Chapter 50: The Generous Tu Honggang (Requesting Follows)

When Wu Yuchen heard the name Tu Honggang, he couldn’t help but rejoice.

In the Chinese music scene, for this kind of ancient-style grandeur and masculine vigor as in “Jing Zhong Bao Guo” and “Ba Wang Bie Ji,” if Tu Honggang claimed second place, no one would dare call themselves first.

If we could get Tu Honggang to sing “Zhong Hua Wu Hun,” it would be perfect!

But Wu Yuchen hesitated and asked, “Is it easy to invite Teacher Tu?”

“Hey, don’t worry about that—Old Tu is all about brotherhood and loyalty. If he sees this song, he’ll be thrilled and probably beg to sing it himself!”

Sun Chuan got up to make a phone call, then smiled and invited Wu Yuchen to come along.

…

Tu Honggang trained in Peking opera, specializing in copper-hammer painted face roles for seven years.

Later, as pop music from Hong Kong and Taiwan spread to the mainland, he became obsessed, won a campus singing contest, and began covering countless Hong Kong and Taiwanese songs while touring. In 1990, he appeared on the Spring Festival Gala and recorded songs for the Asian Games, becoming widely known.

But in 1991, he went to America to do business—and failed miserably. Three years later, he returned to the music scene, founded his own company, and is currently planning to produce the song “Ba Wang Bie Ji.”

In truth, Tu Honggang isn’t very famous yet, since his breakout hit “Ba Wang Bie Ji” hasn’t been released yet—Wu Yuchen’s impression was skewed.

Inside the recording studio, listening to Tu Honggang’s performance, his voice brimmed with heroic passion yet carried a trace of sorrow, rugged yet tender—he poured immense spirit and soul into “Zhong Hua Wu Hun!”

Truly worthy of Tu Honggang himself!

When he stepped out of the recording studio, Tu Honggang burst into loud laughter:

“That was exhilarating! Absolutely exhilarating!

Old Sun, thank you so much for bringing me this song! I was just struggling to find something that suited me!”

Although Tu Honggang had already recorded “Ba Wang Bie Ji,” he felt one song wasn’t enough, so he’d been actively seeking new material—and never expected a perfect song for his style to land right at his doorstep.

“No, no, this song isn’t mine—it’s Xiao Wu’s!” Sun Chuan quickly clarified.

Tu Honggang turned to Wu Yuchen and cheerfully held up two fingers:

“Brother, how about selling me this song? I won’t shortchange you—two thousand yuan, and your name on the lyrics and composition.”

Seeing Wu Yuchen silent, Tu Honggang assumed he thought it was too little and said:

“Brother, I’m not trying to cheat you—you’re not in the industry, so you don’t know. This is a fair price. Newcomers start at a few hundred yuan. You know Gao Feng, who sang ‘Da Zhong Guo’? He’s been writing for years, and if he hadn’t made himself famous, his total earnings for lyrics and composition wouldn’t have reached a few thousand. Ask Old Sun if you don’t believe me. Since this song suits me so well, I’ll add five hundred more.”

Wu Yuchen knew “Da Zhong Guo” well—it was wildly popular, performed twice on the Spring Festival Gala, and everyone on the street could hum along: “We all have a home, named China~” and “Two dragons coil within, the Yangtze and the Yellow River.”

He wasn’t unhappy with the price—Tu Honggang’s offer was genuinely generous, and he was offering credit. Think about how last year, the famous songwriter Ao Da Jin earned only 800 yuan total for “The Desk Mate”—Tu Honggang offering a newcomer 2,500 yuan was truly generous!

Wu Yuchen was merely struck by how cheap lyric and composition work was in China. Wang Peidai was among the top singers in the country, yet after writing hundreds of songs over twenty years, his total royalty income was under 600,000 yuan—less than what a third-rate singer earned from a single commercial performance. So anyone with even a hint of singing potential refused to stay behind, doing unpaid labor for others—the gap was simply too vast.

“Teacher Tu, I have no objection to the price—I should be thanking you for singing it. But this matter still needs approval from our production team.”

“Hahaha, of course!” Tu Honggang wasn’t worried—he’d dealt with plenty of institutional people before. As long as he delivered a great performance, they were always reasonable.

A few days later, inside the Gongwang Mansion, the entire production team gathered before a TV, watching a VHS tape—the theme song “Zhong Hua Wu Hun.” Not only had the recording been completed, but Wu Yuchen had also compiled a music video from iconic scenes of martial arts films. Now they were watching the finished MV.

Tu Honggang’s singing, paired with Wu Yuchen’s edited footage—heroic, passionate, and tragic—more than doubled the emotional impact; everyone in the room got goosebumps. This was true martial arts!

The older attendees, all elderly, were stirred by the “Zhong Hua Wu Hun” music video, feeling a surge of passion.

Standing beside them, Tu Honggang stared, eyes wide. He knew the quality of his own voice. But when his song merged with these edited scenes, the result far surpassed listening to the song alone—even he was stunned.

In China at the time, music videos were still uncommon, and production quality was crude—many were still black-and-white. Forget five-yuan special effects; even decent scenery was a luxury. How could they compare to this MV, assembled from the finest scenes of dozens of martial arts films?

The very first music video in mainland China wasn’t made by anyone else—it was Tu Honggang. In 1990, he spent 70,000 yuan to hire Zhang Li to shoot MVs for three songs, giving birth to China’s first music video: “Gan Jue Zi Ji.”

But after watching this “Zhong Hua Wu Hun” MV, Tu Honggang looked back at his own and his peers’ earlier work—and realized he’d been making shit.

“Little Tu sings beautifully, and Little Wu edits brilliantly! This old man’s bones are itching to swing along!” Everyone praised enthusiastically.

Tu Honggang bowed slightly: “Thank you all for your kind words. I have a humble request.”

Jia Leilei smiled warmly: “Go ahead.”

“I love this MV so much I’d like to use it. Would you be willing to let me?”

Jia Leilei fell silent, thinking.

Tu Honggang pressed: “I’ll pay!”

Jia Leilei waved his hand: “Strictly speaking, our documentary is a research project, currently non-profit—we can’t sell it.”

In 1995, the market economy was far less open than it would become later; many institutional units couldn’t legally tie anything to money—selling it would violate discipline.

Still, Jia Leilei reasoned that since Tu Honggang had sung the song without charging them, it was natural he’d want to use the MV. But they weren’t a TV drama crew—they were a research institute—and he wasn’t sure whether allowing Tu Honggang to use it was permissible.

His gaze landed on Wu Yuchen. An idea struck him: this kid wasn’t even part of their unit—barely a temporary worker.

Jia Leilei smiled:

“Little Tu, I understand your desire, but our institute has no clear policy. However, this MV was edited by Xiao Wu—you should discuss it with him.”

Wu Yuchen froze. What the hell—he’d just become the classic scapegoat temporary worker?

Tu Honggang’s face lit up. He grabbed Wu Yuchen’s arm and pulled him into a side room, then held up two fingers again:

“Brother, I’m not stingy—twenty thousand!”

Outside, even a basic MV cost tens of thousands. Tu Honggang had stumbled upon something this good—he couldn’t possibly offer too little.

Wu Yuchen opened his mouth but said nothing.

Seeing this, Tu Honggang put an arm around his shoulder and lowered his voice:

“I get it—this money isn’t for buying the MV. It’s all counted as your lyric and composition fee. Don’t worry.”