The moment the prelude began, its unmistakably Russian patriotic flavor swept over the hall like a wave. Down in the audience, a few Russian vocalists froze momentarily, but they quickly recalled how much effort Chu Zhi had poured into mastering Russian. That alone made it understandable.
🎵"The apple and pear trees are blooming, Mist is drifting over the river's expanse."🎵
🎵"Katyusha stood by the riverbank, Singing on that steep and rugged shore, Her song as radiant as the springtime sun…"🎵
Chu Zhi's singing was steeped in Russkiy dukh—what they call "the Russian soul." There's a saying: Vodka in the left hand, PPSh in the right, singing Katyusha with a fire in your heart. Chu Zhi didn't carry a submachine gun, but he delivered the rest with uncanny precision.
He was seven-tenths drunk, possessed by the spirit of alcohol and the despairing resonance in his voice. Just the opening lines jolted the entire audience into full attention.
He wasn't just performing. He had become the Emperor Beast.
🎵"She sings of the eagle flying over the steppe, Of the boy she dearly loves, And the letters she keeps, each one a treasure."
"She sings of the eagle in the grasslands, She sings of her beloved, And she guards his letters like her heart."
"Ah, the song! That girl's melodious song, Let it fly with the bright and glowing sun!"🎵
What does it mean to sing with emotion? Perhaps it's when your voice alone paints images in the listener's mind.
With his voice, Chu Zhi painted the silhouette of a girl named Katyusha, waiting for her beloved to leave for war. It was early morning, mist thick across the river. She stood alone on a steep bank, her eyes unable to pierce the fog—but her song could.
In the third row sat the Chinese guest delegation for vocal music. Most of them spoke Russian, and they could feel every ounce of emotion in the piece.
"Excellent Russian, and the singing is even better," said Xiao Rongxu. The rolled R's were more authentic than the Russians themselves.
"Is this a Russian folk song?" asked Ma Jing uncertainly, before recalling that Chu Zhi had announced it as his own composition.
It wasn't just the Chinese who thought so. Even the Russian vocalists momentarily assumed it must be a classic. The saxophone backing was just that on point.
Aleksei, the chairman of the forum's organizing committee, looked at Chu Zhi with what could only be described as fatherly affection.
He'd gone over Chu Zhi's background multiple times. No study abroad experience in Russia. No family history of working in Russia. And yet Chu Zhi's Russian was pure, even capable of composing something like Katyusha. Was this not the expression of someone deeply in love with Russian culture?
If the song weren't still ongoing, Aleksei would've stood up and applauded on the spot.
🎵"To the distant border the soldier departs, Carrying Katyusha's love in his heart."
"May he remember the innocent girl, May her song reach his ears, May he fight with courage to defend his homeland, While Katyusha guards their love."🎵
Standing still the entire time, Chu Zhi performed using more than just his trademark "Voice of Despair." For the first time, he activated a new skill—"Voice of the First Emperor" (30%).
So while the girl's sorrowful love resonated deeply, the performance still surged with grandeur.
Eleven instruments formed the ensemble: upright bass, baritone saxophone, clarinet, alto sax, bass drum and snare, violin, cello, trumpet, trombone, and French horn. The entire venue—every Russian in the concert hall—was transported back to their childhood, back to the melodies of the '80s and '90s.
🎵"The apple and pear trees are blooming. Mist drifts across the river…"
"She walks out to the riverside, To that tall and steep riverbank…"🎵
As the final notes faded and the elongated accompaniment drew to a close, Chu Zhi walked offstage.
Katyusha was never a folk tune. It was a song born with a political mission.
And yet from the USSR to modern Russia, its popularity endured—proof that the song had struck a deep chord with Russian aesthetics. Whether or not other countries liked it was beside the point.
Chu Zhi's performance, as the Emperor Beast, was nothing short of phenomenal.
Clap clap clap—!
The front-row audience, including chairman Aleksei and over a dozen Russian vocalists, were the first to stand and applaud.
"I tasted vodka in that performance. The way his tongue rolled the lyrics—it felt like the alcohol danced on my tongue and struck my heart. I loved this opening number."
"It's like a love letter penned on behalf of Katyusha. It's not just about love; it's also about war. I shouldn't have opposed this Chinese singer becoming a featured guest."
"If he hadn't told me it was composed in the 21st century, I'd have sworn Katyusha came from the '60s or '70s. It's hard to believe otherwise."
"Only Russians would be moved by a line like 'The apple and pear trees are blooming.'"
The Russian singers clapped as they praised. The applause wasn't as thunderous as when Chu Zhi performed Opera No. 2, nor as viscerally overwhelming, but compared to the local crowd, the Russian vocalists were clearly more appreciative.
"In three years, at the 75th anniversary of China-Russia diplomatic relations, Mr. Chu must be one of the featured performers." Aleksei made up his mind then and there.
That event, scheduled for 2024, would likely be held at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow. Top leaders from both nations would attend. Every performer invited to such an occasion was of the highest prestige.
So Aleksei's declaration wasn't mere flattery. As the director of Russia's Ministry of Culture's Bureau of Foreign Cultural Exchange, his suggestion would carry weight.
If, three years from now, he were to tell Chinese officials, "We hope Mr. Chu Zhi can appear at the commemoration," it's hard to imagine them refusing.
Other international guests were a bit slower to react. Unlike the Russians, they didn't have an emotional bond with the song, so they judged purely on vocal technique and emotional delivery.
"That was a good song—"
"No, actually… it was kind of incredible."
"Whether or not the melody appeals to everyone, Chu Zhi's technique and emotional control were world-class."
"There was a grand, sweeping quality, balanced with romantic melancholy. That kind of emotional duality is something you don't expect from someone his age."
That was the impression of Sander Sterling. At first, he hadn't thought much of the performance, clapping along out of courtesy. But the two-and-a-half-minute piece lingered in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how well done it was.
Clara Marr added, "Mr. Chu Zhi's high notes were as delightful as a piano, but what impressed me was how he infused such emotion into a simple melody."
"It's more than just impressive," said Parsifal. "The lyrics were nothing more than a few lines, yet he made them feel both intricate and grand. Two opposing emotions delivered flawlessly in one live performance. Calling him just a 'high-note genius' is far too narrow."
"It is too narrow," Sander Sterling agreed. He had initially worried that Chu Zhi lacked vocal range, but the performance had completely overturned that idea.
"I have a thought," said Sander Sterling. "We should invite Mr. Chu Zhi to give a lecture at the Guildhall School of Music."
"Excellent idea. I'd love to hear him speak on technique and experience," Parsifal nodded.
"Mr. Chu Zhi can't be more than twenty-five. To reach this level at his age, it can't just be talent. There must be discipline, and that's something students can learn from," said Clara Marr.
Elsewhere, the Chinese guest group in the third row had a different vibe altogether.
"Yu Xia is outclassed," Ma Jing muttered, not holding back.
Qin Taijue, a contralto from the Shanghai Grand Theatre, frowned slightly at the blunt comparison but said, "Mr. Chu's technique is miles ahead of others in his age group."
"Absolutely. When could Yu Xia ever be compared to Mr. Chu?" said Xiao Ke.
Xiao Rongxu added, "Mr. Chu's opening set the bar for this entire vocal exchange forum."
Everyone in the Chinese delegation couldn't help comparing Yu Xia to Chu Zhi, always to the latter's benefit.
Why the bias? Because Yu Xia had recently stirred up backlash in the bel canto community.
The next performer was a jazz singer from France, known as the "French Sports Car." He did quite well, but the Russians and the Little Fruits were still caught in the afterglow of Katyusha, which diluted the emotional impact of everything that followed.
It wasn't just the French singer who suffered. The next three performers were all overshadowed to varying degrees.
"I really can't enjoy opera. I'm getting sleepy," whispered one Little Fruit. "Can I leave?"
"Better not. Wouldn't be polite."
"Will Jiu-yé come back onstage? He was so good earlier. He should do an encore."
"Probably not. This isn't a concert. Each vocalist just presents one piece, and they share notes afterward."
"Still, pay attention. Don't draw negativity for Jiu-yé."
Not getting opera wasn't a big deal. Art only becomes art if it resonates. Otherwise, it's just noise.
The fact that Chu Zhi had fans supporting him even at multinational events meant one thing: he was ready for an Asia tour.
And yet even domestic concerts were still far off. The Emperor Beast preferred to solidify his foundation. He wanted to release more albums first.
Because of the length, the vocal forum was split into three segments—morning, afternoon, and evening—with two intermissions in between.
By the time it ended, the sun had long since set—actually, no. There hadn't been sun in Saint Petersburg all day.
Before Chu Zhi could even step out of the Philharmonic Hall, Aleksei found him and invited him to a salon event that night.
Chu Zhi agreed. Aleksei, still tied up with official duties, left in a hurry.
Inside the car, he looked back at the Philharmonic and murmured, "It's clear now. Absolutely clear. The content of this forum's vocal exchange will be broadcast by Russian National Television. Mr. Chu and Katyusha will be known throughout the federation."
After all, Russia needed a foreign face to champion their culture.
It would be like saying: "See how rich and beautiful our culture is? Even a famous Asian singer like Chu Zhi is captivated."
Russia's classical arts were strong, but their modern entertainment was sorely lacking. They were blocked from the West and swallowed up by the Chinese cultural sphere in the East. Russian pop culture wasn't making waves anywhere.
Besides Aleksei, many Russian musicians and city officials approached Chu Zhi. After a few words of admiration, they all left their contact info.
The Russian vocalists were simple folk.
To them, Katyusha was a song even they couldn't have written. Yet this foreign artist, Chu Zhi, had captured its soul so perfectly—how could they not want to be friends?