Busking
"Yes, and? Is there a problem?"
Drawing the murmuring crowd's attention, a girl slowly approached. Loose Adidas windbreaker, black bootcut jeans, layered haircut still damp and falling past her shoulders. She exuded some indefinable, decadent vibe from an unclear background. In reality, these were the only clothes she had—stuff a young girl would wear (fact)—and she'd picked the best of the bunch.
"Ah, n-no! You're... from out in the sticks, right?"
"...I'll just set up."
Rather than weave some patchwork explanation, Myeongjeon opted to focus on setup. Her unexpectedly icy tone made their faces stiffen, and the crowd stirred uneasily. But she ignored it all, pressing on with her preparations.
Amp set to a clean tone with a touch of drive. Wah pedal and Fuzz Face on top. It wasn't her full rig, but plenty for busking. The rest she'd cover with her hands.
Myeongjeon lightly clenched her fist, then fretted a few chords. Her brain knew the positions, but the hand muscles screamed in protest at the unfamiliar motions.
Metal-style speed picking's out of the question.
To grab eyes here, something flashy like the canon rock kids always played. But with these hands, she'd be lucky to last two or three songs.
"Um... miss?"
"Yeah."
As she mulled it over and shook out her hands, a voice called from behind.
"By any chance... we were kinda planning to play stuff we know. You got anything like that?"
Even as Jaesin said it, he thought to himself, This kid probably doesn't know old tunes... Maybe just mega-hits like Stairway to Heaven or Smoke on the Water. No way she'd know the stuff he and his brother had prepped.
"Eh, I know pretty much everything, more or less..."
Myeongjeon, on the other hand, found it absurd. Old or not, as a musician, she'd kept up with trends. BTS or Blackpink tracks, for instance.
Their assumptions slightly misaligned, Jaesin spoke up.
"Alright then, why don't you play something you know? We'll follow if it's familiar."
Jaesin's concession, one step back.
"Dunno if there's anything I don't know..."
Doesn't know anything she doesn't know? What kind of nonsense...
Suyeon's mutter left Hyeongtae dumbfounded. Doesn't know anything she doesn't? He looked older than her and still had tons of blind spots.
Guitar-bass-drums setup, huh.
Myeongjeon swept back her hair and played a famous riff. Dududu-dun, duh duh duh dududu-dun. Drums should kick in now. But nothing.
She shot the drummer a puzzled look. His face was pure panic.
"Sunshine of Your Love, you don't know it?"
"...Huh?"
"What about White Room?"
No clue there either. Myeongjeon tilted her head back, exasperated. What the hell was wrong with the world? How could self-proclaimed band guys not...
"...Oh! Eric Clapton! Cream! That's the one, right?"
"Cream?"
Late realization from the bassist, drummer still lost. Hyeongtae eyed Myeongjeon's pitiful expression and wondered.
Does she have the skills to back up that look?
Jaesin had said it'd be fine, but Hyeongtae couldn't buy it. Some secondhand Fender and junk effects, cosplaying "rock granny high schooler"? Instant resentment.
"How about this one?"
"That... yeah, I know it."
A quick riff, and he confirmed. Myeongjeon sighed deeply. Even the onlookers, who'd watched it all, were starting to sour—right on cue, the iconic riff kicked off.
This time, drums and bass joined properly. Past the intro, a peak slide scrape, then clean-tone melody. Anyone into music would know it. "Oooohs" rippled through the crowd.
Unexpected track? More used to the acoustic version? Or just hype for the performance? Who could say, ever.
"Layla!!"
Song title shouted from the throng. Blues rock unfamiliar to the young, but a classic's a classic. Feet tapped along to the upbeat melody, cheers rising. Someone started clapping—rhythmic, infectious, swelling fast.
Passersby slowed, idlers gathered, even the idly scanning joined the growing mass.
This is just...
Myeongjeon grabbed the vocal mic—a rarity for her. She'd only sung on albums, never live. First time fronting as a woman? Ironic. She dove into the solo part.
Drums wrapped; clean tone screamed. Endless bends and vibrato built dynamic swells.
"Woooaaahhh!!"
Cheers erupted. Foot stomps grew louder, claps thundered. Some yelled "Whoa!" in fervent response.
Never done an impromptu solo like this.
Fingers flew as she pondered. She always scripted everything—solos that looked ad-libbed were pre-planned. But here, in this session, her hands moved on their own. In a good way.
"Insane!!"
A booming guy's voice right after wrapping the minute-long solo into the main melody's variation. Laughter at his intensity. Pre-song skepticism gone; all eyes on the next track.
"Whoa... kid, you start guitar at like four or something?"
Bassist hit her with a question the second it ended.
Couldn't even remember when, really...
"Not long ago."
This body, 'Suyeon,' first touched guitar this morning. Myeongjeon answered straight.
Who'd know the truth? To bassist and drummer, it was Mr. Slowhand incarnate.
The crowd swelled. Like iron filings to a magnet, drawn by some unseen force into a dense pack.
"Next song! Next! Next!"
Most had no clue what they'd just heard. Every Breath You Take by The Police? Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin? A few caught Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana.
"Guitar slays!!"
"Sis is so pretty~!!"
"Look this way~!"
Didn't matter what songs. That wasn't the point. What mattered: the guitarist right there, unleashing pure genius.
"Play some Jimi Hendrix!!"
Post-song lull shattered by a young boy's voice. Followed by "Hahaha—" laughter. Kid that age probably didn't know John Mayer, let alone Hendrix.
But hearing it, Myeongjeon turned to the other two.
"You guys know any Hendrix?"
They felt like kids busted by the teacher for unfinished homework. Despite her youth, the vibe demanded excuses.
"Uh... I know most, sorta."
Bassist dodged; drummer admitted, "Just a few."
Drummer rattled off his list. Myeongjeon picked one, gripped her guitar.
Voodoo Child rang out—echoing like a cave. Wah-wah shifted to fuzz tone as drums fully entered.
"Ooooh..."
Awe-murmurs from the crowd. No idea what track—someone yelled "Jimi Hendrix," so probably his. Psychedelic waves from the wah. Fender amp volume numbed them. Then blunt vocals pushed in.
Dreamy... but not sweetly so. More chaotic paralysis. Front-row folks lost it—some zoned out clapping wildly, others floating, minds expanding. The psychedelic rock high.
Right there... a blade-sharp solo assaulted the half-hallucinating masses. Like cold water on drunks. But purple haze sound awaited.
"Uwaaaaaah!!"
Minutes ago cheering and clapping; now addicted, twitching in acute trance. Song long over, but jam raged on. Endless sprint into the void—repetitive bass and drums, guitar eternal.
One by one, zombie-shuffles started. Friday 3 a.m. Hongdae vibes.
"What the—?!"
Casual passersby, curiosity piqued, turned psychedelic zombies wandering. Brain-munched hordes torn: muscles begging end it, hearts demanding never stop.
But remember: music ends. It brings peace; authorities schedule the busking zone.
Hongdae's solemn law: drums signaled close. Crash-bang wreckage of sound, then...
"Thanks!"
The performance ended.