Madson was a gym fiend. He spent four to five hours a day on his shoulders. You might not find an egg cup in his house, a German staple, but you'd never fail to find any workout gear you wanted.
Treadmill, rowing machine, elliptical, high-pull trainer, everything was there.
When he didn't have work, he trained from seven to nine. No surprise, his body looked great.
His alarm rang, so he stopped early tonight, opened his laptop, and streamed FOX's show on the official site.
You could watch online and TV in sync, but the stream would never run ahead of the broadcast, so there was no fast forward. Madson sighed and endured the boring openers, Nick the host bantering with the judges.
Too much small talk. Madson didn't get American humor at all, so he went to make a veggie salad.
Once the filler ended, the actual singing competition pulled him back, and even slowed his fork.
Round one, Footballer Danny versus Himalaya Horman.
"They're both pros. The technique's solid. The guy with the ball on his head's holding back, so he's not firing on all cylinders. If I were voting, I'd pick the guy with the mountain on his head," Madson muttered.
On screen, Nick boomed, "The votes are in. Himalaya, you win again. Go sing some more, then go wash up and celebrate."
Madson smirked. His eye for winners hadn't dulled.
Round two, Red Lion versus Black-Faced Goat. Nick knew his friend was debuting as the substitute singer.
"Kara's on. The yodeler she mentioned must be her opponent, Red Lion, right?" Madson guessed. Red Lion would beat her with yodeling, which was why Kara cared so much.
He hadn't seen last week's show, just heard there was a singer named Azazel whose voice sounded heaven sent. YouTube was packed with edits and remixes. He had no idea how good Red Lion really was.
They faced off. Red Lion sang rock. So much for that script. No yodeling at all.
"The woman called Red Lion's strong. Kara's tight on the opening," Madson thought it through, then said to himself, very solemn, "I'd vote Red Lion. Even if Kara's my friend, a competition stage is like the gym. You only speak through strength."
He was right again. Red Lion took round two.
"Rock riles the crowd more easily than folk, perfect for competition. Plus Kara started nervous." He chuckled. "This Masked Singer is pretty fun."
Different personalities, different pleasures. Most viewers loved guessing who sat behind the mask. Madson's fun was calling who'd win or lose.
"Yodeling can only show up in round three then." He finished the salad, but he was still hungry, so he grabbed a banana.
While he was in the kitchen, Nick and the panel finished their chatter. When he came back, he saw Azazel versus Toothless Elephant on stage.
"Toothless Elephant isn't a pro," Madson judged after a few lines. "Breath control's amateur. A couple phrases go off pitch. Way below standard."
The last singer of the night, Azazel, stepped out in that blazing fallen-angel look. He didn't look easy to mess with.
The lower third flashed the next song, "She Taught Me How to Yodel"
There it was, the yodel Kara said beat him. Madson shoved the whole banana in and focused.
Wait. Something was off, one thing after another.
"Hold up. Isn't Azazel the gospel guy? I watched plenty of videos. How'd he end up tied to yodeling?"
He shelved the question when the singing started. The bouncy melody and springy lyrics made him feel giddy.
"Such a cheerful song."
"It just makes you happy as soon as you hear it."
Very soon, really soon, the cheerful Madson heard a familiar style.
🎵 Yodel-oh-ee-dee, Diddly-odel-oh-ee-dee, Diddly-odel-oh-ee-dee… 🎵
He flipped through chest and head with reckless glee, more insane than a cyclone charge or a speedster god. The flip rate zipped like lightning. Madson broke out of the happy haze, stunned.
"This is… yodeling."
He compared it to his own technique. His breath transitions were smoother in places, sure, but he couldn't replicate what the singer did onstage.
"She Taught Me How to Yodel" had three full-on yodel breaks. Madson watched as the singer got wilder each time.
The first already sliced cold and sharp, making eyes go wide. The second and third still ramped up. It went beyond understanding. On the final yodel run, he almost squished the banana peel into paste.
On "yodel-oh-dee," the "e" and "de" syllables shot like sports cars on a highway, and then, bam, an "oh" popped in like a car darting against traffic. You couldn't call it good anymore. What he heard was pure thrill. Blink wrong and you'd flip the car.
"Did this singer lay train tracks in his throat? How's the falsetto running that fast without derailing?"
It wasn't reasonable, Madson decided. Even if there were tracks, you couldn't switch that many junctions without breaking the whole thing.
No wonder Kara thought the yodel beat his. No kidding. After he heard it, he agreed.
"I got cocky," Madson admitted, and the worst part was, he loved the song and wanted to cover it.
A few minutes later, Kara messaged, "Whose yodel's better? Also, can you tell who Azazel is?"
He ignored the first, answered the second, "No idea. Any other clues?"
She didn't reply. Clearly disappointed.
"Who is he?" Madson racked his brain. With that voice and skill, there's no way he's a nobody.
He searched his memory end to end. No star matched Azazel.
He checked the comments for clues.
"Hahaha, I love this song! Yi yi yi yi oh! That's the best yodel I've ever heard. Azazel is unreal for a human. Who could possibly hate this kind of performance?"
"Azazel is my god. He can bring down a gospel of the Lord and spread joy. He's an absolute god. If music has a deity, it's Azazel!"
"I can't wait for Azazel's third performance. The thought of having to wait a whole week is literally killing me!" Jesus Loves Me, most outsiders thought it was his tone. With She Taught Me How to Yodel, everyone could hear the flex. Both stages hit the ceiling for pouring in emotion.
The Western internet exploded. By the next day, portals, blogs, and papers were all printing one name, Azazel.
Chicago Tribune: "Angel of Music Azazel Shows Miraculous Voice Again"
The Hollywood Reporter: "Last Night, He Brought Laughter To North America"
Washington Financial: "The Mystery Singer Who Brings Joy And Hope"
Yahoo News went with, "I Sang Along And Almost Suffocated."
HuffPost said, "The Singer Closest To God's Technique Has Arrived."
Google News launched a poll, "Who Is He?!!", letting everyone nominate a singer and vote.
In under a day, more than twenty legends from different countries were on the list.
Masked Singer rode the wave. Ratings shot up. FOX brass were thrilled.
Just like Lukinsky expected, he couldn't sway Chu Zhi. He wouldn't change songs. He added, "I sang Jesus Loves Me earlier. Now I'll sing The Internationale. It's a collision between theology and anthropology. Mr. Lukinsky, there's no need to worry too much."
A collision, my ass. What kind of collision was that? Lukinsky was speechless reported the incident truthfully.
FOX's shareholders were mainly FOX, the Murdoch Media Group, and IFP. This kind of small fry never reached the board. If it made money, what was there to debate? Murdoch's side greenlit it at once.
Did American TV have censorship? Of course. FCC rules were strict. The thing was, FOX here was a cable channel. Cable required a paid subscription or on-demand choice, meaning personal choice, basically private property.
Everyone knew, once something involved private property, everything but the tax office took a step back. The FCC didn't have the right to meddle. What Masked Singer aired wasn't in the FCC's lane.
Heat ruled all, though for some, it stung. Himalaya Horman was annoyed. He'd won twice in a row, but discussion barely touched him. It was all about Azazel.
So he met his best friend for food and a vent.
"You watching Masked Singer?" Horman asked over the main course.
"Of course. It's the hottest thing. I really like Azazel. His technique's insane," said Leighton, the seven man band's lead singer. A thought struck him. He could pretend to worship the guy and crush the rumor that he was a die-hard fan of that Chinese singer.
Hah, genius, Leighton grinned to himself.
"Anyone else you appreciate?" Horman pressed, not satisfied.
Leighton hadn't watched, so he answered bluntly, "The others, the other singers are pretty ordinary. Azazel's flawless from tone to technique. He's truly powerful. I respect singers like that."
"…" Horman.
Fuck. Damn Azazel. You'll bite it sooner or later. Eat shit.
Emperor Beast wasn't just stirring up storms in the West. He kept at it in Asia too.
The Asian Music Association headquarters sat on Justice Road in Central. Park Hoi was South Korean, but he lived in Hong Kong long term for work. His main job was music consultant for Jade Channel, plus associate professor for piano at the Hong Kong Asian Music Institute. The association presidency was just an add-on.
"This year's the worst economically in years… didn't I say that last year, and the year before?" Park Hoi muttered.
Bad economy meant companies underperformed, which meant sponsorships were hard to pull. They'd planned plenty at the start of the year, like taking the piano program into the mainland, but that all needed serious cash. A month or two passed with no movement.
Knock knock.
The tapping was a bit urgent. Park Hoi said "come in" in English. He'd lived in Hong Kong over ten years, spoke Cantonese and Mandarin, but in the association he loved using English.
Secretary Fang looked a little unsure. "President Park, our association inbox suddenly got a lot of applications."
The association had face, so plenty applied already. Reporting this, did something change?
"What's going on?" Park Hoi asked.
"You'll see when you log in," Secretary Fang said. He felt that even if he explained, the president wouldn't believe him.
Of course he knew the password. Three clicks later, the inbox loaded.
Applications to Join the Asian Music Association
The following individuals have submitted applications for membership:
Park Jinho (박진호)
Heo Man (허만)
Omori Genjin (大森元仁)
Hundreds of emails lined up. For a second, Park Hoi thought they'd been hacked. Flood the inbox with junk, block the hub, and the association would jam up.
Everyone knew the association inbox was a communications hub. If it broke, half their external work would seize up.
"The materials are complete," Secretary Fang added. "Very complete."
Complete?
How complete? He opened one, an application from his friend, Choi Mindo, a well-known heroic tenor in South Korea. The form was thorough. At a glance, Park Hoi saw no problem.
"These materials are all online. Easy enough to pull," he said.
Secretary Fang knew that. The question was, if this were a hacker dumping junk, would they bother to be this meticulous?
Park Hoi called his friend Choi Mindo. After three or four rings, the call connected. "Brother Park, I'm about to go on. I don't have time to talk. Please take care of the membership application." He hung up, a bit rude, and Park Hoi really did hear someone prompting him on the other end.
Please take care of the membership? So that application had been sent by Choi Mindo himself.
What about the others? He skimmed the hundred-plus emails. So many names were familiar.
Omori Genjin, current head of copyrights at Sony International. Of course he knew him. His own piano albums were under Sony, which meant Omori was technically his boss.
As a South Korean himself, Park Hoi knew the name Park Jinho even better. Founder of JPY, one of the big three in K-pop, an absolute giant.
Li Weiwen, Dang Thai Son, Sergey Brin, Rainbow's vocalist Sugimoto, and more. He didn't dare believe it. It was too wild.
"What on earth's going on?" he couldn't help asking.
If I knew, I wouldn't be reporting it, Secretary Fang thought. He didn't say that. He said, "President Park, do you personally know anyone else in the stack? If you do…"
Right, calling to confirm was best. He picked up Mr. Dang's number. Dang Thai Son was a top Asian pianist. Park Hoi had been lucky to collaborate with him before, and they'd exchanged contacts.
He could make a call and ask.