The Gear and the Bolt

It was a little too early for the sun to set on the music festival. The display screen was laughably small compared to those used in proper concert halls. A handful of chairs had been set up just to save face, occupied by only a scattering of people. In a place where busy commuters hurrying toward their destinations far outnumbered those who stopped to watch, the opening drum beat rang out. What followed next, washing over the crowd, was the rhythmic groove of a bass guitar. It wasn't quite enough to make people freeze in their tracks, but it was more than enough to turn heads and capture their attention.

The words echoing through the speakers were unmistakably Japanese. The lyrics, which Choi Iseor had stayed up for several nights to translate and adapt, perfectly preserved the song's unique, melancholic sensibility.

"They're pretty good!"

When the first song ended, a loud voice—presumably belonging to a middle-aged man—rang out. A few passersby chuckled softly and offered warm applause. And just when the crowd expected the band to say a few words of introduction, the girls on stage immediately launched into the next song, completely stealing the audience's timing.

It was a song that had never been played on any stage in the world before.

A blunt, thudding bass line rang out first. The atmosphere was a complete hundred-and-eighty-degree turn from the previous track. A simple yet unforgettable bass riff flowed from the stage, gripping the feet of the passersby like thick tar.

And layered over that sticky, heavy bass sound was a guitar tone that felt almost mocking—a sound that certainly didn't carry any warm or pleasant emotions. It was delivered in short, sharp, stabbing plucks.

The voice coming from the girl holding the bass matched the guitar's tone perfectly. It was a whisper that seemed to treat everything like a joke. Yet, it carried an underlying anxiety that made it impossible to simply laugh off as a cheerful tune. Where was this unease coming from?

"And now, it’s break!"

The cheerful whispering was cut short by a shout from the girl holding the guitar. Like the sound of a tightly wound guitar string snapping and tearing through the air, her voice rang out with absolute clarity, as if declaring it was time to wake up.

The listeners' reactions varied. Some who had been nodding along suddenly snapped their heads up to stare at the stage. A mother who had been casually chatting with her child while listening fell silent. People who had been walking past without a care stopped in their tracks. Even those dining on the second and third-floor terraces looked down to see what was happening in the plaza below.

Though everyone reacted differently, they all shared one common action: every single person in the vicinity was now staring at the stage.

As if waiting for this exact moment, a guitar solo erupted from the speakers. To match the accelerating tempo, a raw, heavy fuzz tone roared to life. There was no overly flashy, hyper-technical playing that screamed of sheer difficulty. There was no frantic left hand flying across the fretboard, nor a right hand picking at breakneck speed. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠movements of her hands over the guitar looked so simple that anyone might think they could do it.

Yet, the sound blasting from the speakers was powerful enough to shatter that illusion entirely.

Only a few notes rang out. But the raw, visceral power of those notes didn't just turn heads; it drew the passing crowd toward the front of the stage. With every wailing note, more people were pulled in, gathering closer. Those who had initially worn expressions of 'I'm just passing through' now stood with their arms crossed, eyes closed, or anxiously tapping their feet and checking their watches—yet none of them could bring themselves to leave. Even after the short solo came to an end, they remained.

Over the fading sounds of the instruments, a quiet, low grumble drifted from the speakers, though its source was unclear. The crowd listened intently, and as the words sank in, they fell into deep, introspective silence, lost in their own memories.

When the sound finally died out completely, the plaza, which had felt frozen in time, slowly began to move again, as if the spell had been broken. Conversations resumed in the cafes, on the streets, and on the benches. Yet, the crowd gathered near the stage remained rooted to the spot, as if nailed to the ground.

Even though they knew they had places to be. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Even though they knew they were running out of time.

They didn't move, bound by a single, shared thought: If I don't watch this now, I'll never get another chance. A performance like this only happens once in a lifetime. Captivated by this realization, they stood there, shifting anxiously and lost in complex thoughts, unable to take a single step away. And for some reason, the crowd only continued to grow.

That's strange. Why are there so few people coming from this path?

Kitani Yuji, the organizer of the Chiyoda Music Festival, thought to himself as he walked down one of the park's side paths. He had grabbed a quick bite to eat and was taking a stroll when he noticed a walkway that usually saw heavy foot traffic was unusually quiet. It could have been a fluke, but his years of experience running the festival told him otherwise.

As a musician who valued intuition over cold logic, he trusted his gut. And when he finally wandered over to the stage on the outer edge of the park, his eyes went wide.

"What in the world..." he muttered.

Normally, at this stage of the festival, a modest crowd would occupy the seats directly in front of the stage, while others would stand or sit on nearby sculptures, benches, and stairs to casually enjoy the music. But what Kitani was witnessing now was entirely different.

The area was packed so tightly it looked like one of the festival's main or secondary stages. The stairs, which offered a clear view, were so crammed with people that passersby were struggling to squeeze through, their faces twisted in annoyance. It was unprecedented. In all his years of organizing the Chiyoda Music Festival, Kitani had never seen anything like it.

The guitar wailed like a siren, piercing through the plaza and tearing at the hearts of the listeners. Beneath it, the vocals rang out, raw and powerful—less of a song and more of a warning cry.

This is... Group Sound, right?

They were the Korean band recommended to him by a live house owner. Kitani had listened to their tracks and found them quite good, which is why he had approved them for the lineup. But the music echoing through the park right now was completely different from anything he had heard from them before.

It carried the raw, unfiltered spirit of the era when rock ruled the world—decades ago, around the time he was born. Not only did it capture that classic essence, but it also delivered a sophisticated, modern reinterpretation. It was a massive, epic masterpiece. Even though the song flew directly in the face of modern music trends, the crowd gathered around the stage couldn't pull themselves away.

Why?

Kitani felt he knew the answer immediately. The guitar's slender roar, crying out through the speakers, held the audience in a vice grip, refusing to let a single soul escape.

"Could I get an autograph, please?"

The moment Suyun stepped off the stage, she was met with her very first request. The polite manner in which the fan held out the signing paper was a bit different from Korea, but the core sentiment was exactly the same.

"Hey, Hyun-ah. In the front pocket of my gig bag... there's a pen. Can you grab it for me?"

Hyun-ah quickly fished out a marker and handed it over. Suyun took it, signed her name with practiced ease, and looked up. To her surprise, a line had already formed.

"Can I borrow a pen too?"

It wasn't just Suyun. Though the lines varied in length, the other members were also being swarmed by fans. Suyun called out, "I only have this one pen!" and kept signing, working her way through the crowd.

"Is a photo okay?"

"Ah, yes, sure."

"My name is Takamiya Sakura! Please write my name too!"

"Ah, I don't know Kanji very well. Is English okay?"

"That's perfectly fine!"

Unable to handle the growing crowd on the path, Suyun and the members moved to a corner of the plaza. While the next act set up their gear with somewhat somber expressions, Suyun continued to fulfill the fans' requests. Just as the line was finally beginning to dwindle, a voice called out from the side.

"Are you the members of Group Sound?"

"Ah, yes. We are. Would you like an autograph..."

"No, no! I don't need an autograph! My name is Kitani Yuji. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Kitani Yuji... Suyun repeated the name in her head, but nothing came to mind. It was the member standing next to her who spoke up, recognizing the name.

"Kitani Yuji... Are you the chairman? The organizer of this festival?" Hyun-ah asked.

"Yes, that's correct. It's a pleasure."

Ah, so that's where I heard it. At Hyun-ah's words, Suyun offered a polite bow. Kitani bowed in return, and the moment they stood straight, he spoke up with an excited flush on his face, as if he had been dying to ask.

"Your performance was absolutely incredible. When I listened to your music before, I didn't think you played this style of music. If you don't mind me asking, what was that song...?"

"Ah, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it's an unreleased new song."

"A new song! I see. I loved the progressive feel of it. It felt like watching one of the legendary bands of the past."

"Thank you."

Suyun bowed her head slightly at the compliment. Judging by the crowd's reaction and this man's response, the test seemed to be a success, even if they couldn't generalize this to the entire music market just yet. Of course, whether this would translate to digital streaming and physical album sales was a slightly different story, Suyun reasoned. Live performances offered an immersive, atmospheric experience, and the people who attended these festivals were already primed to 'listen to music.' On the other hand, the broader music market... Well, actually, people who buy physical albums do so because they want to listen, so maybe they'd focus even more. In that case, it might be even more successful.

As Suyun began to sink into her thoughts, Kitani's voice pulled her back to reality.

"If I had known, I would have put you on the main stage. I had no idea the response would be this explosive."

"No, it's fine. Tell ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him that we probably got more people because of the high foot traffic here," Suyun nudged Hyun-ah.

Like a translation machine, Hyun-ah immediately rattled off the Japanese translation. Hearing this, Kitani nodded but continued to speak.

"Hmm... Still, even if the main stage was impossible because the lineup was already locked in, if you had played on at least a sub-stage, you would have drawn an even bigger crowd. It would have generated a lot of buzz."

"Well, it's already over."

"No, no. I don't think it's over just yet. With a response this good, it would be a shame to just let it end like this."

Kitani stroked his chin, falling into deep thought. After a moment, he raised a hand, excused himself to make a quick phone call, and walked away. Once he was out of earshot, Suyun turned to the members.

"What did you guys think? Did the reaction feel good to you?"

"Um... I mean, it definitely felt like it... but..."

"I was too busy drumming to notice."

Receiving lukewarm answers from Seoha and Hyun-ah, Suyun ignored them and looked at Iseor. The bassist hesitated for a moment before speaking up.

"Since the bass line was pretty free this time, I actually had a chance to look at the crowd."

"And?"

"Well, how do I put it... Everyone was just listening so quietly. It's hard to say what they were thinking. It was a bit hard to read."

"I suppose so."

Japanese audiences were notoriously quiet to begin with, and if they weren't used to a wild, high-energy festival culture, they would be even more reserved. Suyun twirled a strand of her hair as she pondered this. Just then, Kitani returned and threw a question directly at Suyun.

"By any chance, would you be interested in going on stage one more time?"

"Pardon?"

"We always have an encore stage at the very end of the festival. We gather the artists who really stood out and have them play a few short songs. I was wondering if you'd like to join."