Chapter 417: Promoting the Progress of Hong Kong Music
"I really can't imagine just how far Hong Kong's film and television industry will go in the future with Mr. Yang's support," Zou Wenhuai said with deep emotion.
Previously, industry giants like Lu Yuntao and Run Run Shaw had also been major players, but they mostly rode the wave of market demand. Wherever there was profit to be made, businessmen like them would naturally emerge.
But Yang Wendong was clearly different. He wasn't just profiting from the market—he was using his own resources to expand the entire market, integrating resources to lower the cost of production, distribution, and exhibition for everyone.
Qi Ruifan added with a smile, "Mr. Yang sees things differently than most people. Regular entrepreneurs care only about the few acres of profit in front of them, but Mr. Yang is clearly aiming to grow and strengthen the entire market.
If one day Hong Kong's movies and TV dramas truly become popular across half of Southeast Asia or in Chinese communities around the world, then all these years of groundwork will result in easy, long-term revenue."
"Exactly," Zou Wenhuai nodded. "No wonder he's made so much money at such a young age. His long-term vision is really impressive. He also told me he'll continue investing in cinemas across Southeast Asia."
"Haha, then Mr. Zou's future is limitless," Qi Ruifan joked.
Zou shook his head. "It's not about me—I'm just working for Mr. Yang."
"Still, being under Mr. Yang's leadership, we're lucky," Qi said. "Come on, let's go see what kind of people we've got in this first batch of applicants, and discuss how we're going to run this training program."
The kind of leader or boss you encountered determined your future. Yang Wendong, as a rising star among Hong Kong's Chinese tycoons, was full of potential. It almost seemed inevitable that he'd lead the rise of Chinese capital.
And his personality was admirable too—polite and respectful, even toward ordinary workers. Whether it was genuine or just an act, if someone could keep up the act for a lifetime, it was as good as being sincere.
"Alright, there are a few things I haven't quite figured out. Let's discuss together," Zou agreed.
Even in the arts, making money was essential. That had been true throughout history. Only when commerce and culture worked hand in hand could the arts reach their greatest heights.
The heyday of 1980s Hong Kong cinema, 1990s Hollywood, 2000s Korean Wave, and 2010s mainland Chinese blockbusters all proved this point. Once there were high financial returns, talent would flood in, and the entire industry would flourish.
As a time traveler, Yang Wendong's direct creative input into films, TV, or music was limited. Even if he remembered certain content, he couldn't personally sit down and write it out—there was no point. He had no intention of profiting directly from creative work. At most, he would offer ideas.
A true business magnate didn't need to understand the core product. What mattered was supporting and guiding the market.
Right now, the most strategic move was to leverage Hong Kong's film industry, using control of overseas cinemas to increase industry revenue. That alone would stimulate growth, which would, in turn, benefit his own theater chains.
TV dramas were more long-term. He would let TVB experiment and explore first. Once they had a solid team, he would help them expand internationally.
—
By late November, Yang Wendong arrived at a small office building near Central. Looking up, he saw the words "Kong Wah Tower" on the top floor. The building itself was relatively new, but time had already left its mark on the facade.
As the convoy pulled up, familiar faces were already waiting at the entrance.
"Mr. Yang, good to see you," said Qin Zhiye of Changxing Media, stepping forward to greet him.
Several other early members of Yang Wendong's inner circle were also present.
"Old Qin, Old Zhang…" Yang Wendong greeted each one warmly before turning to a man in his 30s. "Mr. Xiong, it's been a while. I heard you had another son?"
It was none other than Gu Long (real name Xiong Yaohua). He had been invited to Hong Kong by Yang Wendong years ago. Thanks to a stable income and a comfortable living environment, he had settled down and started a family here.
Gu Long laughed. "Yes, I've got another boy now. Which means I'll have to buy another apartment too!"
"Haha, don't worry. With the way Hong Kong's film and TV industry is developing, the adaptation fees for your novels won't be cheap," Yang Wendong smiled.
In his previous life, only a handful of Gu Long's works had been turned into TV dramas. Many others never saw adaptation due to his early death and complicated rights issues. It wasn't until the 21st century that things gradually changed. Some companies, like Zhouyi Films, tried to produce Seven Weapons, but collapsed after only managing Peacock Feather.
Although Gu Long's stories lacked the grand themes of Jin Yong—"for the country and the people"—they were nonetheless highly entertaining, especially his mystery-driven plots, which made excellent films.
Gu Long said sincerely, "This is all thanks to Mr. Yang."
Back in the early days, it was Yang Wendong who brought him to Hong Kong and gave him a stable income. Without that support, he wouldn't have been able to focus on writing. Now, with the industry booming, his income had grown substantially. At least half his success was due to Yang Wendong. Even if Yang hadn't done it specifically for him, Gu Long was deeply grateful.
"No need to thank me. You've got real talent—you deserve it," Yang Wendong said.
A person who could write stories loved by tens of millions or even hundreds of millions deserved far more wealth than most capitalists. If someone like that didn't get rich, then who should?
—
Soon, Yang Wendong went up to the 12th floor and stood by the window, gazing into the distance.
Su Yiyi came over with a cup of coffee. "What are you looking at?"
"The view," Yang Wendong said as he took the coffee. "Kong Wah Tower was our first property on Hong Kong Island. Back then, standing here, the buildings in front looked nothing like they do now."
Su Yiyi smiled. "That's normal. It's not just us—all of Hong Kong has transformed. Just a few months ago, I went back to visit the squatter areas. Most people had already moved out. The government is starting to demolish the old shantytowns. Only a handful still live there."
"Yeah, the economy really has improved in recent years," Yang Wendong nodded.
From the moment he arrived in 1958 until now, 1964, six years had passed. And those six years had been some of Hong Kong's fastest-growing years, with GDP rising an average of 15% annually, far outpacing even China's post-reform growth.
Housing prices had tripled, increasing people's paper wealth and boosting consumer spending. Rapid industrial growth and foreign trade expansion created countless jobs, drawing idle labor out of the slums and into the workforce.
"Hard to imagine what the future of Hong Kong's film and television industry will look like with Mr. Yang's support," Zou Wenhuai said with deep emotion.
In the past, people like Lu Yuntao and Run Run Shaw had been titans in the movie industry, but they had merely followed the market — when there was profit to be made, such entrepreneurs would naturally emerge.
But Yang Wendong was clearly different. He was actively using his own resources to expand the market, while also integrating supply chains to lower production, distribution, and screening costs across the board.
Qi Ruifan laughed and said, "Mr. Yang sees things from a completely different perspective. While most people are focused on the immediate returns of a few parcels of land, Mr. Yang is clearly aiming to build a stronger and larger industry as a whole.
If one day Hong Kong movies and TV dramas become wildly popular across Southeast Asia and other Chinese communities abroad, then all of today's groundwork will translate into massive long-term gains."
"Exactly," Zou Wenhuai nodded. "No wonder he's made so much at such a young age. His strategic vision is truly incredible. He also told me he plans to keep investing in cinemas across Southeast Asia."
"Haha, then Mr. Zou's future looks bright," Qi Ruifan joked.
Zou shook his head modestly. "It has nothing to do with me. I'm just working for Mr. Yang."
"Well, getting to work for someone like Mr. Yang… that's our luck," Qi added with a smile. "Come on, let's go check out the first batch of applicants for the training program and figure out how we're going to run it."
For salaried workers, the kind of boss or leader they followed often determined their entire life trajectory. Yang Wendong, as a rising force among Hong Kong's Chinese tycoons, was brimming with potential — it almost seemed inevitable that he would lead the Chinese business world to new heights.
And his demeanor was unusually good. He treated even the lowest-level workers with courtesy and respect. Whether he meant it or not didn't matter — if someone could "fake it" for a lifetime, it may as well be genuine.
"Alright. I've got some things I'm unsure about too. Let's figure them out together," said Zou.
Even the arts had to be commercial. Throughout history, true artistic excellence only emerged when creativity and commerce walked hand in hand.
The golden age of 1980s Hong Kong cinema, 1990s Hollywood, the 2000s Korean wave, and the 2010s mainland Chinese film boom — all of them succeeded because they offered lucrative returns that drew in talent and capital.
As a time traveler, Yang Wendong could do little to directly create movies, TV shows, or even songs. He couldn't sit down and write scripts or lyrics himself — and he had no desire to. At best, he could offer suggestions.
A true business magnate didn't need to understand the product; they only needed to foster, support, and control the market.
Right now, the most appropriate starting point was Hong Kong cinema. By controlling overseas theater chains, Yang could guarantee revenue for the local film industry. That would in turn stimulate self-driven growth — creating a feedback loop that would benefit his own cinemas.
As for TV dramas, that would take more time. TVB needed to explore that territory themselves. Once they had a solid talent pool, he would then push them to go global.
—
By late November, Yang Wendong arrived at a modest office building on the outskirts of Central. Looking up, he saw the words "Kong Wah Tower" on the top floor. The building was still relatively new, though time had left a few subtle marks.
As his convoy pulled up, several familiar faces waited at the entrance.
"Mr. Yang, good to see you," said Qin Zhiye, head of Changxing Media, as he stepped forward to greet him.
Several early members of Yang's network were there as well.
"Old Qin, Old Zhang…" Yang Wendong greeted each in turn before his gaze landed on a man in his 30s. "Mr. Xiong, long time no see. I heard you had another son?"
It was Gu Long — real name Xiong Yaohua — whom Yang had invited to Hong Kong years ago. With the promise of steady income and a better living environment, he had settled in Hong Kong and started a family.
Gu Long chuckled, "Yes, another boy! Looks like I'll need to buy another apartment soon."
"Haha, not to worry. Now that the film and TV industry is booming, your novel adaptation rights will fetch a pretty penny," Yang Wendong said with a grin.
In his previous life, only a few of Gu Long's novels were adapted into dramas. Many weren't adapted due to his early death and complicated rights issues. It wasn't until the 21st century that producers like Zhouyi Films began trying to adapt series like Seven Weapons, though they folded after just Peacock Feather.
While Gu Long's work didn't have the grand, patriotic themes of Jin Yong, his stories were riveting, especially those with mystery and detective elements — perfect for the big screen.
"All thanks to you, Mr. Yang," Gu Long said gratefully.
In his early days, Yang had brought him to Hong Kong and provided him with a stable salary, allowing him to focus on his craft. Now that the industry was flourishing, his income had soared. At least half of his current success was thanks to Yang's support — and even if Yang hadn't done it specifically for him, the gratitude was sincere.
"No need to thank me. You've got real literary talent. You deserve it," Yang replied.
Someone capable of writing stories enjoyed by millions or even hundreds of millions had contributed far more than many capitalists. If someone like that didn't get rich, then who should?
—
Yang Wendong then made his way to the 12th floor, where he stood at the window, gazing at the cityscape.
Su Yiyi brought him a cup of coffee. "What are you looking at?"
"The view," Yang said, taking the cup. "Kong Wah Tower was our first property on Hong Kong Island. Back then, the buildings beyond this window looked totally different."
Su Yiyi nodded. "Makes sense. It's not just us—Hong Kong has changed completely. A few months ago, I visited the squatter settlements. Most people had already moved out. The government's started tearing them down. Only a few stragglers remain."
"Yeah, the economy has really grown," Yang Wendong agreed.
Since he time-traveled in 1958, it had already been six years — years of rapid expansion. Hong Kong's GDP had grown by around 15% annually, far faster than even China's economic boom post-reform.
Real estate prices had tripled, giving people more virtual wealth, which they were eager to spend. Manufacturing and foreign trade boomed, creating vast numbers of jobs and drawing formerly idle labor from the slums into the workforce.
Of course, this was partly because Hong Kong was a city, whereas the mainland was a collection of provinces with a population of nearly a billion. Development levels varied. But if you compared to cities like Shanghai or Shenzhen, they weren't much worse off than Hong Kong.
Su Yiyi said softly, "It's enough if people can all eat their fill. Back then, we were starving six times every three days. I never dreamed we'd live to see this kind of success."
"Life is unpredictable," Yang Wendong said with a smile. "From now on, Hong Kong won't experience that kind of suffering again."
While there would be occasional economic crises, those were just short-term corrections. Unless you were a high-leverage speculator who got caught at the top, the average person wouldn't be too affected.
"I hope no Chinese person anywhere in the world ever has to suffer the way we did again," Su Yiyi said with quiet conviction.
"I hope so too," Yang Wendong nodded.
By now, his wealth could easily support his family for several generations, yet he still worked tirelessly — partly because businesses couldn't stand still, partly because he had goals, and partly because once he had enough power, he wanted to help more Chinese people escape poverty.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," Yang Wendong called out.
It was Zhang Hui, head of Hong Kong Commercial Radio, who stepped in and said, "Mr. Yang, the equipment downstairs is ready."
"Alright, let's go." Yang stood up and walked downstairs with Su Yiyi.
Soon, the group arrived at the music broadcasting studio on the 3rd floor. Yang was here today to check in on the development of Hong Kong's music industry.
He had already done everything capital could do for film, TV, and animation. All that was left was to wait. But within the broader cultural industry, there was another key pillar: music.
Music transcended borders. As long as a song was good, even people in India or Africa would love it.
Zhang Hui said, "Mr. Yang, please have a seat. We'll begin playing a selection of original music created in Hong Kong over the past few years."
"Alright," Yang and Su Yiyi sat down, and the playback began.
Because their time was valuable, they only listened to the highlights. In just over ten minutes, they sampled more than a dozen pieces.
Afterwards, Yang asked, "All these are original compositions by Hongkongers? Not adaptations or licensed from Japan or elsewhere?"
Zhang Hui smiled. "Yes, all original. You asked to hear only locally composed pieces, and that's what we played.
Of course, adaptations and covers still make up a large portion of what we broadcast daily. We've also done market research. Right now, foreign songs with Chinese lyrics are more popular. But acceptance of local music is improving."
"Good," Yang nodded. "Progress happens step by step. These weren't bad at all."
"Yes. We've discovered a lot of talented individuals in recent years and brought them in for further development," Zhang said.
Hong Kong Commercial Radio had been around for five years and had become part of daily life. Besides news and ads, the bulk of its airtime was filled with music.
That's why Yang entrusted them with developing the music side of things.
"How much can a composer earn for a piece like this?" Yang asked.
Zhang paused and answered, "In the first year, around HK$2,000 to HK$3,000. Afterwards, we pay an annual royalty of HK$200 to HK$300. If the song's a hit, they'll get more.
There's also money from licensing music to films, but that depends on demand. As for physical records, well… those are tough. Not many people buy them."
"It must be hard to compose, too. What's the average annual income for these musicians?" Yang followed up.
"That depends. The top ones can make HK$10,000 to HK$20,000 a year. Others make HK$5,000–HK$6,000. Some part-timers only get HK$2,000–HK$3,000," Zhang replied.
"Hmm… That's alright, I suppose," Yang said.
In this underdeveloped market, films weren't affected too badly, but music was different. Records were expensive, and most families couldn't afford them.
"Right. It's just a little better than a clerical salary," Zhang admitted.
"Without a large enough market, it's hard to attract talent," Yang mused. "Here's what you'll do: Talk to Qi Ruifan at TVB. Ask him to add a live performance segment to one of the programs. Right now, he doesn't have enough content anyway.
Let singers perform live. If they sing well, they'll get famous. Later, we might even start hosting concerts like in the West. That would expand the market tenfold."
To attract talent, you had to grow the market. That was how a capitalist operated. It was also why Yang placed such high importance on TVB—TV magnified entertainment demand.
"Live music? Got it," Zhang Hui said. "I'll speak with TVB. But not all composers are good singers."
"Not a problem. You'll figure it out," Yang said. "In the end, as long as industry income rises, the whole sector will grow."
In the past, many great composers couldn't sing. They relied on others to perform their work. But regardless, if the pie gets bigger, everyone gets a larger slice. That's how capitalist systems thrive.
"Understood," Zhang nodded.
Yang added, "I'll also find other ways to promote the music industry. We'll drive original creation in Hong Kong. You handle the publicity—encourage more people to enter the field.
And check the TVB training academy. See if any students have musical potential. Let's train them as well."
In entertainment, you had to develop all fronts. And music was a vital piece of the puzzle.
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