Nothing Here Breaks the Algorithm
They say modern people are drowning in a flood of excess information on YouTube. With so much to watch, they can't properly see what they should be watching.
Take YouTube as an example: back in 2017, around 576,000 hours of video were uploaded every single day. Convert that to years, and it's 66 years' worth. To watch just one day's uploads, it'd take you 66 years. So people have no choice but to rely on the algorithm. Who has time to search everything? Typical YouTube users see whatever the mysterious algorithm hooks and drags into their timeline—and skip the rest.
And that's how one song floated into their feeds: Nothing Here.
He was a music hobbyist. He'd only recently picked up the guitar, starting to strum along to songs bit by bit, getting hooked on the thrill.
"What should I watch today..."
Flipping through videos to learn guitar, he clicked on one featuring some girl holding a black Fender. It was a cover of a song he loved, complete with tips, so he gave it a shot.
Watching it hit him like a truck at first.
No way... how's a kid her age playing like that?
She looked like a middle or high schooler, no older. But the technique pouring from her hands was fluid enough that even he—barely six months in—could tell. Smooth as if someone else were playing for her.
Then he listened to the original song on her channel... and got hit a second time.
It started with a lightly driven guitar tone. Bends and arming intertwined, pitch constantly twisting and writhing. The sound pulled the listener along like a steady metronome, straight into some factory.
There, he was a child chained in iron. The shackles restricted his freedom, forced his every move. The unrelenting, repeating notes induced a trance state. A life like a machine obeying orders: come when called, go when dismissed. Move your hands? They move. Work? You work.
Time flows. You can't measure how fast, but you know it's passing.
Yet nothing changes. Forever, endlessly, living by command, doing as told.
No escape from that life.
Then, one moment—he lifts his head to the ceiling. The fluorescent light that once blazed eternally has lost its glow. He looks around. Things he remembered loom smaller now. The supervisor who terrified him has grown old. The shackle on his ankle? Gone.
Everything that bound him here... it's all gone.
So he moves forward. Toward a world of pure freedom, where no one can hold him back.
The melody of liberation is raw but not sloppy. The fiery performance builds to a blistering climax in the back half.
"This is...!"
No lyrics, just guitar with MIDI for everything else—a 6-minute-plus instrumental. But he never felt a second of boredom. If anything, it left him thirsty. What happens next? Does the freed soul keep playing? What's at the end?
Chicken skin rippling across his body, he hits next track.
Nothing. Playlist ends there.
Why? He wants more, but it's gone. Back button. He stares again at the channel owner. Face hidden, but a pretty figure in an Adidas jacket, slender little hands. This kid made music like that?
Trembling fingers copy the link. He sends it via KakaoTalk—to close friends, acquaintances. You gotta hear this. Feels like I found a life-changing song.
He acted, but so did others.
Actions varied, but the motive was one: I can't keep this to myself. Others need to hear it.
I figured the first track turned out well. It was made in a whole new headspace than before. Melody hit, and I hammered it out in one go—recording, MIDI, all done in a single day.
Curious about reactions, too. What would people think of my first original? Would they like it? Pretty solid, right?
But this much? No idea.
Comments piled up—maybe a hundred? Views already past 20,000, ticking up with every refresh.
First track getting this? Solid success.
Myeongjeon ran a hand through her hair, then searched YouTube for songs from her old life. She hadn't uploaded them herself, and copyright wasn't tightly managed anyway. Maybe someone had...
[Search Results: None]
...Doesn't exist at all.
Yeah, makes sense. Disappointed by critics, never even signed a publishing deal. Those tracks are buried on CDs a few friends bought.
So, views from 0... well, 1, technically. 1 to 20,000. A 20,000-fold leap. Myeongjeon felt her shoulders lift with a swell of pride.
And another win: an inquiry.
They skipped the key details up front, pushing to a follow-up email. Either a clueless newbie to sessions... or someone thinking I don't know sessions and planning to lowball the pay.
One or the other, but it's a gig. Portfolio material, cash too. Online: 20,000 won. Offline: 30,000 per track. Fair rates.
Messing with the computer when the KakaoTalk pinged. From Choi Iseo.
Myeongjeon pondered a sec, then fired back short.
Amazed at her own adaptability—learning teen shorthand and jamo for chats—Myeongjeon kept staring at the screen.
She sent the channel link when asked. No reply for a while... then, half an hour later:
Iseo's fingers shook with typos, but she couldn't help it.
The song's just that good...!
"This is a scam!"
Her yell echoed. Thud from next door—probably her bio-sis chucking a pillow at the wall for the noise. Iseo shrugged it off, thumbs flying.
But Myeongjeon was skeptical. Made without a band in mind from the jump. Recording as-is would just use the band as props. Flesh it out for bass, keys, drums? Might kill the guitar.
She'd considered vocals at first, but scrapped it. Lyrics just wouldn't come.
Makes sense, really. Her reading was all guitar manuals and band books—no lit, no Korean lit whiz either.
She recalled recently telling Iseo to study up on composing, lyrics, arranging.
Said it, sure—but handing off lyrics felt iffy.
Eh, better than me anyway. Myeongjeon decided to roll with it.