmm."

Scott sent another one: Paul called me this morning. He said you're on the list of headlining guests for the main stage at Coachella next year.

Chen Mo picked up his phone and sent David a message: "Back to Los Angeles to record."

David replied instantly: "Knew you wouldn't be able to resist."

Outside the window, the sun was rising over the Coachella Valley, and the desert was illuminated into a golden expanse.