Even Washed-Up Idols Are Still Idols?
Is it that even faded idols are still idols? Or maybe it's not for us, but for the celebrities judging the auditions. I never dreamed they'd have airport-style security scanners here too.
Of course, to prevent any more scandals, they'd scrape together funds that didn't even exist. If a terrorist incident broke out here, it wouldn't just be the fate of the program at stake—the entire Snet channel could vanish.
"Mr. Seo Hyun-woo. That's all your phones handed over, right?"
"Yes."
"If you have a second phone or a mini-camera, turn it in now. If we find anything after this point, you'll be ejected without exception, no excuses."
"I don't."
"Alright. You can go through."
Unlike his intimidating words, the security guard waved me past with mechanical efficiency, looking annoyed to even bother.
"They're really going all out."
Right next to me, an alarm beeped at the scanner, and the guard nabbed a hardcore fanboy. The guy squirmed, neck grabbed, insisting his innocence, but the guard wasn't having it.
"Hey, what's this?"
"I'm telling you, I'm a composer. Really... this is just for my personal YouTube footage..."
"YouTube activity is banned too. Number 763, you even bought beats and submitted them, right? You're a composer?"
"Argh, yes! I told you. Seriously..."
The guard checked the SD card from the confiscated camera.
"Then what's with all these idol photos? You're a sasaeng fan, aren't you?"
More guards swarmed the flailing guy, and only when a production FD showed up did things wrap up.
"Thorough as hell."
As thorough as the checks were the ironclad plans they'd set up. If my memory served, this was the second prelim of the Supreme Beat Contest. Producers and players form teams—that's the core.
First round: document screening, beats submitted by composers. Those had already been distributed to players who'd passed docs.
Players listen to the uploaded beats, and if one catches their ear, they can propose teaming up with its composer. Composers can reject offers if the player doesn't vibe.
Assuming offers keep rolling in within the production-set time limit. Fail to pair up? Both player and composer get cut. No forced matches from staff—it's a waste of time. More footage of failures? Nah, doesn't benefit production at all.
Cutting aggressively if you can't handle it? Smart strategy.
With the knife-edge tension of 'elimination,' the crew would no doubt squeeze out some devilish editing gold.
Hey, shooting hasn't even started properly, and already managers—who must've overheard cue sheets somewhere—are salivating like hyenas at skilled composers.
"...One slip, and they'll snatch 'em."
By the end of Supreme Beat Contest, I'd memorized the top 10 players from 1st to 10th. From those 10 teams, I'd narrow to ones fitting my concept.
Truth is, teams with real synergy for me? Maybe 3 or 4 at best. No room for leisure.
"Problem is whether those guys pick me."
The footage that eats up the most airtime? Melodrama that tugs heartstrings. Cliché, boring, overdone. Viewers curse it out, but in Korea, only melodrama lights a fire in people's chests.
And among the top 10, the one best for milking 'melodrama'? That boy group over there chattering away—Catnip. Perfect recognition and fandom for a recycle-bin show, with real skills.
I'd uploaded a beat for a crowd-pleasing, sharp military dance track they'd love.
Catnip's visuals ace. Hyun-seo turned, waving to fans who'd come cheer in the arena stands. Roaring cheers erupted.
"Waaaaah! Oppa!"
"See? Not bad, right?"
Compared to top contenders like pre-fab favorites Kang Hyo-jeong or K, way less competition. As an 'underdog' twist for TV? Solid card for me.
"If Catnip flops, Band Plaster Saints works too."
In a flood of idols, their unique 'band' niche secures steady screen time. Breaking the mold, Plaster Saints could even dance.
I glanced around. Minus that booted sasaeng, 892 producers ahead of me.
Issue: how to stand out among this horde? That's key.
Pssshhh—!
Once all waiting outside cleared ID checks and entered the arena, filming kicked off. Dry ice smoke billowed first.
Tat-tat-tak.
Lights sequentially lit the arena interior. Only the central stage glowed bright.
Electric doors parted; a lift rose from below.
"Alriiiight! Right here, right now! Smack in the heart of Seoul, Korea—making hearts pound across the nation!"
Supreme Beat Contest main MC Joo Seong-hwan burst in with cringey-but-pumped lines.
"Hello! I'm Joo Seong-hwan, the 'Admin' hosting Supreme Beat Contest!"
Clap clap clap!
No cue needed; immersion sparked spontaneous applause echoing through the arena.
Stunned by the welcome, Joo Seong-hwan amped up, driving the show.
"Great to see you all!"
He scanned the arena.
"Whoa, amazing. So many supported and showed up for this battle!"
VJs hustled, capturing composers and players. Top picks already had dedicated cams assigned ages ago.
"In life, no one handles everything solo."
Glancing at his cue sheet, Joo continued.
"Music's the same. Most've guessed, but in Supreme Beat Contest, stage-strutting players team with composers. One team, original squad—prep tracks, build stages. Yep."
He nodded, peeking back.
"And we, with our national producer panel, judge 'em."
As his line wrapped, smoke rose.
"Introducing the judges for Supreme Beat Contest!"
Backstage doors opened; five strode out like Power Rangers.
Old enough for production now: 2nd-gen idol rep Jay-Q.
Composer rep I knew: 'Bitboy'.
K-pop choreo vet who'd done routines for most girl groups: 'Jang'.
Vocalist Kim Do-won.
And the show's comic relief, variety judge overseeing management: Park Dong-gu.
Main judging panel—the faces of Supreme Beat Contest—fully revealed.
"Hello, Jay-Q here!"
"Hi, Bitboy handling composition."
...
Joo's slick flow sped through intros. The backdrop—thought to be a wall—flashed the time limit.
Fast pace I knew, but straight to it? Wild.
120 minutes.
Arena full of thousands froze in shock.
"Ah, why the faces? Something wrong?"
Fire across the river, he smirks.
"Oh, this? No biggie. Time limit."
120:00 started counting down.
Composed folks cracked, screaming, panicking, milling in chaos. Production loved it—drones captured the traffic jam.
Joo explained coolly, like it was someone else's mess.
"These two hours? 120 minutes. Make that 119 now. Short or long, challengers—what to do?"
Sharp ones already moved as he spoke.
"To show stages to national producers? Build 'em, craft songs."
MC pose to main cam.
"By show's end, players and composers team up for killer stages, right?"
Turned; display showed team rules.
"Details here."
No one listened. Players, composers—scrambling for saviors to pass this round.
"Oh, and you know? These 2 hours aren't just for teaming."
I knew the kicker, but damn, so smug.
"Precious time to prep your first stage too."
As zombies swarmed the arena, someone grabbed my arm.
"Hey!"
***
A burly adult dude yanked my arm.
"Hey!"
"Yeah?"
Turning, eyes met. He sized my face, muttering.
"Fuck."
Heard that, asshole.
Embarrassed check: Back view screamed prime player, huh? Looked decent from behind?
"...Composer, right?"
"Yeah."
Confirmation kill; he dropped my arm, bolted for next target. I had to hustle too.
Picture in my head? Others might share it.
Hey, semi-famous Catnip? Composers already pitching hard. Some legit names too.
"Too late?"
Quit while slicing cabbage, sure—but more than the entry line snaked toward Catnip.
"Nah."
No guarantee they'd bite; just waste time on Catnip.
Pass on Catnip.