Chapter 111: Ren Qian’s Video of "Hills"
The song "Hill," written by Jonathan Lee, took him ten long years to complete. Those ten years were a turbulent chapter in his life, marked by twists of fate and deep reflection.
In 2003, at the age of forty-six, Jonathan Lee found his marriage to diva Sandy Lam coming to an end. The pain of yet another divorce led him to quietly hum a melody, but the lyrics remained elusive. He decided not to force the words, unsure how to capture the restless years he had endured or how they would be understood. He resolved to wait—perhaps one day, when he saw more clearly and had grown more seasoned, he would put pen to paper.
Time passed swiftly, and a decade slipped by like the ticking of a clock on the wall.
In 2013, after a decade of honing his craft, Jonathan Lee finally completed "Hill," a song born of a desire to have a dialogue between music and soul.
The accumulation of those long years unfolded through the notes:
"There’s still much I want to say but haven’t yet…
I’ve kept it all, hoping to turn it into a song—
A song people can hum softly, remember lightly—
Even if one day it’s forgotten, it will have been worth it.
Perhaps my lifetime’s scattered thoughts—
By some chance—have formed a river—
And we each stand at opposite ends—
Gazing at the winding river, finally daring—
To face life’s hardships with a carefree smile."
When Ren Qian half-sang, half-recited these lines, everyone was momentarily still, as if a gentle spirit called “emotion” had slipped into their hearts, stirring them ceaselessly.
Let the past drift away with the wind—perhaps just a beautiful wish.
Yet those scattered thoughts of a lifetime rarely have the fortune to merge into rivers.
Whether success or failure, one must try, and learn to face life's challenges with a playful grin.
Ren Qian’s voice today was rich and weathered, more moving than usual, because he resonated deeply with the song.
If Jonathan Lee was a decade’s work in a single song, Ren Qian embodied a phoenix rising from ashes every twenty years. Their feelings, perhaps, were kindred.
The difference was that after crossing the hill, Ren Qian found fields blooming with flowers everywhere—but that did not diminish his world-weariness.
From the vantage point of experience, he quietly hummed with a wisdom that pierced through naive illusions:
“Perhaps we never truly mature
Nor realize we’re growing old—
Though inside, the young man still lives.
Restlessly looking back with unease!
Seeking without knowing!
Ashamed to ask for help!
Tirelessly climbing every hill—”
These few lines blurred youth and maturity, allowing both the old and the young to see their own reflections.
Unwittingly, one curses life’s brevity and sighs at meeting too late.
The ignorant seeking, the shame of asking for help, the tireless climbing of every hill—these are the rugged years everyone has once known.
“How many springs and autumns have changed,
How many hardships have failed to alter love!”
Two lyrics with a similar echo. Looking back on successes and failures, they become but chapters of memories, yellowed in drunken nights.
“Crossing hills, though hair has turned white—
Endlessly lamenting time’s cruelty—
Still not having met immortality!
Yet losing oneself first!
...
Fighting back beyond one’s strength, until death!
Why can’t I remember who last held me…
Or when it was?”
Many things are beyond human control. One might say that drifting through the world, the only thing truly in one’s hands is oneself. Some spend a lifetime crossing a single hill. Ren Qian once faced two great mountains—Taihang and Wangwu—blocking his path, nearly exhausting his life in the attempt.
Yet despite this, he never gave up, “fighting back beyond one’s strength, until death.”
As he sang, tears quietly fell from Ren Qian’s eyes.
The singers and staff nearby were moved as well, their noses twitching—in that moment, Ren Qian had voiced the hidden, sometimes undiscovered, parts of every heart, striking a profound chord.
“This song is another classic!”
“I think this year’s Golden Melody Awards are going to be chaotic—all the awards should go to Ren Qian…”
“You’re right—Best Newcomer, Best Composition, Best Lyrics, Song of the Year… anything else?”
“Most Popular Male Singer…”
Ren Qian stood up.
“Understand? This is how I feel. You don’t need to be bound by my version. You can sing from the perspective of a passionate youth, expressing the fervor of your own years—that too can move people deeply.”
Hu Yanbin nodded but fell silent.
Ren Qian said no more and immediately moved on to the next rehearsal. The pace was intense, leaving the singers under immense pressure.
Under Ren Qian’s strict supervision, every day felt like four: morning training, afternoon training, evening rehearsal and performance, and then a brief sleep before starting again.
The direct result of this grueling routine was that the singers became intimately familiar with their songs; two even managed to perform duets flawlessly.
For example, Murong Xue sang “Quietly Always” and Hu Yanbin sang “Hill.” Each sang their own song, unaffected by the other’s presence. Such mastery could only come from deep understanding.
This was just entertainment during breaks. If even leisure was so demanding, one could imagine how relentless their daily training was.
But it was Ren Qian’s pressure that transformed their temperaments utterly—like a man returning from military training, reborn and renewed!
The singers never slackened; instead, they worked harder, even sleeping with headphones to replay song demos.
The night before recording, after rehearsal ended at midnight, a cameraman handed Ren Qian a video secretly recorded of his performance of “Hill,” complete with subtitles added backstage.
“Thanks. I’d like to see how I did…”
Ren Qian was pleasantly surprised. Though the cameraman was unremarkable in appearance, his attentiveness pleased him greatly.
He planned to visit his nurse sister that final day, and bringing the video home to share would be perfect.
“Mature and manly, heartbreaking. Truly resonant.”
The cameraman gave a thumbs-up.
“Thanks to your excellent filming skills,” Ren Qian replied, patting his shoulder with a smile. He’d have to consider a raise for the cameraman.
P.S.: This book shouldn’t have been started before the New Year, when so many great works abound, so I didn’t recommend it. Its performance was poor, and I never pushed it.
But now, as it nears publication, despite stumbling to the VIP threshold with only meager endorsements from editors, and few bookmarks...
It doesn’t matter.
Fortunately, some have supported it all along. Here, I say thank you.
Truly, thank you.
I’ll speed up updates soon. If readers have free time, please give the book two or three recommendation votes as encouragement. It might help me recover from chronic fatigue. Laziness is truly debilitating.