A4 Concepts and Agency Allure
In Myeongjeon's hands—now part of the agency—three sheets of paper fluttered. They held the concept proposals each member had submitted for their full-length album. Hyeona thought it was hilariously old-man-like to print them out on A4 paper just to read, but she kept that to herself.
"Huh?"
"No, I mean, not that bad..."
Seoha jumped in to defend herself, but Myeongjeon looked downright offended at the words.
"What do you mean 'not that bad'? What? When brainstorming an album concept, you at least need genre, musical direction, overall vibe..."
Myeongjeon set down Seoha's A4 sheet. It was packed with her wild ideas—a genre of groove metal, stuffed full of her dreams and tastes, practically blasphemous on paper.
"Fine, I'll let Seoha's slide since she just wrote whatever she wanted when I said 'about our band.' But what about the rest of you? One writes [Fun Songs], another [Anime Rock]—what the hell is anime rock?"
Leaving Seoha to snicker to herself, relieved to dodge the bullet, Myeongjeon laid into the others.
"If you pulled this in a college group project, you'd get roasted."
"...Suyeon-unnie hasn't even gone to college either..."
"I'm speaking figuratively! Anyway, drop it."
Myeongjeon, forgetting her own age for a moment and pulling some young-fogey nonsense, awkwardly pivoted when Hyeona pointed it out.
Anyway, as far as she was concerned, these concepts weren't enough to build a full album around.
"Fine, I'll set a baseline. No genre restrictions—just pick a concept and bring it back."
"Even then, I don't really get what a 'concept' is. Like, how do we even grab one?"
To Iseo's grumbly complaint, Myeongjeon pulled out an album. A legendary masterpiece in Korean indie rock: Sister's Barbershop's Most Ordinary Existence. Soft, minimal soundscapes, profound lyrics, and an indescribable emotional thread weaving through it all. As the kids focused on the music, Myeongjeon explained.
"I'm not saying write songs like this. I just want to show you what a concept is. This album sticks to 'most ordinary existence' from start to finish. Or take..."
She pulled out another. Not her usual taste in black music, but an album that popped into her mind now and then: Kendrick Lamar's To Pimp a Butterfly.
"Something like this. Violence and exploitation against Black people, and all that other stuff—it's a total package dealing with it all. But we don't need to go that deep. Think back to our last EP. What vibe was I going for?"
What Myeongjeon had aimed for in their debut EP, Plastic Nostalgia, was a "fantasy world we've never experienced." Something we'd never lived through, yet force-fed to us endlessly through media. Dragging those unconscious images to the forefront of memory via music, making the unexperienced feel like faint recollections. Thus, Plastic Nostalgia.
"Doesn't have to be grandiose. Doesn't have to be simple either. Just whatever thoughts you have right now. Fear of the future? Cool. What if aliens invade from space tomorrow? Cool. Stuff like that—ideas you could weave into songs. That's what I want you to pitch."
Even so, things weren't going to magically click. And Myeongjeon wasn't disappointed. If even she—the one helming album production—was drawing blanks, what could she expect from these kids with no decades of experience?
It's not like anyone's chasing us with a knife demanding we hit 2,500 seats this year...
Her original plan was a 15,000-seat concert. The 2,500-seater was just the first step. 15,000 seats weren't some toy—you needed top-tier idol status to fill that. No need to rush.
"What're you mulling over so hard?"
"Ah, sorry."
The voice cutting through came from Lee Yu-na. Ever since their YouTube collab, she'd been hounding Myeongjeon to work on songs together. Former girl idol. Myeongjeon had stepped in as a session musician for her acoustic album dream. Start with a single, gauge the response, then maybe plan a full album—that was the pitch.
"Doesn't seem like it'll pan out that well."
Just because a single slaps doesn't mean folks will buy the album. Everything's fragmented these days; no guarantee the next track blows up if one does. Myeongjeon had plenty to say on that front, but she zipped it. Do what the client pays for, end of story. Extra work didn't magically pay more. A/S was only when requested.
"We're prepping our own full-length album, so we're kinda stressing over that."
"Full-length? Why stress..."
Yu-na trailed off, then her face lit up like she'd remembered something.
"Oh right, you're in a band."
To a former idol still producing under her label, the idea must've felt alien. This single was her first self-produced gig, apparently a test run from the company.
"All original tracks?"
"Yeah."
"Wild. Do bands always do all originals?"
"Eh, not really... but kinda?"
These days, bands that couldn't self-produce got side-eyed as weirdos. But back in the day? Nah. Even the Beatles bought songs up to their second album, With the Beatles in 1963.
"Ours will probably all be originals anyway."
"Why?"
"No money."
Yu-na nodded with an "Ah~" like it made total sense. Of course. Songwriters weren't hawking tracks at markets for 50k or 100k won. Good ones ran millions. Hell, Fifty Fifty's Cupid that scorched last year went for $9,000. Plus, finding stuff that fit their style? Tough. And pricey. And no guarantee it'd hit even if they shelled out. In this mess, why buy when you can write your own?
"No producer either. We handle promo ourselves, so juggling all that... buying songs just feels like a time sink and hassle."
"Huh. So indie bands do everything from scratch? No label?"
"Yup."
Yu-na kept gasping in amazement.
"How's that even possible?"
Myeongjeon just shrugged.
"That show you guested on... you did that without a label too?"
"Yeah. Figured one TV spot might help. Didn't pan out, though."
The YouTube stream to ditch the "daeyo high school girl" image. Zilch results—just amplified it.
"No plans to join a label?"
"Eh..."
Label. Myeongjeon rolled the word around her mouth. Would be nice. Manpower support, promo muscle...
"Thought about it..."
"Oh yeah? Got one in mind?"
"Doesn't work like that."
Wanting Seoul National University didn't make you get in. If thoughts alone did it, she'd be a super artist with the world's 6—or 7—billion grooving to her tunes by now.
"Wanna check out ours sometime?"
"Pardon?"
"This the head office?"
"Yup. Whaddya think?"
"Pretty building."
The lobby was all white everything, with only the agency's LED sign adding color. Yu-na chatted with the front desk staff, and soon a door slid open.
"C'mon in. Not my house or anything..."
Not a top-three mega-agency, but solid enough for its own building with practice rooms. Say the name, and folks went, "Oh, there?"
Suyeon trailed along the hall, pretending disinterest while sneak-peeking at the facilities. Yu-na caught it and stifled a laugh. Too damn cute.
Doesn't she know that makes her cuter?
Recent stuff, now this. For a high schooler, her stiff speech was nuts—turns out it was to kill the "daeyo high school girl" vibe. But the more she squirmed, the cuter the gap. The fake nonchalance while side-eyeing rooms. Posing all dignified and mature, then slipping into girly "~yo" on air that warped to "daeyo." All those efforts? Pure adorbs from an adult's view. Like watching an elementary kid on tiptoes, desperate to seem grown.
"Something wrong?"
"Nope."
Yu-na shoved the thought deep down, pro habits kicking in...
"Sure nothing's up?"
"Nothing at all."
Suyeon eyed her suspiciously for a few seconds before looking away. Watching that, Yu-na mused: Pointing it out would kill these cute moments. So she said zilch.
Suyeon's visit felt sudden to her—"Oh, just an acquaintance inviting me"—but others saw it different. Like investing early in superstar timber. Yu-na too. That's why an outsider waltzed in unchecked. She'd hyped: "If we snag her, jackpot."
"Practice rooms here. Recording studios there."
"Separate?"
"Yeah. Practice for idol choreo, studios for vocals. Basic stuff, right?"
The "daeyo high school girl" hook, killer skills overflowing, plus three bandmates in tow. Perfect package. Management greenlit recruiting "Ha Suyeon."
"That good? Really?"
Everyone but one recent external board member.
The objector? Yu-na knew him: Hired to produce the company's male idol, external producer/board member. Rock purist. Company dinners? "Rock never dies!" belting Yoon Do-hyun Band or Kim Kyung-ho tunes. Ranting 80s/90s rock, declaring "pop music is dead!"
"Heard of her, yeah."
"Heard?"
"I'm a rock otaku."
Yu-na found self-proclaimed "otakus" iffy but let it slide. Who cared if he rocked Marvel phone cases and ill-fitting snapbacks?
"Saw that show with you. She shredded... but eh."
"Eh?"
"Good, sure. Not sign her now good."
"But...!"
Yu-na nearly snapped back, then paused. Fair point. Post-Kim Kwang-seok, Suyeon's real chops shone off-air. TV-only viewers? Yeah, tepid reaction made sense.
But Suyeon slays so hard...! Screen vs. live? Night and day.
She fumed inwardly—no venting at board level.
"Still, could we see her play?"
"Huh?"
The casual ask hit idle Suyeon. Yu-na froze, then clocked it: recruitment interest.
"Show us something."
"...Me? Like what?"
Suyeon blinked, baffled.
"Fun song."
The external director's bold toss. Suyeon stared blankly a beat, then shouldered a guitar and headed to the open practice room amp.