Chapter Twenty-Two: Brother Mu

From the day Li Mu was reborn, he had a clear understanding: anything that hadn’t appeared yet in this era, he could claim as his own. Though it might seem unfair to future generations, the world always respects those who come first—such is the privilege of rebirth. Compared to those in the future who plagiarize and still call their work original, he was far more honorable.

Thus, Li Mu decided to openly acknowledge the so-called originality of this song, and then suddenly recalled another folk song he adored. Strictly speaking, it would be years before it came out, but Li Mu loved it so much that, given the opportunity to record, he wanted to capture this one as well.

So, Li Mu turned to Zhang Kexuan and said, “I have another original song. Since we’re here, could you help me record it too?”

At the mention of another original piece, the four band members and Chen Wan perked up, their spirits instantly lifted.

Zhang Kexuan asked quickly, “What style is it?”

“Folk.”

“Alright, let’s begin!”

The song Li Mu sang began with the simplest arpeggiated chords, gently drawing the listener in. It felt much like Old Wolf’s “Your Desk Mate,” pairing a harmonica with the plainest, most unpretentious chords to create a classic folk melody, effortlessly moving and deeply evocative.

So, when the band heard the unremarkable opening of Li Mu’s song, they relaxed—the introduction seemed less impressive than the zebra tune he’d played earlier.

But after a bar of simple arpeggio, Li Mu hummed a soaring, melodic prelude, setting the stage for the true melody. It was reminiscent of the harmonica that opened “Your Desk Mate”—the ethereal, elegant feeling emerged instantly.

The four band members tensed again, while Chen Wan wore only one expression—captivated, utterly entranced.

As the prelude faded, Li Mu sang softly, “When you are old, your hair turns white, sleep weighs heavy…” The five were stunned, frozen in place, their bodies stiff with shock.

This song, “When You Are Old,” had been almost universally known in his previous life. It touched people in different ways—some imagined growing old with their beloved, others thought of their aging parents.

Li Mu belonged to the latter. This song always brought his parents to mind; in his past life, they worked hard for him and grew old at a pace he never expected. Whenever he heard this song, his eyes would brim with tears—a man in his thirties, sometimes hiding away to shed a few guilty tears.

Because it struck so deeply, the song had swept the country, covered by countless famous singers, becoming a nationwide sensation.

He yearned to sing it, and as he did, he found himself, as in his previous life, with tears wetting his eyes.

Li Mu sang for five minutes; by the first minute, Chen Wan’s face was already streaked with tears.

After about two minutes, the four band members, too, seemed to have reddened eyes. If they’d simply listened to the song, perhaps they wouldn’t have been so moved. But when someone sang it before them, full of pure emotion, it was impossible not to be affected.

Chen Wan had just finished crying, looking so pitiable that anyone would feel compassion. She choked back tears and asked Li Mu, “I feel like I’ve seen these lyrics somewhere, but I just can’t recall where.”

Li Mu smiled gently and explained, “The lyrics are adapted from a poem by William Butler Yeats. The poem’s title is ‘When You Are Old.’”

Zhang Kexuan asked, “Did you write the melody yourself?”

“Yes.” Li Mu nodded, answering matter-of-factly.

Though Zhang Kexuan’s musical talent was average, his judgment was keen. He said earnestly, “If you ever get a chance to release a single, these two songs would have real market potential.”

Li Mu asked with a smile, “Do you think records still have a market?”

“Huh?” Zhang Kexuan looked puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

Li Mu shook his head and kept silent.

The record industry in China had always lacked copyright protection. From its birth to its decline, it was plagued by piracy. In the future, with the widespread adoption of the Internet, MP3s, and both MP3 software and hardware, traditional records—both official and pirated—would quickly fade, replaced by the rise of pirated digital music.

Already, many listening sites were emerging, attracting a fair number of users, like real2000. User demand hadn’t truly risen yet, and the user base was scattered.

The renowned search engine Baidu would launch MP3 search and download next year, allowing downloads of unauthorized songs exclusively for domestic IPs. It would quickly aggregate the majority of listening and downloading users, becoming a pioneer in infringement.

For years to come, Baidu’s stance on MP3 infringement would remain steadfast. Even under lawsuits from major record companies, it would strive to maintain its MP3 search and download service. The reason was simple: once MP3 players exploded in popularity domestically, and once phones began to support MP3 playback, market demand would skyrocket unimaginably. Both downloads and online listening would rapidly grow.

By then, every major Internet company in China would launch its own music listening and downloading services, and none would avoid issues of infringement.

If someone launched an MP3 listening and download site now, preparing ahead of the market boom and gathering users, it could become a massive project.

Li Mu’s mind sparked—if he started a listening site now, intercepting Baidu MP3’s future users half a year early, it would have a huge impact. For a search engine, no one needed these users more, nor the retention and stickiness they’d bring.

Digital rights wouldn’t be seriously addressed until after 2005; laws were incomplete, and the cost and risk of infringement were low, while the market was huge. Debates over copyright and regulations would drag on for years, and true enforcement wouldn’t arrive for another decade.

There were already sites online, but if he launched a listening site now, even just for a year or so, if daily traffic reached a million or more, he could squeeze money out of Baidu.

At worst, he could nurture it until 2003 or 2004, when copyright issues began to gain the slightest attention, then act or pivot in time. That’s settled!

Li Mu made up his mind, glanced at Zhang Kexuan, his thoughts racing.

These four were all children of wealthy families; if he could rope them in to help run and promote the listening site, it would be ideal.

But rich kids are proud and spoiled—how could he win their hearts?

After pondering for a moment, Li Mu suddenly said to Zhang Kexuan, “By the way, I have another upbeat song. The lyrics and melody are finished, but it doesn’t suit my style. It’s very rhythmic, easy to remember. Are you interested? If you are, I’ll license it to you for the competition.”

Zhang Kexuan stared at Li Mu, his gaze intense. “Li Mu—no, Brother Mu—are you serious?”

The drummer dropped his act. “Brother Mu, you’re right. All those cymbals are just showing off. You’re the professional—don’t mind me…”

With a single sentence, Li Mu won their hearts.

Why do rich kids play rock music? Li Mu wasn’t entirely sure, but he was certain it wasn’t for money. If they were hoping to make a living from this, their heads must have been kicked by a mule.

If not for money, then what? Ideals? Unlikely. Reputation? Maybe part of it.

But probably, the most important thing was to create a unique vibe, make people take notice—especially girls.

Their skill level, on a national scale, couldn’t compete even with some high school bands. Definitely not as good—the Flower Band released their first album in 1999. These four, if they wanted to put out an album at that level, would need a few more years.

So, when Li Mu offered them a song for the band competition, they saw him as a god.

It was like a bunch of primitive fire-makers suddenly saw a master pull out two different exquisite Zippo lighters and light two cigarettes. They wouldn’t dare hope for a lighter themselves, but even a box of matches would move them to tears.

“Brother Mu, just say it—what are your terms!”

Li Mu stroked his chin, thinking, since they’d come to him, he might as well not hold back.

“There’s really not much—twenty thousand yuan for the transfer, and after that, help me run a music website. If it goes well, I’ll give you another song. If it goes exceptionally well, I’ll give you three, enough for an EP.”