Fox is a network stitched together after a media tycoon bought six stations, then linked up with 105 independents. Coverage and ratings across North America are solid.
The taping's at 4144 Lankershim Street in North Hollywood. Staff handle all pickup and drop off, since The Masked Singer lives on secrecy. During recording, tons of reporters and indie vloggers try to sneak shots. The show feeds the hype itself, claiming it's "the most tightly kept variety show in history."
With staff guiding him, Chu Zhi reaches the dressing room. He needs a codename, and it can't be "Big Demon King," that's too on the nose.
Go chuunibyou, or keep it normal?
"Let's keep it normal. I'll go with Azazel, the chief of the fallen angels in Paradise Lost," he murmurs. On the label alone, no one can guess where he's from. When the mask lifts, then it'll hit.
The Emperor Beast knows the art of cool.
Korean, Chinese, American, all three versions of The Masked Singer feel different. Which one's best is all taste, but the U.S. version crushes the other two on costumes.
Unlike the Chinese and Korean shows, where a paper hood or plastic mask gets it done, the U.S. team goes all in.
Once Chu Zhi picks the codename, a stylist and five prop artists huddle up and get to work. Three hours later, they've built a full set.
A demon helm with ram horns. A white feathered battle suit. A pair of black wings on his back. From the outside he looks like a raid boss from a game, the kind that wants to end the world if you blink wrong.
Stylist Adam minds the details. Asian builds differ from Western builds, so he pads the shoulders inside the suit.
Bottom line, it looks great and hides everything. You won't get the awkward domestic version where anyone can see it's White Prism and the judges still pretend they don't know it's Hacken Lee.
"Perfect," Adam says, admiring his work. Feathers quiver when he lifts an arm, and the black wings shiver when he spreads both arms, like a raven carrying news of death.
In Adam's head, it's simple, this look alone boosts his win chances by twenty percent.
Well, a few hours earlier, he thought the exact same thing for another contestant.
If everyone gets plus twenty, does anyone get a boost? Ask a math PhD.
"Mr. Azazel, I hope you leave a beautiful stage tonight," Adam says.
"Thanks," he replies.
He lifts the helm to drink some water, then puts it back on and follows staff to record clue lines.
Clue lines are mandatory. Each contestant has to drop hints for the audience and four panelists.
"In Hebrew, Azazel means 'strong one of God.' I wanted a powerful name, so I'll sing even more powerfully."
"I can play a bunch of instruments, harp, piano, violin."
"I'll change my vocal style so neither viewers nor panelists will think, 'I've heard this before.' To be honest, a quarter of the planet's probably heard my songs."
His voice runs through a vocoder, so it comes out like an electronic ghost. Per rules, he gives three vague hints.
Four hundred lucky audience members file in. Taping's about to start.
Season seven of the U.S. Masked Singer keeps the old rules. Six starters, head to head, one reveal per week.
The starters are Red Lion, Magician, Footballer, Azazel, Himalaya, and the Elephant Without Tusks.
Just on visuals, Red Lion edges Azazel, then the rest. The red mane mask and cloak look like a king of beasts on parade.
Under the mask is Anna Goran from Florida, a singer Time named one of the 100 most influential people in 2018. She's got four platinum albums and once coached on The Voice. Early thirties, she's a legit vocal powerhouse.
Elephant Without Tusks and Magician are crossovers. The elephant is MLB Red Sox ace Ted. Magician is Nevis, an Emmy winning comedian. These picks are there to show their faces later.
The remaining "mountain" and "ball player" are pros. Himalaya's a literal peak on his head, crazy recognizable, and he's one of the most distinctive rappers around, Hulk Holman, who can't stop swearing for five minutes straight.
By coincidence, Footballer has crossed paths with Chu Zhi too. Dangers Danny, "Cannon Danny" in the States, bumped into him on some French show.
All told, season seven's first slate is strong, Emmy plus AMAs plus Grammys plus a new era sales king.
Speaking of awards, the anti-Asian bias in Western entertainment's real. The Man Gazed By God and All Nations, Vol. 1 sold insanely well. In Asia, he took every music craft award he should. In the West, the VMAs tossed him a token, and Billboard's data awards had to give him trophies because his numbers were too big to ignore.
Wang Yuan's ranted more than once about the bias. The Emperor Beast doesn't mind. He expected it. Poetry needs juries to anoint it. Music doesn't. If it sounds good, people know.
When his name awareness equals MJ or Elvis in the West, the shame won't be the singer's for lacking awards, it'll be on the award bodies for missing him.
Tatta!
The cameras click alive.
Sound and lights are on point. Entrances are a wolf's maw and a serpent's gape on either side of the stage.
The wolf's Fenrir, jaws to the heavens. The snake's Jormungandr. Their claws and tail cradle a leaf shaped stage.
Whoosh, applause rolls in.
Two plumes of CO₂ shoot up at the lip of the stage, and the host strides to center.
"Welcome to The Masked Singer. This show doesn't make people famous. Our masked singers already are, they're Hall of Fame athletes, Grammy winners, comedians. From now on, we're all detectives. We'll slice through layers of music to reveal the truth behind the mask."
Nick booms, "You're all part of the game!"
Nick's Black, a veteran MC for tons of shows, including America's Got Talent. He's great at stoking a crowd. A few lines and it's like he's thrown dry wood on a hot stove.
The U.S. format's like Korea's, but way faster. Korea runs around ninety minutes. The U.S. squeezes it into just over forty.
So after a few lines of rules and the weekly unmask, they bring out the first matchup.
"Himalaya" Holman versus "Magician" Nevis. After their intro reels, the panel starts guessing.