In the interlude part of the song, Lin Feng began his guitar solo.
Since he had already decided to implement the policy of "letting it rot" and "taking revenge on society," his fingers flew across the fretboard, seemingly performing a high-speed shred with no emotion, but at the instant about to enter the climax, guided by ghosts and gods to cut into an incomparably familiar melody.
That was the forbidden sound that everyone who goes to a music store to test guitars will play, and every guitar shop boss hearing it will want to grab a broom to drive people away—
Once again, the prelude of "Really Love You" reappeared.
The audience below the stage froze for a moment. This sudden major pentatonic scale was just like suddenly eating a piece of sweet and greasy cream cake inside a plate of extremely spicy Sichuan cuisine; the sense of violation exploded. But under Old K's "this must have deep meaning" brain supplement filter, no one threw wine bottles.
Meanwhile, at the Livehouse's entrance, a fully armed figure quietly slipped in.
The woman wore sunglasses sufficient to cover half her face, plus a black mask; that exaggerated degree of tightness was as if a female secret agent had just got off work from a spy movie set.
Although in the entertainment circle she could only count as a B-grade artist—that is, the kind where everyone feels the face is familiar and occasionally can hang on the tail of the hot search list, but if really wanting to say a representative work one has to think for half a day—this awkward position. However, she had an unknown quirk—micro-clothing private visits.
She liked to drill into this kind of smoky Livehouse, to listen to those underground music sounds that haven't been polished by the industrial assembly line, filled with wildness (or perhaps disastrousness). This was just like eating too much fine Michelin, occasionally wanting to gnaw two mouthfuls of raw sweet potato with soil, seeking just a bit of "freshness."
However, when she saw clearly the four people on stage, even separated by sunglasses, her eyes solidified.
What kind of platter lineup is this?
"Is this some street prank challenge done by some Douyin internet celebrity?" The woman silently complained in her heart, "Spent money hiring four passersby, put messy clothes on them and stuffed them onto the stage?"
Left is an outdated Shamate, right is a frigid passerby, back sits a Dark Gothic sister, and at the side stands a bass player looking like he just finished robbing a convenience store. This intense sense of fragmentation made an industry insider like her, who has seen big scenes, feel her CPU was a bit overloaded.
However, as the melody of "Carving the Boat" continued to advance, her expression became slightly more serious.
Although this song's arrangement was very rough, and could even be said to be crude, one had to admit, this was a genuine new song, not a cover.
"A bit interesting..." The woman nodded slightly. Although this song hadn't reached the point of stunning her, that raw vigor revealing itself within the chaos was indeed the "fresh meat" flavor she wanted to find.
As a professional, she quickly opened "Review Mode."
First was the instrumental part. Somewhat avant-garde, she evaluated. That bass player, although occasionally had a few notes sounding like they went out of tune, under the overall absurd atmosphere, conversely seemed like attempting some complex microtones or jazz improvisation. "Is it intentionally creating dissonant intervals? If it is intentional, then this bass player has some stuff. If it's a mistake... then this luck is too good." She was a bit unsure.
Next was the lyrics.
"What a mess." The woman frowned.
That kind of idiom solitaire style of filling in lyrics, in her view, was simply typical of high schoolers moaning without illness.
"Piling up flowery language, lacking logic, rhyming for the sake of rhyming. Lyric composition level: Bad review."
Then was the lead singer.
"This throat..." The woman painfully rubbed her temples, "Was it run over by a truck? This is too ugly to listen to. Although that kind of 'tobacco and alcohol voice' or 'death voice' is popular now, this is completely a scream of damaged vocal cords."
Finally, she began to evaluate this band's commercial value—that is, "looking at faces."
In this circle, strength is certainly important, but whether one can be sold largely depends on facial value.
Her gaze fell on that female drummer.
"This girl is not bad." The woman secretly nodded, "Although the makeup is applied like a ghost, the foundation is very good, and the figure is also great. Moreover, this drumming is very steady, basically dragging the whole band along. Potential stock."
Then was that Technical Pro guitarist. The woman narrowed her eyes to size him up for a while. "Although continuously playing those cliché phrases, the work on his hands is very clean, and the basic skills are solid. And..." She looked carefully at Lin Feng's face through the sunglasses, "Looks actually okay? A quite upright face."
But— "But what is with this expression? That 'I want to get off work,' 'everyone here is trash,' 'don't mess with me' dead fish face... Too aggressive. Although this world-weary persona has a market, it's too easy to offend fans."
Finally, she looked at that lead singer. As a band's facade, the lead singer's facial value is usually the key determining life or death. The woman tried hard to see clearly Ren Yichen's looks, but failed.
That dazzling metal chain, that unintelligible skull shoulder pad, as well as that temperament that seemed to carry its own "aesthetic downgrade force field," made her completely unable to judge what this biological creature actually looked like.
"Completely can't make it out..." The woman thought desperately, "Is this a handsome guy playing performance art, or an ugly man using non-mainstream to cover the facts? This packaging is too hardcore, simply no way to do a market estimate."
Generally speaking, the woman in her heart gave this freak band a "C-" score.
Except for that guitarist and drummer having some personal quality, this combination had zero commercial prospects. Especially that lead singer, this kind of throat added to this kind of styling that makes one's eyes go black—if he can become hot, she would eat the sunglasses in her hand.