Rock Chronicle Lost Him Several Ferraris, Yet He Says It's Not a Failure
The 1994 Hong Kong Red Hill concert is the pilgrimage site of Chinese rock. No one was organizing a pilgrimage-level show anymore, so he decided to put one on himself. After signing the artists and fixing the dates, he still didn't know which city it would land in. He lost several Ferraris' worth of money, and when the industry asked why, he said that as long as he could cross off his wish list, it wasn't a failure.
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The Chronicle was forced into being, not planned from readiness
The starting point of the Rock Chronicle was that a fan wanted to see a pilgrimage-level show that no one was organizing anymore, so he decided to do it himself. When it came to execution, he signed the artists first, fixed the dates, and only then looked for a city and venue, with just over two months to go. A friend told him outright to prepare for losing 10 million yuan. He had no confidence in how fans would receive it, but he believed he wasn't alone—he'd done hundreds of shows over twenty-plus years, and the only thing he'd never been sure about was ticket sales. Many things in his life work this way: fix the goal first, then force yourself to find the path.
— Ma ZhiyongThe moment tickets go on sale decides a show's fate
Lao Ma says a concert isn't like software or a film: after launch, you can still turn things around with iterations and word of mouth. From ticket sales to the show is only a month, and how tickets sell in that month basically sets the outcome—there's rarely a reversal. So he believes the first 80% of a project is determined by the initial planning, and all the overtime and extra effort afterward can at most push the score from 80 to 85 or 90. To keep the content from shrinking, he kept adding elements, eventually making it two days with 12 acts, each nearly the scale of a solo concert—adding one act means adding a team of ten to twenty people and their costs.
— Ma ZhiyongPoor ticket sales, but he won't pay to fill seats
The second stop in Yancheng was colder than the first, with many empty seats. Some suggested using technical tricks to fill the venue, saying 'it'll be lively and no one will know.' He rejected it outright: inviting people who don't love rock to fill seats would affect the mood of those who truly love the music, and that would be the most failed product. He said that as the main investor, the loss only hurt himself, so there was no need to put on a show. He also explained that the two lineups seemed repetitive, but after deduplication, only about 27% overlapped; the loss was due to the May Day holiday being unfriendly to middle-aged fans, the broader economic downturn, and travel diversion, but all service aspects had been iterated.
— Ma ZhiyongEvery edition costs the team several members
This is a project with extremely high emotional cost: no reverse gear, no room for error. After the first day, he reviewed the night and smashed his office; looking back, he admits that was losing control. Every time he runs the Chronicle, several team members leave—those who don't understand leave, those who do stay. He attributes his anxiety outburst to 'losing control': at the time he only thought about responsibility for the event, not whether the salaries employees received could bear such pressure. During the first edition, there were five or six hurdles where he felt it really couldn't go on, involving last-minute demands from artists as well as various noises from partners and the industry.
— Ma ZhiyongThe Chronicle, a big book, shouldn't have a sequel
After the show, many cities invited him to replicate the IP, promising to bear the ticket risk themselves, but he refused all of them. Reason one: the rock market can't support a tour of 'ten or eight stops.' Reason two: replication would kill its uniqueness. He compares the Chronicle to a book with an end—at most it could go to 3.0, but likely only to 2.0. He says he never expected to make money from it, nor does he need a success to prove anything; if someone in the future can carry the IP, the trademark and related assets are in his hands, and he's willing to hand them over.
— Ma ZhiyongA 3 million yuan fee can't bring back 300,000 yuan in ticket sales
Facing runaway artist fees, he created a new 'de-artist-ified' product, the Laifu Island Lifestyle Festival, and cited an inverted ledger: some artists quote 3 million yuan but can only drive 300,000 yuan in ticket sales—promoters really can't swallow that. So he shifted the project's focus from the band lineup to the experience itself: water fights, Disney-style parades, islander stages, affordable drinks, capping the scale at 5,000 to 8,000 people, with 8,000 as the limit, never chasing tens of thousands. He says it can be a small, beautiful, zero-complaint, instantly sold-out, repeatable lifestyle brand, complementing the non-replicable IP of the Chronicle.
— Ma ZhiyongFrom 700 festivals down to a hundred, the market is due for a shakeout
He offers a brutal industry curve: before the pandemic, China had about 100 to 180 music festivals a year; at the peak, it surged to over 700, several times more. With so many festivals, lineups become copy-paste, and audiences get fatigued—'even good food, if you eat lobster every day, you'll get sick of it.' He predicts continued contraction: last year it was already halved, and on top of that, about 50% of this year's festivals have been canceled or postponed. Only two types will survive: localized local scenes, and promoters with strong IP and reputation who truly care about the fan experience.
— Ma ZhiyongAI can write every style, but not my tears
Lao Ma says that last year he organized a global AI songwriting competition. Technically, you can ask AI to write in any style, but he hasn't heard a single song that moved him to tears or made his hair stand on end. He believes traditional creation is writing a song to move many people, while AI, to truly move someone, must enter a person's memory, experiences, and hobby database to craft a piece unique to them. He himself has started using AI as a creative assistant: having it first gather corporate culture, slogans, and materials, then he organizes them into lyrics—but he won't let AI produce the final product directly, because that isn't creation.
— Ma ZhiyongIn their own words · checked verbatim
The moment tickets go on sale is like the moment my product hits the market. ... In one month, whatever it is, it is—you have no chance to turn it around.
你开票那一刹那，就相当于我产品上市那一刹那。…你一个月是怎么样就怎么样，你完全没有翻盘的机会。
Ma Zhiyong33:46
My child is born—whether it's beautiful or ugly, whether it has congenital defects, you know at that moment.
我的孩子出生了，是美是丑，是不是有先天学现，你那个时候就知道了。
Ma Zhiyong37:22
When I was young, I believed I could do anything. Now I believe that was just luck.
我年轻时候相信我做什么都行，现在我相信那只是运气。
Ma Zhiyong3:17:04
Figures
| Number of headliners at the first Rock Chronicle | 12 acts, two days roughly equal to 12 concerts | 20:16 |
| Longest single-day performance duration at Rock Chronicle | about 10 hours | 23:17 |
| Estimated probability of loss for Shenzhen stop if held as scheduled | Lao Ma estimates 99% chance of no loss | 1:07:51 |
| Lineup overlap between second and first stops | about 27% | 58:34 |
| Comparison of some artists' appearance fees to ticket sales they can drive | 3 million yuan fee only brings 300,000 yuan in ticket sales | 2:37:20 |
| Single-event cap for Laifu Island Lifestyle Festival | 5,000-8,000 people | 2:40:11 |
| Change in annual number of music festivals nationwide | about 100-180 before the pandemic, peaking at over 700 | 2:42:33 |
| Expected cancellation/postponement rate for music festivals in 2026 | about 50%, and that's on top of last year's halving | 2:43:13 |
How to listen
For teams that plan and promote live shows, music company operators, and anyone who cares about how the live performance industry is being reshaped by cycles and AI.
If you want to jump straight to the industry analysis, start at 2:37:20, where he discusses Laifu Island and the festival market. The earlier part is more personal, about his operations and anxiety.