LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 4

      Just a Dream

      The sun was making a cameo appearance. It always rains in Vancouver, but not on that day—the sun was shining out of a perfect cloudless blue. If you looked carefully, you’d notice that the sky right above you was a slightly darker shade than on the horizon. But it was all blue—a beautiful silky blue. It was the kind of day when Vancouverites rollerblade on the seawall or ride their bikes on the dike that protects Richmond from being submerged by seawater.

      Scattered light illuminated even the dark corners of the alley we’d been ushered into, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. It stunk of garbage and urine, and if you scanned the edges, you’d inevitably see a used syringe or some other discarded evidence of the unsavoury things that go on in dark places.

      I tightened up my black bandana, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. After tossing my flimsy plastic water bottle into a dumpster, I gently tapped my cheeks to loosen my tense facial muscles. I walked towards the others, who were already positioned in front of a long two-storey wall that was years before surrendered to graffiti artists by shop owners too exasperated to repaint it yet again.

      “All right. Everyone ready? Let’s roll! I need you all to look into the lens of the camera. I need attitude. Yeah, that’s right! Julian, tilt your hat to the left a little. Good! Girl, chest up, look straight. Give me that sexy look. Come on! Boz, point your finger at me. Act cool! Good. Fabulous! I’m feeling it.” The shutter went off in bursts of three or four shots per second. We were shooting profile pictures for our press kit. The session went on for 30 or 40 minutes. When it was all done, I had a self-satisfied assurance that things were finally really coming together.

      Instead of diving headlong into the crevasse of my self-pity, I made a decision to turn my anger into artistic passion. For the year following the Warner Music debacle, I worked as a junior hairstylist in a Vancouver salon while completing a ten-song demo CD with my newly formed hip-hop crew. We named ourselves Syndicate. There were four of us: Yuen, our talented producer; Rita, our powerhouse of a female lead vocal; Julian, our handsome ladies’ man; and of course, me. We worked out of our basements producing songs with our own unique sound. We used English in the verses and stirred in Mandarin and Cantonese rapping—a sort of West meets East Asian fusion. The result was an innovative and refreshing style that no one had heard before—a sound considered especially cool by the Chinese community.

      It took us about six months to feel and present ourselves like an official group. By that time our music was finding airtime at local college events and radio stations. Door after door of opportunity kept opening up. More and more people started recognizing us at the nightclubs. Requests for copies of our demo album kept coming, and it was very encouraging to see our efforts recognized.

      Eventually, our music found its way overseas, and calls started rolling in from Taiwan. Different management agencies approached us for partnering relationships, and my schedule was jammed with online meetings and email correspondence.

      An agent called my cellphone. “We think you guys are extremely talented and have a great chance with the Taiwan music industry. After years, we’re finally hearing a sound none of us has heard before. With a little more polish, you guys are ready for a launch. Our company has the ability to take you there. A draft of our contract has been sent to your email. Take a look and get back to us ASAP. We really want to work with you guys.”

      “Thank you very much for your interest. We’ll take a look at the contract and will get back to you soon,” I replied with excitement but also with caution.

      I started to learn how to deal with the business side of things. By now I had already read a few of these contracts, and there were many tricky lines hiding within blocks of boring legalese. From my past experience of dealing with people in the music industry, I learned not to trust anyone easily. After all, I had been burned by MTV Asia and Warner Music Taiwan already.

      All the while we had to finish a full-length album in the studio during our spare time. We were getting so busy it felt like we didn’t even have time to eat or sleep some days. Our dream of reaching the top of the billboard chart no longer seemed an impossibility. Every time we went shopping for outfits as a group, we were showered with attention by giddy store clerks, some even suggesting sponsorship of our stage appearances. Of course, Julian was always the one who got spotted first since he was the tallest and best looking. “You have a great look, man. Are you a model or something?” a hip-hop clothing shop manager asked Julian in front of the mirror.

      “Thanks! Nah, I’m not. I’m a local Chinese rapper. And this is my crew!” Julian pointed his finger towards us three.

      “An Asian hip-hop crew? That’s fresh! I like it. You guys look sharp. Doing any gigs around?”

      “Yeah. Yeah, we perform here and there. Got one coming up at one of the clubs on Richards Street. That’s why we’re shopping for outfits.”

      “Nice, nice. Seems like you guys are doing pretty good. Got yourself a clothing sponsor?”

      “It’s all right. We do have more gigs coming up. No official clothing sponsorship yet. We’re still local, you know. Still finalizing our demos and trying to get the word out.”

      “Good stuff. Let me listen to your tracks. I see potential. If things are going good for you guys, maybe we can work something out together for your next gig. Bring your CD in, and then I can have a listen, and maybe we can talk further.”

      Posing in front of the mirror we fantasized about modelling for our own clothing line one day, as many in Hollywood do. With everything seeming to fall into place, it was easy for us to believe we would make it. As our “stock” rose, so also did our pride, and as always, pride goes before a fall.

      _______

      “Well who do we have here? Since when does the superstar have time for us small potatoes?” The gang was really making fun of me as I stepped into the restaurant.

      “Come on, guys. I’m totally baked. I don’t need this right now. Have you guys ordered yet? I’m starving.” I sat down at the only empty seat at the table.

      One of the guys turned to me. “What you need, Boz, my good man, is to smoke a big fat joint with us. We just picked up some really good stuff yesterday, BC’s finest. It’s gonna make you feel so much better. You’ll forget all the BS you’re worrying your little head about. Guaranteed! Besides, it’s been quite some time since we all smoked up together. We had so much fun back in the day. Remember?”

      “Yeah, those were some good times, guys. I remember them well. But things have changed now. Haven’t we had this conversation a few times before? You guys go ahead and have fun without me. I still need to head back to the studio when we’re done eating. It’s gonna be another long night. I still have loads of work to do.” I rejected the offer as gently as I could.

      “Man, you’re no fun! What’s happened to you? No time for your friends anymore. Whatever. You’re the one missing out.” The guys turned and continued their conversation without me.

      Three years had passed since my personal exit from the party scene. My cellphone contacts used to be almost entirely comprised of party animals, but now those contacts were nearly all replaced by music industry people. This was in the dark ages of flip phones that had limited memory, so I had to delete contacts to add new ones. Only a handful of old friends were still on my phone, and most of them were sitting at the table in front of me. These were the guys who were closest to me.

      After my graduation, while pursuing my music career, I continued to meet with Blade every month to maintain my relationship with him. However, I was careful to avoid drugs and excessive use of alcohol because

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