Unable to afford a watch costing tens of thousands of dollars or attend a live performance costing the same, surely spending over two thousand on a legitimate CD to support the artists was acceptable?
This wasn't just buying music; it was voting for one's passion, proving oneself a member of the discerning audience for this "high art."
In just two weeks, tickets for the Tokyo concert sold out completely.
Fortunately, scalpers hadn't yet realized game music could fill concert halls and dared not act. Most tickets ended up in the hands of die-hard fans.
At Sega Headquarters, Takuya Nakayama flipped through the latest ticketing report and couldn't help but shake his head.
"These days, selling nostalgia is far more profitable than selling gaming hardware," he said, handing the report to Hironobu Sakaguchi, who was sipping coffee across from him. "Looks like your company's Mr. Uematsu is about to become a big star."
Sakaguchi set down his cup, his pride evident despite his feigned restraint. "Music has always been the soul of games. But Mr. Nakayama, isn't the pre-order figure for the album a bit... excessive? Over 50,000 copies already?"
"That's all thanks to your excellent games and outstanding music," Takuya replied, gesturing out the window. "Those are the deepest emotional resonances etched in players' memories. Why else would they willingly buy tickets?"
Hironobu Sakaguchi chuckled and handed over two VIP tickets to the concert. "We hope you'll attend, Executive Director Nakayama."
Takuya Nakayama nodded and accepted the tickets.
December 10th, Friday evening.
The night wind in Tokyo whirled a few withered leaves in spirals across the ground, but the entrance to the main concert hall of Tokyo College of Music was surprisingly bustling, even more so than a summer festival.
Luxury cars and taxis formed a long queue at the entrance, while elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies mingled with young people in eccentric costumes, creating a peculiar postmodern scene.
Takuya Nakayama, arm in arm with his wife Eri, navigated through the slightly crowded crowd toward the VIP entrance.
Eri wore a subdued traditional kimono, standing out as a serene presence amidst the noisy crowd.
She glanced around curiously, her gaze pausing on a girl holding a half-human-sized Landwalker plushie. She stifled a giggle and leaned close to her husband's ear, whispering, "Takuya, is this really that serious classical music hall? I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into an Akihabara anime convention."
"This is what they call cultural invasion," Takuya Nakayama said, tucking a stray hair behind his wife's ear, his voice tinged with pride. "When games become the universal language of a generation, we'll only see more scenes like this in the future."
The couple settled into prime seats on the second floor, offering an unobstructed view of the hall.
Below them, the usually solemn auditorium was packed to capacity. Industry bigwigs occupied the front rows, including familiar faces from rival companies, while the back rows overflowed with young people.
Some wore Chrono's iconic red hairpieces, striking poses with newly made friends and miming famous quotes.
Tonight, this hallowed hall, once the domain of Mozart and Beethoven, buzzed with the fervent energy of passion.
As the lights dimmed, the cacophony vanished as if the power had been cut. The two-thousand-seat hall fell silent, the only sound the collective breath of the audience.
Spotlights illuminated the stage as a figure strode purposefully to the podium.
Instead of the customary tails and artistic airs, Nobuo Uematsu appeared in his signature mustache and round glasses, clad in a well-worn dark hakama and haori—a traditional Japanese ensemble. The wide sleeves were neatly bound behind his back with white cords, exuding both efficiency and a hint of solemnity.
According to Hironobu Sakaguchi, this traditional Japanese attire is the Uematsu family's treasured heirloom, essential for capturing the authentic spirit of conducting.
A wave of applause filled the hall.
Instead of picking up his baton, Nobuo Uematsu turned and took the microphone from the master of ceremonies. His gaze swept across the second-floor VIP seats before locking onto a familiar figure. He swiftly descended the podium and approached the stage edge directly below the VIP area.
This unexpected move left the audience puzzled, craning their necks to see what was happening.
"Before the music begins tonight, I'd like to introduce a very special friend," Uematsu announced, his voice amplified through the speakers. "Without him, Chrono Trigger would never have been born, nor would we have this concert tonight. He's Sega's Managing Director, the father of Pokémon, and a genius who turns wild ideas into reality—Mr. Takuya Nakayama!"
Spotlights instantly lit up the VIP booth on the second floor.
The sudden "public exposure" stunned Takuya Nakayama. He had planned to quietly enjoy the concert, never expecting Uematsu to pull this.
A brief silence followed, then the audience erupted in thunderous applause.
It was a heartfelt acknowledgment.
Who among us hasn't played Sonic? Who hasn't been obsessed with Pokémon? Who hasn't been awestruck by the miracle of Chrono Trigger's 40-minute demo?
"Mr. Nakayama!"
Suddenly, a voice boomed from the back of the auditorium, loud enough to echo clearly on the second floor, tinged with a sob: "Managing Director, I'm begging you! Have mercy on our wallets! It's been the Collector's Edition, the watch, the concert... you've even claimed next year's New Year's money!"
This wail ignited the crowd, and the hall erupted in laughter.
"Yeah! This is ridiculous!"
"Can't you lower the price for the Mega Drive version?"
"Give my secret stash back!"
The chorus of complaints rose and fell, but they carried no malice, only the teasing familiarity of old friends.
Such were gamers—cursing you for robbing them blind while dutifully stuffing money into your pockets, then asking if it was enough.
Eri couldn't contain herself any longer. She turned and buried her face in her husband's shoulder, shaking with laughter, her shoulders trembling uncontrollably, completely abandoning her composure as the President's daughter.
Takuya Nakayama sighed helplessly, standing under the gaze of over two thousand pairs of eyes.
He remained silent, clasping his hands together in a standard gesture of apology and pleading to the "sufferers" below. Then he pointed to his wife beside him, subtly signaling, "My family is here—please show some consideration."
This down-to-earth interaction once again ignited the audience's laughter, the applause growing even more fervent than before.
Nobuo Uematsu watched the scene, a slight moisture glistening at the corners of his eyes.
He raised the microphone again, waiting for the laughter to subside before speaking slowly: "When Mr. Nakayama first proposed this concert to Sakaguchi-san, to be honest, I was apprehensive. I wondered, could game music truly grace such a grand stage? Would anyone really want to sit in a concert hall and listen to my compositions?"
He paused, scanning the hall. "But seeing you all here today, I know he was right. He helped me fulfill a dream—a dream shared by all game music composers. In the future, we will continue to bring you even more outstanding works."
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