Elliot James Reay sings on stage at a Chinese live show. Photo: Courtesy of UMG
Elliot James Reay could have copied every other Western act and sung a Taylor Swift cover. Instead, he took 1950s rock'n'roll to a live TV show where autotune is switched off and discovered a version of fame that Britain has forgotten.
Elliot James Reay was traveling in the US, trying to finish a song, when his manager called. There was an invitation to join Singer 2026, a prime-time live music show in China. Reay didn't hesitate. He had traveled the world before he was a full-time musician, but had run out of money before reaching China. "I went everywhere but China," he said while sitting for an interview with the Global Times, sitting in the office of his label in Beijing, from which the Palace Museum can be seen not far away.
Reay is, in the West, a very 2020s kind of artist. He began posting short covers on short video platform TikTok in 2019; during the UK Covid lockdown, he chose to focus on growing his fan base. He now has millions of followers across platforms, and his debut single notched 10 million views before it was even released. In the British industry, this is both a leg-up and a trap. "You can have all the followers," he says, "but they don't guarantee people will buy tickets."
In China, that equation flipped.
Elliot James Reay sings on stage at a Chinese live show. Photo: Courtesy of UMG

Elliot James Reay sings on stage Photo: Courtesy of UMG
Nervous again
The Chinese show, Singer 2026 is broadcast completely live, with no pitch correction. For Reay, who had played enough small gigs to feel comfortable in his own skin, it was a shock. "I haven't felt nerves in a long time," he says. "But I've never been in a competition before. To have my singing judged against other people made me really nervous."
He watched Week One's performances from the wings and saw why. "The standard was terrifying," he says.
But the format, he admits, is something the UK no longer has: a televised singing contest that treats vocal ability as a public event, not a pre-packaged product. "It made me feel like I just started my career again."
Reay's lane is retro. Not as pastiche, but as lineage. He wears the silhouette of Elvis Presley, sings in the grain of 1950s pop, and writes songs that sound like they were cut from a Sun Records demo. He could have sanded it down for Chinese audiences, but he didn't.
"Someone has to start the wave before you can see it," he says. Among the songs he performed were "Unchained Melody" and his original track "I Think They Call This Love," which he co-wrote with his girlfriend. He points out that the Beatles still sit next to Taylor Swift on the radio, and that pop started in the 50s. "It's the foundations of pop," he says.
Learning to feel the words
In the final, Reay performed a bilingual version of the Chinese song "Hou Hui Wu Qi" (The End of the World). It was his first time singing in another language. He spent five days learning the Chinese lyrics, listening to the original on loop.
"There are sounds in Chinese we just don't have in English," he says. "I couldn't hear the difference at first. I'd say it, and Helen (his translator) would say, 'No.' I thought I was saying the same thing." Eventually, he stopped trying to hear it and started trying to feel it. "It became more about how it felt to say it. How I place my tongue in my mouth," he says.
He didn't understand the meaning until day three. "Helen gave me a card with the Chinese characters and the English translation. It's very poetic," he says. The performance received a strong reaction, with it being called an attempt at "cultural fusion."
He had saved his own original, "I Think They Call This Love," co-written with his girlfriend, for the same final. He had held the song back deliberately. "I knew that any week was my last week," he says, "but I knew that if I made it to the grand final that I had to do it then." He had no idea it would become the last song of the entire show.
When he finished, he walked straight off stage, took his girlfriend's hand, and the two of them left together, a moment that trended on Chinese social media that night.
The song is about the exact point they realized they were in love; it was also the first track of his career he fully believed in and pushed into the world. Having her there to watch it live, after weeks of her only seeing performances on a phone in a hotel room, "tied the whole thing in a bow at the end."
A touring musician, not a TikToker
Reay is open about the tension between his origin story and his ambition. "I don't want to be a TikTok celebrity," he says. "I'm a musician. I want to tour."
The platform gave him an audience, but it also boxed him in. He remembers friends who wrote incredible songs during lockdown, while he chose to build a fan base. Now, he says, some of those friends have had to stop writing and make TikTok videos instead.
China, he says, gave him permission to be both an online creator and a live performer. Universal Music, his label, didn't push him to chase trends. "They never said, 'Do this, do that,'" he says. "They supported what I wanted to sing, and then they made it the best version they could."
Before Reay, a string of international artists had already found warm receptions and career-shifting opportunities in China. Kazakhstani singer Dimash Kudaibergen, Malaysian star Shila Amzah, US country artist Mickey Guyton, British vocalist Jessie J, and French singer-songwriter Joyce Jonathan all won large Chinese audiences through high-profile television appearances and live performances, each using the platform to open a new chapter in their careers.
He's already planning a return. He wants to bring a tour. He wants to buy the traditional instruments he saw on set and take them home to England. "I'm going to learn how to play them," he says, "and maybe put them into my music."
The advice he'd give other Western artists looking East is to stay loyal to yourself. "Be yourself," he says. "It's very easy to want to change yourself to fit into a market, but at the end of the day, if you stay true to yourself, you'll be happy."
"In the UK, I felt like I needed to do other things to make other people happy," he says.
"If I hadn't stopped doing that, I wouldn't be sitting here. I wouldn't have done the show. My whole journey would be different," he says.
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B | 获奖者分别是坂口志文与北川进，前者与两位美国学者一道，获诺贝尔生理学或医学奖，后者与澳大利亚和美国两位学者一起获得化学奖。巧的是，坂口志文与北川进都与京都大学有关。北川进在京都大学任教，而坂口志文则于1976年毕业于京都大学医学院。进入21世纪以来，在被世人艳称的日本“诺奖井喷”现象中，京都大学与东京大学一道，双峰并立，先后有多人折桂诺奖，几乎到了拿奖拿到手软的地步。所以此次北川进获奖后，有自媒体报道，京都大学表现得很平常心，未见有高调的吹吹打打之举。为此，我特意去京都大学的网站看了一下，发现自媒体的这一说法基本可信，在网站上，对两位获奖者的报道分别各自只有一句话，确实低调得可以。

C | 从网站上我还发现，北川进还是京都大学的副校长，这倒是媒体报道时很少提到的。因为今年的两位获奖者都与京都大学有关，不禁让我回想起今年六月的日本之游，期间我与妻子曾用一天时间在京都大学转悠，一窥这所世界知名大学的风貌，留下了深刻印象。

D | 那是6月19日，吃过早饭，我们就坐地铁往左京区京都大学的方向赶去。在一般的旅游攻略上，都没有将京都大学纳入其中，但逛大学是我们多年来乐此不疲的兴趣，到京都，当然要到大名鼎鼎的京都大学去转一转。另外一个原因是，我从林文月的《京都一年》一书中读到，京都大学附近有一家“临川书店”，以服务于京都大学的师生为主，以好书多和价钱高而闻名，老板极有眼光，所售之书常常号称“仅此一家有”，如果一本老板认为“别家所无”的好书突然出现在别家，他会毫不迟疑地派人高价收购下来，以维持“物以稀为贵”的原则和自家书店的“信誉”，因此而往往使读书人恨得咬牙切齿而又无可奈何。作为爱书人，这样的书店，自然要去“朝拜”一下。不过，《京都一年》出版于1971年，我有点担心，半个多世纪了，这家书店是否还依然存在于这个世界上。在今出川通街出了地铁，步行两分钟左右，这个担心就烟消云散了——“临川书店”就在眼前，它不仅还在，似乎还活得不错，因为在它也就七八十平米多的店中，除了一名店员与经理外，中间还摆放着四张桌子，四个戴口罩的年轻人正在专注地工作。如此规模的书店而有这么多的员工，可见应该还活得不错。与经理聊起来才知道，“临川书店”创办于上个世纪20年代初，已经寿登百岁。

E | 后来一个月的日本游下来，有一天我们忽然悟到，原来在日本，百年老店并不稀奇，我对“临川书店”的担心是少见多怪了。

F | 从“临川书店”选了本书后，我们往京都大学进发，很快，就来到京都大学博物馆。京大博物馆创建于1997年，馆藏260万件标本及文物，是日本最大的大学博物馆。我们重点看了自然主题展区中的纳玛象头骨化石与三叶虫、恐龙化石及亚洲黑熊标本。但留下最深印象的，一是文化史展厅中的中国从殷商时代到明清时代的各种器物、钱币，实在是琳琅满目得令人心情复杂。另外一个，是博物馆进门后的大厅左手边的朝外窗户上，悬挂着16世纪朝鲜王朝国王李昖致当时日本国王的汉文国书原件（部分）。

G | 李昖在位41年（1567-1608年），他本人儒学造诣颇深，奉行“百花齐放”政策，故其执政时，朝鲜文化繁荣而有活力，出现了许多优秀的文学艺术家。但他不幸与日本强人丰臣秀吉生活在同一时代，1592年，丰臣秀吉兴兵入侵朝鲜，史称壬辰倭乱。李昖这封写给日本国王的信，字体娟秀，文辞古雅，因为不是信的全部，看不出具体的写信时间，但从信的内容看，应是李昖在丰臣秀吉兴兵入侵朝鲜后修书日本国王，表达谴责之意，信中写道：“日本国王殿下：交邦有道，自古而然。二百年来，海波不扬，何莫非天朝之赐，而敝邦亦何负于贵国也哉！壬辰之变，无故动兵，构祸极惨，而及先王丘墓，敝邦君臣痛心切骨，义不与贵国共载一天······”应李昖的请求，中国明朝出兵帮助朝鲜击败了壬辰倭乱，但无论对于朝鲜，还是对于明朝，这都是一场惨胜。明朝因投入不菲的人力、物力，削弱了自己的边防力量，这影响了其后来应对清兵的能力，一定程度上为覆亡埋下了伏笔。李昖这封信，其珍贵性不言而喻，但展示在博物馆大厅的入口附近，却不免显得有些奇怪。不知博物馆方面是基于何种考虑而如此布置，但眼前这封浸透了四百多年历史烟云的信，一睹之下，着实令人感慨遥深。东亚国家间的这种复杂的互动与相克相生，何其源远流长，而其中的一些戏码，仍未退出历史舞台，思之不禁有动于中。告别博物馆，向南步行几分钟后，来到京大侧门。进入校园后，立时感觉满目清凉。一座座古朴的红砖楼沉静地掩映于苍翠的树木之间，行走期间，绝少见机动车的影子，楼前楼后倒是一片自行车的海洋。

H | 这天是周四，距日本大学的暑假还有一个多月，上午时分，校园内却人影寥寥。我们继续向南，不知不觉间，来到了著名的面对学校正门的钟楼前。钟楼的东侧，有一棵挺拔高大、枝叶蓊郁的古树，树下立有一座石碑，立于大正十二年，也即1923年，碑文为时任京都大学校长荒木寅三郎撰写，记述此树由捐赠人德富淇水于20年前捐赠，碑文中感叹，立碑之时，捐赠者已“归道山而树则蔚然曰硕茂，使过者永怀遗教焉。”德富淇水是日本著名右翼思想家德富苏峰之父，不太清楚他有何思想垂教后世。京大校徽上的樟树图案，不知是否与此树有关。德富苏峰是日本扩张主义的积极鼓吹者，二战后被列为甲级战犯，而作为西医、教育家的荒木寅三郎，有个臭名昭著的女婿——731部队首恶石井四郎。尽管我心里清楚，株连要不得，但荒木寅三郎的这些社会关系，不由得不让人产生“刮目相看”之感。钟楼内有京大校史馆，我们在此盘桓了一个多小时，对京都大学的历史有了粗略的了解。它创办于1897年，是继东京帝国大学（现东京大学）后日本创立的第二所公立大学，起初校名为京都帝国大学，创办之初的目标是培养自然科学人才，后来发展为综合性大学。

I | 虽然是公立学校，但京都大学却处处高举学术自由的大旗，不到四百字的学校办学理念阐述中，“自由”一词出现了三次。在京大的发展历史上，也的确可歌可泣地为学术自由奋斗过，最著名的，是1933年的“泷川幸辰事件”。泷川幸辰是法学院教授，他在自己的专著中对“通奸罪”只适用于妻子提出批判，遭到一些政治势力的攻击，并被指有马克思主义倾向。校方屈服于教育部的压力，对泷川幸辰做出停职处理，结果法学院师生群起抵制，多名教授提出辞呈。这一事件，成为京大历史上耀眼的篇章，至今，无论是校史馆，还是京大的官方宣传材料上，都不惜篇幅对这一事件做浓墨重彩的介绍，法学院师生聚集一处，宣读教授集体辞职的照片，成为京大校史中的经典图像。1949年，著名电影导演黑泽明根据此一事件拍成故事片《我对青春无悔》，更让京大人对学术自由的追求彪炳史册。战争中的京都大学是无法回避的篇章。校史馆中，对此有专章介绍。二战后期，随着日军在战场上的失利，京都大学的学生开始被征召走上前线，先后有两百多名在校生死于战场，“神风特工队”中也有京大的学生。校史中对战争的措辞是简略而暧昧的，它没有谴责军国主义，也没有表达对年轻生命的陨落的痛惜，只是说，许多学生之所以义无反顾地走上战场，并非是为国家或天皇而战，而只是为自己热爱的家庭与美丽的京都而战，给人的感觉，仿佛是日本遭受了侵略一般。不过，陈列柜中有一封战死学生的家书原件，给我留下很深印象，信中表示，不惧怕死亡，但同时也流露出对生命的无限留恋之情。事实上，据《真相：裕仁天皇与侵华战争》（赫伯特·比克斯著，新华出版社2004年出版）一书揭载，日本战败后，京都大学的年轻学生们很快就掀起觉醒的反战浪潮。1951年10月，裕仁天皇准备启程访问京都及其他三个县。1000多名京都大学的学生举行和平集会，他们发出致“人间天皇”的《公开信》，把矛头对准了重整军备：“我们不得不承认，你现在，在单独讲和与重整军备的日本，还想像过去那样，作为战争意识的支柱发挥作用。”11月12日，当裕仁出现在京都大学时，迎接他的是一幅巨大的条幅，上书：“在曾经是神的你的手上，我们的先辈在战场上被杀死。请你绝对不要再次成为‘神’。请不要让我们再听‘海之声’”。

J | 可惜，这样的光荣篇章，缺席于京都大学的校史馆中。带着些微失望的情绪，走出校史馆。我本以为，高举自由旗帜的大学，应该对战争抱持鲜明的反思与批判精神，而在京大校史馆，我并没有看到这些。

K | 不过，尽管对待历史是暧昧的，但我还是得说，在现实的京大校园中，不难领略自由之风的吹拂。在钟楼右前方，我们遇到一辆彩色的流动小吃车，与经营者年轻的夫妇聊起来，知道他们来自大阪，是几天前临时申请到京大校园内售卖小吃的。如此高雅的象牙塔，却允许流动小贩进入，这令我们不免称奇。而京大的正门，矮小低调，无人守卫，任人自由出入，更令我们产生“友邦惊诧”之感。