Chapter 107: The Sharp-Tongued Music Critic’s Radio Station

Cheng Xiaoyu was staying at the Hilton on Wangfujing Street, a hotel situated in Beijing’s famously bustling commercial district. It neighbored numerous tourist attractions and shopping centers, occupying a prime location at the heart of the city’s commercial and cultural hub. It was within walking distance of the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square, among other renowned landmarks of China.

Standing by the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling bay window, lost in thought, Cheng Xiaoyu suddenly received a call from an unknown number. He answered, “Hello?”

A unfamiliar female voice, tinged with a slight girlish tone, came through: “Hello, is this Cheng Xiaoyu?”

Puzzled, Cheng replied, “Yes, who is this?”

There was a brief hesitation on the other end, followed by a slightly nervous tone: “I’m Sun Jingyao. Thank you for your help at the airport today.”

Recalling the cold expression on Sun Jingyao’s face as she turned away, Cheng felt a touch of discomfort himself and his tone grew colder. “Oh? Is there something you need?”

Sun Jingyao seemed to sense the distance in his voice and, somewhat awkwardly, continued, “To show my gratitude, could I invite you to dinner?”

Though Cheng admitted Sun Jingyao’s appearance was impeccable, back before his time travel he might have shamelessly tried to forge some connection to see if anything could happen. But now, surrounded by many beautiful women, he had grown immune to mere appearances. He promptly declined her half-hearted invitation. “No, thank you. I was just doing what any citizen should do. If it hadn’t been you being filmed, I would have stepped in just the same. So there’s no need to thank me.”

Silence followed on the other end. Cheng couldn’t help but say, “If there’s nothing else, I’ll hang up now.”

“Wait—if I decide to sue the person who filmed me secretly, could you testify in court for me?” Sun Jingyao quickly asked.

Cheng considered it for a moment. “If the trial’s in Beijing, I might not have time. I’ll see how it goes, but I’ll try.”

Sun Jingyao accepted she couldn’t ask for more. “Thank you, I’ll be in touch.”

Cheng said nothing further and ended the call. To those who looked down on others, no matter how beautiful they were, he preferred to keep his distance.

Unbeknownst to Cheng Xiaoyu during their call, the music website was already buzzing like a beehive.

Hao Yifeng was a well-known scathing music critic on the site. Every Saturday at eight in the evening, he hosted a two-hour radio show called “Spicy Music Hour” on the music network’s radio station.

The content of his program varied with his mood, but most listeners tuned in just to hear his brutal critiques. He had once mercilessly lambasted the pop diva Ding Xiaoxiao, calling her songs nothing but disposable, forgettable drivel.

On his show, Hao Yifeng often said that anyone with even a rudimentary knowledge of music would recognize that most of Ding Xiaoxiao’s hits were brainwashing anthems. The choruses typically featured repetitive melodies like “312632126” or “312253711” coupled with overly simplistic, rhyming lyrics. The narrow vocal range and lack of variation made them easy to sing along—but only because they were so annoyingly catchy.

Why was Ding Xiaoxiao’s music a disgrace? Because the relentless beat caused what’s called an “earworm effect”—a snippet of music that involuntarily loops inside your head, no matter how much you despised the childish lyrics. Your body would inevitably start to sway along.

The first time Hao Yifeng heard Ding Xiaoxiao’s songs, he thought, “This has got to be kids’ songs from a nursery rhyme book...” The second time, “What in the world is this garbage?!” The third time, “How could something so ridiculous become popular?” By the fourth time, he caught himself swaying involuntarily and thought, “Damn, I’ve really lost it! Years of reputation ruined in an instant!”

Such trashy music would leave him drained for half a year just after one performance. Though Hao begrudgingly admired Ding Xiaoxiao’s endurance, he lamented that this kind of music’s popularity in China was a national tragedy. And yet, unfortunately, she was wildly successful.

Every time Hao wandered through the public squares across China, he’d hear that familiar music ringing in his ears, accompanied by the flamboyant dance moves of middle-aged women.

In Tiananmen Square, Red Square, Times Square—wherever there were middle-aged women, there was Ding Xiaoxiao and her square dance music. Magnificent! My great China! Magnificent! My Ding Xiaoxiao!

This critique earned Hao Yifeng a torrent of abuse from Ding Xiaoxiao’s fans, but also the admiration of many who detested her music.

From then on, “Spicy Music Hour” became famous for its sharp tongue, consistently topping the music radio charts. His blend of humor and scorn attracted a large audience every Saturday evening.

Tonight, Hao Yifeng wasn’t targeting big stars but was taking aim at the music website’s original artist charts.

That list was notoriously devoid of real merit—little more than a joke among professional singers who scorned it. Though a few notable singers had emerged from there, they were rare, and those who signed with major companies remained only semi-famous, with none truly at the top.

Hao Yifeng began his tirade with a song Cheng Xiaoyu had also heard, titled “Falling in Love with My Sin.”

Sitting in front of his computer, wearing headphones and holding a microphone, Hao watched the listener count climb to over six hundred thousand, fueling his enthusiasm as he lashed out at these original songs with spittle-flying fervor.

“Dear listeners, I’m sorry you tuned into my station tonight, but I have to apologize for wrecking your ears. This song, ‘Falling in Love with My Sin’—just hearing the title, I swear the author must have eaten a mouthful of excrement to create such foul music. Or maybe more than just a mouthful.”

His sharp words prompted a flurry of poop and vomit emojis to flood the chat window.

Hao continued, “I find no musicality, no artistry, no storytelling in this song—only meaningless drivel. I’m utterly speechless. When the chorus hits, calling it a climax is an insult to climax itself. If the author were to show up in front of me right now, I swear I wouldn’t hold back from tearing him apart.”

“Today’s online songs have sunk into mere ‘three vulgarities.’ Take ‘Falling in Love with My Sin’—the lyrics seem remorseful, but the singer’s tone is cheerful, as if afraid no one will notice the line ‘That night, you didn’t refuse me.’ To put it bluntly, it’s a song about hooking up. As a new entertainment form on music platforms, such nameless online singers rise to overnight fame, and their nonsensical lyrics spread throughout the streets and alleys. This shows that in China, entertainment trumps art, and ‘earworm’ pop songs eclipse real music. Fewer people are listening, more are just singing along. Contemporary pop has degenerated from popular to vulgar.”

“Look at the idiots who say it’s good down below—these people are lowering the collective IQ of all Chinese. Most Chinese listeners have abysmal musical literacy; they don’t even know what an earworm song is. You can’t blame them though—it’s the fault of China’s music education and the lack of creative musical talent and arrangers.” Hao Yifeng said this with a solemn tone, watching the chat flood with thumbs-up emojis.

He stopped the song and queued up the second-ranked original song, “Closing My Eyes,” sung by a female artist.

“Now please join me in enjoying ‘Closing My Eyes.’ Hopefully, I won’t have to tell her to shut up later.”

At first, Hao listened silently until the chorus, then turned the volume up. “This song is better than the last one—I could barely tolerate the other before. Much of that is because I’ve already checked out the singer’s profile. Hmm, the girl’s pretty cute, and her voice is sweet and soft. But those comments below saying it’s so good? They’re just trying to get laid! Honestly, no matter how many flowers and compliments you leave, it won’t change the fact that this girl will end up in bed with someone. You’d be better off learning some elementary school Chinese and seeing how our ancestors crafted words and sentences.”

“When you kiss me, I close my eyes, so it feels more romantic. When you leave, I close my eyes so the tears don’t embarrass me. I’m speechless—this even counts as lyrics? Who kisses with their eyes open? And then you leave right after? What happened to the hookup? The melody isn’t worth mentioning, but these lyrics are a tragedy! In my great nation, anyone dares to write songs! It’s a national shame, a disgrace to China. I advise young people aspiring to music to first improve their cultural literacy and musical skills before attempting to write lyrics and compose music. The girl’s cute, so I won’t tear her apart too badly. Alright, if you’re listening and you want to hook up, leave me a message.”

The chat exploded with replies like “No hook up! Uncle, no hook up!” accompanied by gifs of the girl slapping herself.

Hao chuckled. “You netizens just can’t stand to see anyone do well. There’s a saying: better to tear down three temples than to ruin one marriage. My perfect match was pushed off a cliff by you ruthless fans.”

The chat room blew up with messages: “Hubby, I’m yours,” “Hubby, dinner’s on the stove, I’m in bed,” “Hubby, don’t worry, you still have me.”

Hao Yifeng’s channel attracted many listeners not only because of his biting tongue but also because his interactions with fans were full of fun. He wasn’t afraid to mock himself as much as others, which endeared him to both male and female fans who affectionately called him “hubby.”

Unfazed by the lively scene, Hao said, “Let’s continue with the next song. Ah! This title alone intoxicates me. Let’s check out the third-ranked song, ‘Why Do You Hurt Someone Who Loves You?’”

(Thank you, Nene and Ye Mufeng, for your generous gifts! I’ve been writing from nine in the morning until ten at night, thirteen hours straight, finally completing four continuous updates. Thank you all for your encouraging comments. I’ll keep working hard!)