Zhang Yue hadn’t heard the concert version beforehand, but this time, he casually clicked the video. The performance began with a segment on the sanxian, and Zhang Yue was taken aback. Although he didn’t understand the sanxian, music was universal, and he could tell good from bad. Moreover, halfway through, Qi Shejiang even mimicked the sound of geese using the strings! With that level, it was far superior to his own piano skills! Following that, Qi Shejiang also sang a piece of folk arts; the resonance, the breath… Zhang Yue: “???” No, this wasn’t the Qi Shejiang he knew! Zhang Yue rewound the video, listening to “No Need for the West Chamber” again, twice, three times…
There was no faking in his playing or singing at this live performance; Xia Yiwei might have made a mistake, but Qi Shejiang certainly hadn’t! Damn, he actually sang really well. This Qi Shejiang must be something else; how could there be such a big difference between singing and performing folk artistically? With that ability, why wasn’t he performing on shows? Now, he would surely feel awkward about his Weibo! Speaking of Weibo, Zhang Yue found a user certified as a string artist from a certain provincial folk art troupe named “Old Bai Not White” passionately commenting: “Words can’t describe my feelings! Great strings! The adaptions are wonderful! The clever variations in the chorus section’s string technique are superb, conveying emotions through sound!” Zhang Yue: “…………”
He hasn’t heard the original version, so he adapted it? “Old Zhang, it’s time to eat.” The band’s drummer poked his head in, urging Zhang Yue to eat. Forget it, let’s eat first. Zhang Yue put down his tablet and lazily walked to the living room, humming a tune as he opened the takeout. …X, Qi Shejiang is really annoying!
Chapter Seven That day after Liu Quan Hai went back, the next day he called the Meng family, wanting to tell Old Mr.
Meng that he had discovered the heir to the Zi Di Shu. The old man was also very concerned about the inheritance of arts culture, not just cross talk.
Old Mr. Meng was over ninety years old, the most senior elder in the cross talk industry today, having witnessed its rise and fall. From the days of performing on the streets to being able to enter tea houses, independently opening cross talk theaters, and then later having radio cross talk, television cross talk, and now gradually declining.
Among his descendants, many were cross talk performers, and the number of students was even greater, truly a family of cross talk, with disciples everywhere.
The one who answered the phone was Old Mr. Meng’s grandson, Meng Jingyuan, who was also a cross talk performer. He had been partners with Liu Quan Hai’s disciple, Zeng Wen, for over twenty years, and they had a close relationship.
“Jingyuan, is the old man awake?” Liu Quan Hai couldn’t hide his excitement, “I had an incredible encounter yesterday—met a kid who can sing Zi Di Shu, and he’s a two-door hug, also from our cross talk school. His stage presence somewhat resembles the old man, very steady.”
Meng Jingyuan was initially surprised, “Really? Where did this young person learn it?
