In the summer of 2024, my father invited me to play “Er Quan Ying Yue” (The Moon Reflecting in Erquan Pool) with him. He recorded our performance and uploaded the video to Douyin, the Chinese equivalent of TikTok. Two weeks later, he was thrilled to share some surprising news with me: the video had garnered over 1,000 views. He said, “I used to dream of having another recital before I die, but organizing one is too complicated. Even if I managed it, I’d be lucky to have 300 people in the audience. But now, thanks to social media, more than 1,000 people have listened to my music. Why would I—or anyone—bother organizing a traditional concert anymore?”
I guess he was broken every time he organized a concert. It wasn’t just about the effort or the expense—it was the vulnerability of pouring himself into something and not knowing if anyone truly cared. He never minded that his performances didn’t generate income; he was even grateful that some people had spent their time with his music. It’s a privilege to have a mindset like that, but even though, the attempt to build a connection with the audience often leads to disappointment.
Not long after that, I noticed something strange in my own music streaming account. I had received around $230 from various platforms. For two years, I hadn’t checked my earnings because they were always below the minimum withdrawal threshold. Curious, I assumed that perhaps I’d gradually built a small fan base. But when I checked the data, I realized I hadn’t. Most of my tracks had only a handful of plays, except for one. That single song had been played 32,314,172 times.
At first, I felt a rush of excitement. How did this happen? Was it a sign that I’d made something truly impactful? But as I dug deeper, I realized the most likely explanation: the song had been used as background music for someone’s short video. It wasn’t that people were intentionally listening to it—they were simply scrolling past, and the algorithm kept playing it over and over.
We’ve long known that streaming platforms make individual artists less visible because users rely on algorithms instead of actively choosing tracks. It’s also no secret that these platforms pay artists very poorly, often a fraction of a cent per play.
But what frustrates me even more is the way people consume music now. It feels like music has become a low-priority backdrop for multitasking. Sure, people might spend more total time with music, but how much of that time are they truly engaged? Most of the time, it seems to fade into the background.
When I first saw the 32 million plays, I was excited for a moment. I even thought about sharing the news with my father. But knowing what truly excites him—the connection between musician and listener—I don’t think he would find any joy in this hollow achievement. The truth would only disappoint him, and I couldn’t bear to explain it all.
This year, I accomplished several things my father never thought I could: I started teaching regularly at two German colleges, got mentioned in a local newspaper for my work, and kept an independent music label running for two years. But none of these things were what he imagined.
The teaching? It’s not the stable, prestigious position he pictured—no fixed contract, no travel allowance, no office, and sometimes the students don’t even show up. The newspaper? It’s not the kind of press he respects; barely anyone reads it these days, especially people my age. For most of them, newspapers are just relics from the past. And the label? To him, the concept of releasing music independently doesn’t compute. “Don’t you need permission to release a CD?” he once asked.
My song was played 32,314,172 times, but aside from about 200 euros, it brought me nothing else. I didn’t become more famous or respected, and it didn’t make my parents proud. It made me realize that I might never make my parents happy—not because I lack achievements, but because the standards they use to measure success and happiness no longer align with the world I live in.
Like my other accomplishments this year, the 32 million plays didn’t change my life. I’m still as lost as a student sitting for an exam that keeps changing its rules. And today, I must admit: I don’t know if there’s anything truly life-changing at all.
Dong Zhou 