"Qianli Zhi Wai" ("A Thousand Miles Away") is pure Chu Zhi style—rhymes that hit effortlessly, his signature ai endings. From Chrysanthemum Terrace, the pattern was already emerging.
I've criticized many so‑called "Gu‑style" works that lean on archaic words like "li nian" or "hong chen" just to seem lofty—and end up clunky.
Using terms like "lian nian," "hong chen," "sān shēng sān shì," doesn't make it truly Gu‑style. When I voiced this, some listeners sent me colorful comments. I've wanted to write about this, and with Qianli Zhi Wai out today, here's proof: lyrics don't need to force archaic phrases to feel elegant. Lines like "This future, as thin as cicada wing, cannot bear anyone's dissection," or "Where does the zither's sound come from, life and death remain unknown—you wait a lifetime"—are poetic and graceful on their own.
He even nails it like in "Night's Seventh Chapter," singing in two tones: a hushed rap and a cool head‑voice mix. The rap becomes seamless in the song, not jarring.
The composition sticks to his "three-old, three-new" formula. Qianli Zhi Wai uses the traditional pentatonic scale in D mode (Qingyue Gong). In simple terms: D, E, F♯, G, A, B, C♯, D. Those with musical background will know what I mean.
What surprised me most was the arrangement—he actually opens with bianzhong (bronze bells). Bianzhong date back to the Western Zhou, one of China's oldest instruments. Every time Chu Zhi blends traditional and modern sounds, it's a match made in heaven.
In fact, on "I'm the Creator," I was nervous. Chrysanthemum Terrace was the peak of new‑style Gu music. Now my heart has settled—it wasn't a one‑off. Chu Zhi has delivered again with Qianli Zhi Wai.
He aced composition, lyric, and arrangement—the founding father of the new Gu style has handed in a perfect exam paper. Chu Zhi and I both hope for more great works like this.
Why do some call Zuo Yao Fei Xing "not worth a glance," while others praise Zhang Mingyi or Gu Duofu? The first two are understandable: one's a bootlicker, the other a lone wolf. But Fei Xing often ends his reviews with "you all have musical literacy," leaving critics hanging mid‑point.
He's also repeatedly started "review‑storms" on Gu songs, firing lines like "90 percent of Gu songs make no sense" or "Hand me a middle‑school Mandarin book and I'll teach you how to write." No surprise, in the latest reviews he's at it again.
"You trash Zuo Yao Fei Xing's words!"
"Seriously? Are Chu Zhi's lyrics easy to write? What about 'Night's Seventh Chapter' or 'Nan Nian De Jing'? Why compare those with ordinary Gu songs? Fei Xing is just being mean."
"'Liu nian'? 'Hong chen'? Did you choose those words to pick a fight?"
"He compared 'Brother Jiu' to Internet Gu songs—how dare he?"
Many fans of Gu music were triggered, flocking to tear down Fei Xing. Sure, many Gu songs are indeed clumsy—but that's no reason to lambaste Chu Zhi in the same breath.
In entertainment, many flood in to ride trends, but Chu Zhi is widely respected: he reads a lot, speaks Russian and Japanese, his image is deeply rooted as knowledgeable—not just a flash in the pan. So those attacked by Fei Xing just shrugged—who is Chu Zhi? He studies daily for 3–4 hours, so what's the problem?
The three big music critics—Zuo Yao Fei Xing, Zhang Mingyi, Gu Duofu—bring different styles. Yao Fei Xing and Mingyi are sharp‑targeted reviewers; Duofu is more well‑rounded, given his program work.
One column titled "He Dropped an Album, the Music Scene Went Silent" might sound hyperbolic—but not really.
Chu Ci is the earliest anthology of romantic poetry, the root of romantic literature. And Chu Ci · Ju Song is the foundation of the modern Gu style.
From "New Drunken Concubine," "The Unspoken Sutra," "Old Immortal," "Dreaming of Swords and Blades," "She Married," "Drunken Red Cliff," "Qingming Rain," "Materia Medica," "Chrysanthemum Terrace," "A Thousand Miles Away," "Crossing Over," "Returning to Tang Dynasty"—twelve tracks. Chu Zhi pushes the boundaries of the new Gu style: spoken interlude in "She Married," Beijing opera vibes in "New Drunken Concubine," chant‑style rhythms in "The Unspoken Sutra,," folk tune fusion in "Old Immortal." He's encompassed every element that can dance with Gu style.
He blends rock, metal, wuxia, jazz, pop, rap and traditional—all in perfect symbiosis.
Chu Zhi designed the framework of new Gu style. He shaped its boundaries. Thanks to Chu Zhi, this album stirred life into a stagnant music scene. Since "Chu Ci: Ode to the Orange," no new Gu masterpiece could break free from its shadow.
His album title and content are unified—the man named Chu Zhi wields the power of true musical dominion.
Gu Duofu praised it highly—professionals praise it: "source of the new Gu style."
Chu Zhi didn't intend to pioneer anything—yet, per Duofu, it makes perfect sense.
A famous Gu‑style fan "Xingxing Bie Shui A" commented:
"I totally love the spoken part in 'She Married'—like Su Shi's Jiangchengzi: 'Last night in dreams I returned home…' I'm obsessed."
(That fan once tipped 3 million RMB during a livestream and skyrocketed in fame.)
Chu Zhi's fame outshines every big budget drama and film. Even with promotion on TikTok and Weibo, the buzz of "Little Fruits" and casual listeners crowned Chu Zhi · Chu Ci: Ode to the Orange as the clear champion.
What does true dominance sound like? Nine songs in the new‑song top 10, seven in the hot‑song chart top 10. That is dominance.
His triumph at home sparked interest abroad too.
A Thai influencer wrote (in Thai): "Chu Zhi's new album songs are so good."
And from other countries—his personal charisma drew attention. They found his Instagram and Twitter; Thai & Japanese trainees from FNC Entertainment became fans too. Despite no official foreign promotion, fans discovered him organically.
A student in the forum signed up:
"…I want to be an idol…After seeing brother Jiu, I realized high‑school classes don't help. An idol needs singing, dancing, songwriting…"
Replies of caution flooded in—the usual "finish school first" advice.
But not him: "If there's survivor bias, then obviously someone makes it. Why not me?" and "I don't aim to equal brother Jiu's success. Half his success is enough."
Their studio's APP department flagged the thread. Two staff—Lv Ying and Lao Gou—delivered reports urgently: this was "A‑level" importance—just under the top S‑level project (China‑Japan‑Korea showcase).
Chu Zhi personally called the student, "Wang Bo," nominated "Aya Aya Want to be an Idol." He spoke gently, reminded him of knowledge's power: memorize one poem daily from age ten to eighteen—three thousand poems—to build substance.
He encouraged Wang Bo to study through high school and university—writing songs later for him. Wang Bo promised: "I'll write the best Gu‑style song for brother Jiu."
For obsessive fans like "Little Fruits," idols' influence is massive. "Disciple crops" are his constant support.
Chu Zhi's first comeback album 25117 launched his fame. The second, Chu Ci: Ode to the Orange rocketed him into superstardom.
Let's put aside critic and fan praise: half the tracks went viral; every song is high quality.
Lyric highlights from the album:
All rhymed 'ai' so "ai" = love in Qianli Zhi Wai…so romantic
I used to think rap was aggression, drugs, money…then Brother Jiu proved it can be love, classical, dreams, beauty
If Qu Yuan and Li Bai did rock music, it'd be like this
"An de guang sha qian wan jian…" gave me goosebumps—Brother Jiu is my lifelong safety net
Nine of his songs ranked in the top‑ten new‑song chart; seven in the hot‑song chart. That's total rule.
Abroad, too, his charisma sparked international fanbases—even without official channels. FNC entertainment trainees from Japan, Thailand, and Korea became fans via his social media.
His studio is now setting up an Asian promotion network, which might surpass their parent company.