In the production studio for the *Feilin's Best Songs* project on Shudian Island, the sounds of a heated argument echoed from the judges' conference room.
"Do you have any taste at all? You've led that opera troupe for nothing all these years, haven't you? What was wrong with your advisor's hearing back then to let someone like you graduate?"
"I think this song is actually quite good."
"Good? You call this good? A formulaic arrangement, the same few melodies repeated ad nauseam. And that demo—the vocals are completely raw, with no aesthetic sense whatsoever. The lyrics are vulgar, too."
"It might be simple, yes, but this type of song will probably be very popular with most of the audience. After all, this show is aimed at..."
"Then most of the audience must be tasteless hacks, just like your tin ears. They don't deserve anything better."
An argument? Arguments were great. Zog loved watching people argue more than anything.
