Chapter 105: Abnormal Vocal Range

After hearing Chen Ke’s suggestion, Little Frog immediately said, “Only a madman would write a song like ‘I Don’t Love You.’ Or maybe it’s the work of a novice who just stepped into the world of composition, clueless and arrogant enough to write something with such an absurdly wide vocal range. Most pop songs span about one and a half octaves—that’s the most harmonious. Songs that cover two octaves can almost kill the singer. A song like ‘I Don’t Love You,’ which spans two and a half octaves, simply isn’t meant to be sung by anyone.”

Li Xuan smiled faintly, took a sip of water, and said, “This song is indeed very difficult to sing. When I first sang it, it felt like a nightmare—the lows were too low, and the highs too high. It’s truly a masterstroke by Liu Fang, the composer, perfectly capturing the state of love so intense it drives one to madness. I doubt the music scene will see another song like this anytime soon.”

Qin Xueyang nodded vigorously while cracking sunflower seeds, her chubby cheeks shaking with each nod. She had some musical knowledge and understood well that only a lunatic would write a song with such an insanely wide vocal range.

“If others can’t write one, maybe Young Master Yang can. He’s no ordinary person,” she said.

Chen Ke smiled enigmatically. She certainly knew that a song like ‘I Don’t Love You’ was rare and precious, but Zhang Qiyang carried a wild, almost mad aura—perhaps he had written something like this before.

Or maybe his team had composed such a song for this madman.

After all, he was the kind of person who could even sing “New Shit”!

“Sister COCO, you really think highly of me. I did write a song with a crazy vocal range like ‘I Don’t Love You,’” Zhang Qiyang said.

His words stunned everyone in the room.

Little Frog adjusted his black-rimmed glasses in surprise. “No way?”

“At that time, I was just learning to compose and was a bit reckless, wanting to push my limits. So I wrote a song like that. If I were to sing it, the vocal range would be from G2 to C5. If adapted for Li Xuan’s female voice, it could be transposed to C3 to F5. In terms of range, it rivals ‘I Don’t Love You.’”

Little Frog exclaimed, “G2 to C5? That’s 29 keys! That’s even more exaggerated than ‘I Don’t Love You’! Is that even humanly singable?”

“It’s definitely meant to be sung by humans, but the average person can’t handle it,” Zhang Qiyang said, glancing at Li Xuan. “If you want to master this song in just a few days, it will be challenging. Compared to your strongest and most comfortable mid-range, the lows in this song are far too low. You’d have to use breathy tones to get through them, which might not sound great live.”

Li Xuan shivered at the thought of reaching those ultra-low female notes at C3.

She was indeed on her period today, and this time it was quite severe, causing intense abdominal pain.

Her physical condition wouldn’t be ideal over the next few days.

Attempting such a demanding song in this state would be a torment.

But if the song was truly breathtaking and emotionally powerful, she was willing to endure the pain and give it a try.

Curiously, Qin Xueyang asked, “Is your song a normal one, or is it one of those wild screaming pieces?”

“This song isn’t a wild scream,” Zhang Qiyang replied. “I was inspired to write it once while studying in the UK, when chopping onions made my eyes water.”

Qin Xueyang was baffled. “Inspired by onion tears?”

“Yes. The song is called ‘Onion.’ Let me emphasize, Li Xuan, this song isn’t suitable for you to sing this week. Your vocal skills are strong, but your strength is not in wide range. Competing on high or low notes would weaken your advantage. Honestly, if it’s about range, you definitely can’t beat Zhao Ziqi’s freakish voice. Your strength lies in mid-range lyrical expression. So I think you should pick a song this week that best showcases your lyrical singing, not one that pushes extreme limits.”

Li Xuan nodded in agreement but was very curious about Zhang Qiyang’s insane two-and-a-half-octave song “Onion.”

Little Frog was also intrigued by this unconventional piece and eagerly asked, “Young Master Yang, I really want to hear your ‘Onion.’ Is it as heart-wrenching as ‘I Don’t Love You’?”

“My song isn’t heart-wrenching,” Zhang Qiyang said, “it’s just a bit tender. It’s clever in that it compares an onion to a person.”

He picked up a can of cola, only to find it empty. He crushed the can and tossed it into the trash, then looked around and asked, “Don’t you think onions are kind of ridiculous vegetables? If you put one aside, no one would pay attention to it—it’s dull, plain, with no standout features. But peel it, and it makes you cry. In real life, there are many people like onions—unremarkable on the surface, but once you get to know them, you discover many bitter and painful stories that bring tears to your eyes.”

Qin Xueyang laughed. “Your imagination is really vivid!”

“Is it? You’re just a chubby girl like that,” Zhang Qiyang smiled at her, and unexpectedly, Qin Xueyang felt a spark.

Thinking about it carefully, she really was a lot like an onion—plump and unremarkable on the outside, but if you peel back the layers, you find many painful, eye-watering stories beneath.

Qin Xueyang fell silent, pouting with a look that said, “I’m suffering inside, but I won’t say a word.”

“I wrote this song mainly for those unfortunate guys,” Zhang Qiyang explained. “Many men who suffer heartbreak are like onions. Some silly girls want to understand their hearts, so they peel away at them, crying as they go. In the end, they find they don’t have a heart. But actually, what they’re peeling at first is their heart—they gave it to you from the start, but those foolish girls just don’t believe it. That’s the core message of this song. I wanted to use the widest vocal range to explore the absurdity of this emotion.”

Li Xuan’s interest was piqued. “You’ve got me curious—I really want to hear this song.”

Chen Ke’s sharp eyes also gleamed with curiosity. Hearing Zhang Qiyang speak this way, it seemed the song was truly his own creation.

“If you all want to hear it, I’ll sing a little for you, but just as a demonstration. I still strongly advise you not to wear those new ‘Onion’ shoes this week,” Zhang Qiyang said.

Li Xuan urged, “Got it! Hurry up and sing—I’m dying to hear it. Do you need any instrument accompaniment?”

“I’ll just do a simple accompaniment on the piano,” he replied.

Qin Xueyang exclaimed, “You’re going to play and sing? You can play piano?”

“Of course, but I’m just average. You’ll have to bear with me,” Zhang Qiyang said.

He moved to the striking white piano in the corner of the music room, rubbed his fingers together, and prepared to play.

In his previous life, his self-taught piano skills were only around level six or seven, but now—with his enhanced intellect and control—his piano ability had risen to at least grade ten.

Playing piano was like singing to him; he could pour emotion into it freely.

Just then, Li Lei, who had finished working on the demo of “Outsider,” came from the recording studio to the music room where Zhang Qiyang and the others were.

He saw Zhang Qiyang sitting at the piano, ready to play.

Curious, Li Lei asked Little Frog, “What’s going on? Is Young Master Yang writing a new song for Li Xuan?”

“No,” Little Frog said excitedly, pulling Li Lei to sit down. “Young Master Yang wrote a song spanning two and a half octaves! He’s about to sing it live.”

“What? A song spanning two and a half octaves? And he’s going to sing it live?!” Li Lei nearly dropped his jaw.

Having just gone through the recording, he knew Zhang Qiyang’s vocal skills were powerful but hadn’t expected this wealthy young master to be so insanely talented.

He was actually about to sing a two-and-a-half-octave piece—was that even possible?

He hoped it wouldn’t turn into an embarrassingly disastrous scene.