The Greatest Showman
Chapter 146

After entering the 21st century, music has become increasingly diverse and complex. To keep up with the fast-paced demands of the internet era, music began blending genres—rock merged with hip-hop, pop fused with electronic, R&B combined with rap… Especially with the rise of electronically synthesised effects, rhythm has overtaken melody as the dominant force. The essence of music is quietly transforming.

This is the trend of the times, and it’s undeniable that many outstanding pieces of music have emerged from it. Yet, one can’t help but feel a tinge of regret—does purer music have no room to survive anymore? Have those classic, nostalgic melodies lost their colour? Is there no market for music that is simple, sincere, innocent, and unpretentious?

At its origin, music was meant to express human emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness—the sweet and bitter moments of life, the turbulence of fate. What made it so moving was the genuine emotion poured into it by every creator and every singer. It was this sincerity that allowed artists like Bob Dylan and The Beatles to be etched into history. But now, that purity is gradually disappearing.

It’s just like Sound City.

The same song, Cleopatra, to Herbert’s ears, is a reminiscence of a lost golden age, a tribute to the fading purity of music, and a sorrowful, confused outlook on the future.

“But I was late for this, late for that… when I die I’ll be on time.” Every line of the lyrics is so real, so earnest, so sorrowful.

The golden age of music has forever vanished into the river of time. Music is now following in the footsteps of Hollywood—its commercialisation is poisoning the purest sanctuary of the soul. The music of the past, from the innovations of rock and R&B, to the transformative power of folk and punk, from the explosion of garage rock, pop punk, soul pop, to jazz blues—once bloomed in dazzling diversity. Music used to express the deepest emotions of the heart, touching the softest corners of the soul… but now, all of that is gone.

“I was Cleopatra, I was taller than the rafters, but that’s all in the past now, gone with the wind; now a nurse in white shoes leads me back to my guestroom, it’s a bed and a bathroom, and a place for the end.”

As the melody gradually climbs to a climax, like the cheers of a carnival, dazzling and frenetic, the whole world seems to be immersed in joy and celebration. But Renly’s voice carries a faint sadness, as if dancing alone in a surging crowd, loneliness and melancholy scattered across the joyful rhythm like falling leaves.

Extreme noise and solitude, extreme joy and extreme sorrow—at this moment, they are portrayed with grandeur and magnificence. All defenses, barriers, and protections are shattered, striking his chest hard. Memories from the past twenty years flood in all at once, catching him off guard and leaving him utterly disoriented.

Before his brain could react, tears had already blurred his vision. Staring at the empty recording studio before him, all the former glory had already drifted away with the wind. “And a place for the end”—such a light description, yet so full of profound depth.

The melody ended, but Herbert remained in a daze, standing frozen in place, battered and bewildered. A faint melancholy lingered in his heart, a bitter aftertaste danced on the tip of his tongue, impossible to swallow. Time seemed to pause amidst the curling smoke of a cigarette.

“Herbert? Herbert?”

The voice calling his name broke his trance. He hurriedly lowered his head to hide the panic in his eyes and took a deep breath. “Wha… what is it?” When he looked up again, he had regained his composure-or, or at least, he appeared to on the surface. But the turmoil within him had yet to subside.

“How did it feel?” Renly’s voice came through the microphone, his eyes filled with inquiry.

Herbert was stunned for a moment before he remembered—they were recording. They were working.

Thinking back carefully, Renly’s performance seemed to lack fancy techniques. He stripped it down to simplicity, discarding all vibrato, sustain, and melisma. Even in the song’s only high note, he didn’t resort to falsetto. It was completely raw, almost like an amateur wailing with all his might.

But it was precisely this simplicity that brought out the song’s purest, most honest, and most heartfelt emotions. The deep emotion burst from Renly’s voice—clear and bright, with a trace of hoarseness; warm, yet tinged with sorrow. All the emotions were subtle, light as clouds and gentle as the wind, but the waves they stirred were overwhelming, enough to break down all defenses.

Was this take perfect? Of course not. Herbert could easily point out more than a dozen mistakes and flaws. But he didn’t want to ruin that natural, unpolished purity. Once it was polished, it seemed something essential would be lost.

Raising his head, Herbert looked at Renly standing under the lights. His youthful face carried a weariness far beyond his years. Herbert thought back to their earlier argument—Renly had insisted that the arrangement remain simple, and that lyrics and vocals be the integral parts of a song, contributing to its layered richness. Herbert had disagreed, largely because of a subconscious distrust. He didn’t believe a twenty-year-old could understand what it meant to feel “world-weary” or to experience “loss.” But clearly, he had been wrong.

A guitar, a lamp, and a single melody—it was so simple it bordered on crude. Yet he just stood there quietly, singing, as if this were the most authentic form of music. It reminded Herbert of Bob Dylan.

“Very good,” Herbert said into the microphone, only to realise his own voice had turned terribly hoarse. He instinctively picked up the warm milk beside him, though by now it had gone lukewarm, and took a big sip. Only after the milk entered his mouth did he wonder when he had brought it over.

He didn’t dwell on the thought and continued, “You need to watch your breathing. During live performances, your breath control is going to be fine. But in the recording studio, every detail gets magnified. Even though your breathing is subtle and natural, the mic still picks it up.”

This is a common issue for many beginners. Renly was already doing quite well—some singers lack the lung power entirely, and their breathing rhythms and timing are a mess, which becomes especially problematic in a studio. Many rock singers, being heavy smokers, have adapted their singing styles to mask these flaws with growls or screams.

“Got it, I understand,” Renly nodded. The recording studio was new to him—an even more unfamiliar space than a film set. There was still so much to learn from the ground up. “Anything else?”

Herbert thought carefully. He could correct Renly’s vocal technique, tweak his high notes… but—
“No, that’s it,” Herbert said. After a pause, he nodded slightly and repeated with more certainty, “That’s it.”

Renly made an “OK” gesture, then lowered his head in thought, considering how to approach the next part of the recording.

Watching Renly’s thoughtful expression, Herbert chuckled softly.
“Renly, you don’t need to worry too much. Ninety percent of singers record in segments inside the studio—it’s rarely done all in one go. Some even record line by line. So, don’t stress yourself over the breathing.”

Renly looked enlightened, then asked curiously, “But if you record line by line, won’t the song feel disjointed?” After all, lyrics and melody are connected. If you break the song into fragments, the emotional flow could get cut off, too.

“For electronic and synthesised music, that’s not a concern,” Herbert replied, not bothering to hide his distaste for electronic music. He paused—something else was on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it and changed the subject.
“If you’re ready, let’s begin the official recording. Start by singing at your own pace. We’ll record from the verse to the chorus and see how it turns out. Got it?”

“Understood,” Renly replied, indicating he got the message. Instinctively, he reached for the lyrics sheet on the music stand, trying to ease his nerves—after all, music wasn’t acting, and this wasn’t his original field of expertise, so he still felt somewhat out of place. But as soon as he picked up the paper, he realised it was the sheet music for the band Spitfire, not his own, so he quickly put it back down.

Seeing Renly like this, Herbert couldn’t help himself any longer.
“Renly, I don’t know if you’re a great actor, but I do know you’re a remarkable singer.” He had never paid much attention to the Emmys or watched The Pacific; all he knew was what Andy had told him—that Renly’s main profession was acting, and that was it.
“You have the talent to become an outstanding singer.”

Herbert wasn’t used to giving compliments. He coughed to cover his awkwardness and lowered his head, pretending to be busy. Unfortunately, the cigarette in his hand had burned down to the end and singed his fingers. Startled, he hurriedly flicked it away—truly a clumsy scene.

Renly paused for a moment, clearly not expecting Herbert’s praise. Then, seeing Herbert’s flustered reaction, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
He spoke into the microphone, “Well, that’s terrible—Andy definitely won’t want to hear that news.”

That teasing remark made Herbert burst out laughing, dissolving the tension.
“His reaction isn’t my concern. What I am worried about is the recording. We need to pick up the pace—this place charges by the hour.”

“Haha!” Renly also laughed heartily.

Working with Herbert was genuinely enjoyable. Their ideas constantly sparked off one another—sometimes Renly inspired Herbert, and sometimes it was the other way around. This first experience in a recording studio was especially memorable. Whether it was the historical weight of Sound City, or the demanding temperament of the Neve 8028 mixing console, it was all a brand-new challenge for Renly. Hearing his own voice through the headphones while singing—that feeling was definitely a bit… strange. Or perhaps, magical.

The recording of Cleopatra and Ophelia went faster than expected. It took just four days in total—there was a one-day break in between when Spitfire had booked the studio for the whole day—and both singles were completed successfully.

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