Chapter Eighteen: The Birth of an Orchestra

He found a drum video in the style of Xiaoyu Cheng—not strictly technical, but with an irresistibly rhythmic jazz groove. Since he couldn’t post it here, he left it in the comments section, suggesting that those interested in the technical side search for Ann (Mike Mangini) themselves.

Xiaoyu Cheng gestured for Haoran Chen to stop. He walked to the drum kit, set his backpack on the wooden floor, nonchalantly tossed his jacket onto a distant sofa, and said, “Due to equipment limitations, I can’t perform double bass drumming. If you’re interested, you can have an extra bass drum custom-made, and I’ll teach you how to practice it.”

Haoran replied, “Beat me first, then we’ll talk.”

Xiaoyu smiled and took the drumsticks, sitting at the kit. He knew he couldn’t match Haoran purely in speed, and most showy drum techniques needed speed as a foundation. So instead of choosing a dauntingly difficult approach, Xiaoyu focused on groove and musicality.

He began not with dazzling tricks, but by alternating double strokes on the tom rims with single-stroke rolls on the snare rim—a peculiar opening that exceeded Haoran’s expectations. This stemmed from their different pursuits; although this wasn’t a grand, intimidating entrance, it was pleasing to the ear and brought out a unique flavor. Xiaoyu then shifted the focus to the hi-hat, using double-stroke compound rhythms and repeatedly playing them on the cymbals, giving the drums a melodic effect. Combined with a fixed single and double kick pattern on the bass drum, the piece showcased a richly textured passage.

The entire performance flowed like water, standing in stark contrast to Haoran’s pure technicality. While Xiaoyu never used particularly advanced techniques, musically, he was clearly on a different level from Haoran. This wasn’t to say Xiaoyu was better overall, but his understanding of the drum kit in jazz was far superior.

At this point, Haoran’s face had gone a little pale—he had to admit defeat. Though he knew the other had played somewhat cleverly, a loss was a loss. It was as though Guan Yu faced off against a minor foot soldier, only to be shot before they even closed in—could you then say Guan Yu’s martial prowess was inferior? This was the power of being ahead of one’s time.

Xiaoyu stepped down, his hands aching—a pair of hands unfamiliar with drumsticks. He patted Haoran’s shoulder and said, “I really can teach you how to practice double bass. Once you’ve mastered it, you’ll open the door to becoming a drum master.”

Blood returned to Haoran’s cheeks. “There really is a double bass drum?”

Xiaoyu nodded. “Absolutely.”

Haoran hesitated. “Then how do you use the hi-hat?”

Xiaoyu replied, “You can close it entirely, or install a hi-hat clutch. There are even cooler methods.”

“Like what?” Haoran asked, now completely convinced by Xiaoyu.

“Add more cymbals. But that means you need faster, more precise movements—not just rotating your body, but also moving your arms, since modern drum kits have many drums and cymbals, requiring greater mobility for accurate strikes.” Xiaoyu picked up his backpack and handed Haoran a drum notation sheet he’d already prepared.

Haoran accepted it without expression, not even glancing at it. He was still immersed in the rhythm from earlier, forced to reevaluate his direction—Xiaoyu had pointed him down a brand-new path.

Xiaoyu didn’t care if Haoran was daydreaming. “I’ll head off now. Keep practicing—you’re skilled enough that it shouldn’t be too difficult.” As he reached the basement door, Xiaoyu turned and added, “This is a great place. Let’s practice here from now on. Think of it as your tuition payment.” He winked at Poker Face and closed the door behind him.

Xiaoyu entered through the nearby south gate of Fudan University and headed straight to the music department’s practice rooms near the north gate. For him, this was only the first solid step of a long journey. Next, he needed to perfect the arrangement, weave in guitar, bass, and some orchestral melodies on the synthesizer, and then rehearse with Shamo Xia and Haoran Chen.

Three people were enough to form a complete band structure. As long as their skills were strong, their stage presence wouldn’t be much weaker than a four- or five-piece group. In his past life, there had been many famous trios—like F.I.R. (though they only released one great album and kept living off its legacy, since it set such a high bar), Japan’s ASARN (a classic J-pop electronic group, whose style F.I.R. borrowed heavily from), and Italy’s OOPSS (primarily rock with a strong funk fusion, hailed as “the best live act” in Italy).

Xiaoyu practiced classical piano for a while longer in the rehearsal room, stopping only when Huasheng Wang came to pick him up. He knew he’d devoted too much energy lately to the New Year’s performance and needed to make up for lost piano practice.

When Xiaoyu got home, the butler, Qiao Sansi, told him the synthesizer he needed was now set up in his study. Xiaoyu’s urge to tinker with his long-desired toy was so strong he almost skipped dinner, but he suppressed his excitement and ate first.

When he finally entered his study, he was stunned by Qiao Sansi’s professionalism—the room had been transformed into a mini music workstation, complete with synthesizer, music software, sound modules, computer, cables, mixing console, digital recorder, and other peripherals, all arranged perfectly. A brand-new computer stood on the desk, already loaded with music editing programs.

(With music editing, the computer converts keyboard instrument sound information into digital data, acting as a digital interface. Since computers rule the digital realm, they naturally become the command center of all instruments. Once integrated into the music system, everything else follows its lead, creating or performing songs in various styles. Ultimately, though, the music still expresses the musician’s intent.)

Xiaoyu, unable to put down the synthesizer, studied it carefully. He couldn’t recognize the brand, but was sure it wasn’t an arranger keyboard. Most people can’t even tell the difference between keyboards and synthesizers, let alone arranger keyboards and synths. While they serve similar functions, the gap is significant.

Arranger keyboards come with a variety of bar-based accompaniments that can be quickly combined. Their sounds are usually limited (though expensive ones can be expanded), but they’re convenient for live performances—hence their popularity among bar pianists. Synthesizers, on the other hand, can sample (record and assign to specific keys) but have no preset rhythms and may not even include speakers. They’re mainly for backend work—recording every note in advance and then combining and playing them back. For live gigs, prepping with a synthesizer could take a week, making it impractical for bar bands. In short, arranger keyboards suit live improvisation, synthesizers suit studio production, and they offer richer sounds and greater expressive power on stage.

Right now, Xiaoyu’s task was to input his composed parts for various instruments into the computer via the synthesizer, then edit them—a labor-intensive job. Synthesizers are notoriously unfriendly to beginners; one needs a solid grasp of harmony and familiarity with a multitude of parameters and effects to even scratch the surface. But Xiaoyu relished the challenge—after all, he’d had few chances to work with synths in his previous life.

He worked late into the night, only sleeping after finishing his research. The next day, with dark circles under his eyes, he shuffled to school looking like a sleep-deprived panda. Still, he forced himself to stay awake in class, yawning endlessly but refusing to nap. As soon as class ended, he collapsed onto his desk for a quick rest, ignoring Ou Wang’s antics entirely.

At lunchtime, Xiaoyu dragged Shamo Xia to the cafeteria and sat beside Haoran Chen, insisting they eat together. Now, Ou Wang called Haoran “Poker Hero” and Xiaoyu “Panda Hero,” but was too shy to give Shamo Xia a nickname, even blushing around her.

Haoran practically ignored Ou Wang and Shamo Xia, but was much more open with Xiaoyu—at least they could talk about drum issues. Their exchanges were brief: Haoran would ask a question, Xiaoyu would answer. When their discussion turned to Xiaoyu’s composition, Shamo Xia joined in. Ou Wang, left out, grumbled in frustration, “I should never have taken up sprinting. A genius like me should have learned an instrument for a real future.” He’d completely forgotten his earlier ambition to play basketball.

After lunch, Xiaoyu arranged to practice with Shamo Xia and Haoran Chen at Lantern Forest. Time was running out—school selection was on the 25th, the joint rehearsal for four schools on the 29th, and the performance on the night of the 31st. Only five days remained until the selection, and just nine until the joint rehearsal.

He never doubted he’d make it through—having lived twice, he brimmed with confidence and relished the feeling of being in control, even if he now only had a small three-piece band. He knew his future was limitless—so vast that only the whole world could contain it.