Open Mic Pressure
"Let's listen to that recording we just did."
Myeongjeon said that and headed into the studio. The kids filed in with slightly cowed expressions. Then the track played. To an average listener, it went off without a hitch—perfectly serviceable. But Myeongjeon's face, and the others' faces, told a different story. Myeongjeon stared silently at the remaining three, while they subtly turned away, avoiding her gaze.
"How's the sound?"
"Uh... it doesn't quite gel..."
"What do you think caused that?"
The three couldn't muster a reply. Myeongjeon ran a hand through her hair, let out a sigh, and spoke.
"At first, just syncing up was a struggle, and we were rushed for time, so we let some stuff slide. The second time was the same. Plus, it was a cover, so we had reference tracks for the sound. But now that it's your version you've shaped and polished, and you're about to record and perform it... it doesn't quite measure up to your expectations, right? You want to shine more. You crave the spotlight. Is that shaking your focus? Is that why you're veering off-script?"
The old Myeongjeon would've scrapped it right there. But as 'Ha Suyeon' now, she figured it didn't call for that. Still, no point sparing the tough love.
"We let that slide in the last gig, and the one before. Isn't that right?"
"Uh... yeah, uh, no, not really."
Iseo nodded instinctively, then flinched and backpedaled. Myeongjeon cracked a faint smile and continued.
"First gig: school festival. Honestly, low stakes—you could've phoned it in. The sound setup was garbage anyway, so no one really clocked it. And the crowd wasn't discerning enough. Second gig: basically anime fans. Big crowd, sure, but they're there for the show, not the music per se. They just wanted that song. So I didn't ride you as hard then."
Iseo snapped her head up from where she'd been hanging it low. Had she heard right? 'Didn't ride you as hard'? But Suyeon's expression looked utterly sincere. If anything, she seemed almost guilty, like she'd been too easy on them.
"But this third one. Open mic. What's the difference between the first two and this?"
"Crowd size?"
"Open mic's smaller, actually. Tops out at a few dozen. A hundred if it's packed."
"That small?"
"Uh... I think I know. It's the listeners' vibe, right?"
Hyeona chimed in, ignoring the back-and-forth. Myeongjeon nodded and turned back to the pair.
"School fest? Maybe five hundred heads. Could've been more. Last one: around 250. This: call it fifty to be safe. Numbers are dropping—why pour everything into this? Answer: the audience makeup. School fest was just whoever showed up. Anime gig was otakus. But club auditions? You're playing for diehards who live in those spots, ears glued to music 24/7."
Myeongjeon tilted her head slightly. Even someone her age had heard of 'Hongdae syndrome' or 'indie snobbery'—those critics hunkered in the corner, acting like highbrow pundits.
"They go nuts if it hits their standards. Otherwise? Crickets or sneers. Some straight-up heckle loud enough for everyone."
Seoha nodded. The types who think showing up entitles them to anything. 'We're the only ones suffering through this music.' She'd seen plenty.
Of course, most clubgoers weren't like that. Tiny minority. But first-timers get wrecked encountering them.
"Snap out of it. We've got time, but practice hours are tight with everyone's schedules. Gotta crank the intensity."
Myeongjeon strummed her guitar once, then walked to the corner and fired up the metronome. Tick, tack, tick, tack.
"From the top. Play it straight—no frills. Nail the basics perfectly, then build."
[Practice over??]
Iseo flopped onto her bed post-shower, hair still damp. Her phone buzzed with a message from a friend.
Iseo giggled, set her phone aside for a sec, and plucked her bass. She threw in a slap on a whim, a little fill here and there. But it felt off. Some indefinable lag in the groove... Today's rehearsal had the same vibe. Suyeon hammered the overall balance but didn't call out individuals... though Iseo knew she wouldn't miss her own flubs.
Pre-rehearsal Suyeon and post- were night and day. At school, she'd slump with her head down, nap in class, or get dragged to lunch under a blanket. Half-assed replies amid the crowd. But making music? Total switch. Her low, measured tone—"Hit it with real groove." "Don't jump ahead. This ain't your solo spotlight. Kill your ego."—froze Iseo every eye contact.
Still, it came from caring about the band. Claiming it as her band, pushing to level them up—that's what Iseo figured.
It's tough, sure. But I gotta accept it. Not just Suyeon... Hyeona-unnie and Seoha-unnie are both ahead of me. To catch up, I keep grinding.
Myeongjeon grunted as she hauled two guitars from the trunk. The driver yelped, "Whoa!" and reached to help, but she waved him off. No point—he couldn't follow into the studio anyway.
Fender should've been fine. Why insist on Thomann Anderson?
Groaning under the weight, she grumbled inwardly. Joonhong hooked her up with the session—decent pay, so she'd joked, "Hell yeah, for that cash." But the immediate reply: "Bring a Thomann Anderson if you can."
"Fender work?"
"Nah, we don't vibe with Fenders."
Then why call a guitarist, assholes? She bit her tongue. Client's king. Even if she was near-Inge Malmsteen levels of Fender fanatic, no burning bridges with paying gigs.
Couldn't buy one on the spot, so she told Joonhong, "Next time," hit his studio for a playtest, and scored the loaner.
After texting she'd arrived, minutes later a burly guy came down, spotted her struggling, and bolted over to grab them.
"Say something!"
"Just one, thanks. I'm good."
The studio upstairs felt smaller than Joonhong's. Drums recording, oblivious to newcomers. Huddled staff.
"When do I go in?"
"After drums—I'll check with the director. Set up over there."
He vanished upfront. Looked like drama OST work.
Familiar... OSTs were getting crunchier—scores dropping post-episode air, minutes before tape.
But it hit absurd: Joonhong's master's disciple! Ranting about standards, then yeets her into this meat grinder? One slip and you're toast.
'Average guitar prodigies' flop here. Unfamiliar, hostile vibe. Anxious director eyeing the booth, staff buzzing with chores. Zero sympathy for sessions. Waste time? Scowls, "Fuck!" normal. One pianist cracked and bolted mid-OST, tanking the whole thing. Director looked dead-eyed next week.
Myeongjeon tuned while musing. Joonhong's Thomann Anderson drop-top shorty. Near ten mil won. Solid intonation, tone... seamless single-to-humbucker switching.
Just not a Fender.
The guy who'd fetched her returned.
"Your turn."
"Got it."
"But... you sure? You're so young..."
"Fine. Can I hear the track?"
"Yeah, director'll cue it."
Myeongjeon grabbed her guitar and faced the director, who eyed her like What's this kid on about? then the handler.
"Who's the girl? Why's she here? Guitar for?"
"Session guitarist."
"Where's Joonhong?"
"Couldn't make it. She subbed, you okayed..."
"You fucking idiot! Dragging in a kid for recording?!"
He hurled his pen, stood huffing. Staff scattered. Myeongjeon calmly extended her hand to the director.
"Chord chart, please."
"Huh?"
"Gotta record. Chart. And the track."
"Kid, you ever sessioned? Joonhong's useless. Grabs a random girl..."
He fumed, phone in hand to call. Myeongjeon tossed her hair again.
"Chart. Track. Let's record."
"...Joke's over—out. You actually here to play?"
"Yes."
She wiggled her fingers. He gawked, checked his watch, sighed, handed the chart.
"Fuck, what is this shit... Years directing, thought I'd seen it all."
Slumped in defeat, eyes dead—he clearly didn't buy her pulling it off.
I'd think the same.
Instead of arguing, she nudged a staffer for the track. To her, it was routine—like happy hour drinks, not life-or-death.