Concert Session Blues
"Let's take a break. Be back in ten minutes."
At those words, the kids packed up their instruments and headed outside. Myeongjeon let out a deep sigh once they were gone.
The kids were completely lost, looking utterly dejected—what the youngsters would call having their "mentality shattered." It couldn't be helped. No matter how much they'd heard from Myeongjeon in advance, it was tough to accept weeks of effort going down the drain because of someone else's say-so.
Even people in their thirties—or older, with more life under their belts—struggled to bounce back from that. What chance did these high schoolers have?
Still, this is a bit much. Myeongjeon had figured they'd recover in about a week. But when she saw them a week later, there was no sign of improvement. They were still gloomy, their minds drifting far away.
As she pondered this, the kids trickled back in one by one. Their expressions remained dark. Myeongjeon tilted her head slightly.
"I thought you'd all be over it by now after a week. Guess not."
The kids flinched at her words. Myeongjeon gave a wry smile.
"I'm not blaming you guys. The whole mess started with me, after all. But maybe you're worrying too much."
"No, it's just..." Iseo started to speak, then closed her mouth.
Myeongjeon gestured for her to continue.
"I'm not criticizing or condemning your decision, Suyeon... but won't the school violence issue just keep following us? Even if we get past this moment, it won't really be solved, right?"
Myeongjeon tilted her head again at Iseo's words.
According to her plan, the school violence problem would be neatly resolved one way or another. But how could she make them believe that? Her head was full of plans and details, but the others weren't privy to them.
Still, how to instill that faith?
"Don't worry. I'll handle it before the year's out."
"But..."
"Trust me. Whatever you—or any of you—think might happen, it won't. I'll take care of it somehow, so just don't sweat it."
Myeongjeon spoke in a firm tone. At that, the kids' restless expressions finally settled into calm. In situations like this, it was better to deliver a strong sense of reassurance than to get bogged down in logical explanations. No wonder they say long-winded talk backfires.
Practicing in this state won't help much anyway...
With that in mind, Myeongjeon turned her thoughts to ways to lift their spirits. Something to change the mood and reignite their passion for music.
Looking back on her past life... Nothing comes to mind.
The harsh reality made her mouth go dry. Sure, if she were "Ha Suyeon," maybe. But "Seo Myeongjeon" had lived in an era where distractions boiled down to booze and workouts.
No, there has to be something. If I think hard enough.
Myeongjeon racked her brain. Ways for the kids to unwind and get motivated about music again... Nothing specific popped up, so she scratched her head.
Fine. Time to fall back on timeless classics that worked across East and West.
"Hold on a sec. Gotta make a call."
Myeongjeon dialed quickly. After a few rings, a voice answered. As she replied, she thought to herself: Bottom line, keep 'em busy. Busy minds don't dwell.
A few days later.
"How've you been?"
Myeongjeon answered Hwisek's perfunctory greeting honestly: not well. He gave a troubled smile and sat in the chair across from her.
"Problem sorted?"
"Not at all."
The "problem" referred to the school violence issue. Right after announcing her withdrawal from the competition, Myeongjeon had called Hwisek and told him not to release the making-of footage. He'd been baffled at first—hell, he'd even asked if she'd taken a bribe—but shut up quick once she mentioned school violence. Things were too hot right now.
"Why not come over to our side? We could handle it all for you."
Just as Myeongjeon opened her mouth to respond, Hwisek pressed on. He spoke with such confidence that she couldn't tell if it was feasible or not—but clearly, he believed it was.
"I'm good."
Myeongjeon turned down the offer. Sure, bringing in a record label—or even a full agency—would smooth things over. Same with any other company. They'd bury it flawlessly, one way or another.
But at what cost? Would it really just be, "Thanks for joining us—our treat~"? Something to gratefully accept?
No. Myeongjeon knew from her past life that no favors came free. Sign with a label to fix the school violence mess? You might end up slave-contracted, or worse—they promise help, then ditch you on an endless tour treadmill without resolving a thing.
That's why she had zero plans to approach any labels or agencies until this was settled.
"So, you wanted to meet about the actual gig? The Juhyeon concert session."
"Yeah, that's it. Hope you can make it work."
Hwisek scratched his head, looking pained. The previous issue had been squared away somehow, thanks to the execs. But these kids on a concert stage? That was a different beast.
Still, he recalled what the director had told him recently: "Those girls are gold if we snag 'em. Grab 'em no matter what! Do 'em favors! Make 'em regret passing us up!" Or something like that.
Hwisek agreed, to a point. An all-girl high school band with real chops? Failing would've been the hard part. And it wasn't just him—everyone knew it.
Recently, he'd fielded casual queries like, "Got contacts for that Group Sound?" from who-knows-where. Record labels and agencies were sweating bullets to sign the "beauty band." Common knowledge now.
At least we've got first dibs for now... Unlike companies scrambling for numbers, Hwisek's firm, Entraline, had a direct line to leader Ha Suyeon. It let them chat, pitch, stay in the game.
Problem was, the kids—make that "Ha Suyeon"—showed zero interest in Entraline.
Eh, whatever. Exec says greenlight most demands. Hwisek considered pushing but dropped it. Boss's orders.
"I'll run it by the director."
"Long time no see. Everyone doing okay?"
As Juhyeon greeted the kids after ages, Myeongjeon exchanged hellos with his staffer.
"I'll explain the terms later, but... it's just like our team lead said. Juhyeon never uses session players for concerts. But the director suddenly ordered it, so we're auditioning."
"Got it."
The staffer continued, a hint of displeasure in her tone. If the concert or sound team gave a thumbs-down—her word: "negative"—it was an instant no. Even if both teams loved it, if the singer wasn't feeling it, rejected.
Basically, any snag and it's scrapped.
Hwisek had sworn the deal was on. Exec scuttlebutt matched. But on-site calls differed, apparently.
Myeongjeon figured as much. This Juhyeon guy had a real name in the scene. Rookies jumped at company orders—"Yes sir!"—but veterans with clout? They called their own shots.
"Our conditions end there. If you want the session test, reply by the date I gave, come prepared with the tracks. We'll provide sheets and such."
At her words, the four high school girls looked lost in thought. The staffer sighed inwardly. What a mess. Execs are useless—directors, presidents, all of 'em.
Concert prep was hectic enough, then out-of-the-blue call: "Might need a session for Juhyeon's show. Possible? Check it."
She knew live band over MR tracks made the sound more vibrant. And a four-girl high school band as Juhyeon's backup? Buzzworthy for sure.
But whose concert was this? Juhyeon's. Why fixate on sideshows? Singer's half-assing support, fixated on weird picks...
"We'll do it."
"No, reply by email. It's business—needs paperwork."
The leader-looking girl spoke up, and the staffer snapped curtly without thinking. Juhyeon nudged her, snapping her back.
Can't be helped, right? She knew the kids weren't at fault. They'd just proposed. But without that proposal, no time sink like this...