Flashback: Tenma Izumi
Children learn by watching their parents.
If parents are passionate about a hobby, their kids naturally develop an interest in the same thing.
Tenma Izumi was a perfect example.
Her parents were successful house band musicians in their own right.
Her father played guitar.
Her mother handled keyboards.
Especially her father—he was obsessed with music, rarely letting an instrument out of his sight whether at home or work. He probably held his guitar longer than his precious daughter, the apple of his eye. Everyone around him acknowledged his love for music.
Izumi never felt neglected by it.
She was mature for her age, and her father's tales of his exciting work life captivated her.
"What do you think, Izumi? This is where Daddy works."
"Wow, amazing."
"You'd better keep an eye on Izumi, dear?"
"Don't worry, honey!"
"That's exactly why I'm worried. Izumi, you have to stick close to Daddy, okay?"
"Yeah, I will."
True to their house band life, Izumi's parents frequented the broadcasting station.
Late-night shoots were routine, so instead of leaving her at home or with a babysitter, they brought her along.
Thanks to that, Izumi practically grew up wandering in and out of the station like it was her second home.
There, she watched not just her parents' performances but those of countless other artists.
She saw legendary rock bands that defined eras.
She saw idols on the level of a neighborhood talent show.
She saw dance singers bursting with passion.
She saw charismatic empresses who commanded the stage solo and dominated the audience.
She saw romanticists who moved everyone to tears with their sincere, understated appeal.
Their styles and skill levels varied wildly, but every time they sang on stage, her world filled with cheers.
Cool.
I want to be like them someday.
Her interest, sparked by her parents' hobby and career, soon shifted to the singers on stage.
Without realizing it, the girl named Tenma Izumi was nurturing a dream of becoming a singer deep in her heart.
Her first challenge was instruments.
Izumi picked them up by peeking over her parents' shoulders, then sought formal lessons when she hit a wall, starting over from scratch.
She didn't mind the blisters on her fingers or the bandages and harsh antiseptic smell on her delicate hands.
Her next challenge was singing.
She asked her father's friend to give her vocal training.
Whether it was her parents' blood running thick or innate genius, Izumi's musical talent improved by leaps and bounds daily.
At a boozy reunion with old friends, the trainer bragged about her like she was his own kid.
"Izumi could debut right now, no problem."
"Haha, our Izumi?"
He flashed an awkward smile as praise poured out after the first drink.
He was thrilled his daughter had inherited his talent.
But knowing the industry's harsh realities, he hesitated at her intense passion for music.
Sensing this, the friend piled on more compliments.
"I get what you're worried about, but this time it's real. She's a bit naive, sure, but her skill's already surpassed mine. I was too embarrassed to keep teaching her."
"You really mean that?"
The friend had only been training her for three months.
If he was right, Izumi had matched a pro with over ten years of experience in that time.
Is that even possible?
His friend wasn't talentless.
Far from it—he was one of Japan's top vocal trainers. In this business, his judgment was as good as gold. So he had no choice but to believe Izumi's talent was the real deal.
"If you're skeptical, come to the training center next time with her. She'd love to sing for you."
"Nah, no need. But is singing really that different from playing?"
"How so?"
"You know, experience points or that seasoned feel."
"Kinda similar, right? A ten-year-old kid can't match a fifty-year-old's expressiveness, whether it's singing or playing."
The saying that remakes can't top originals stems from that expressiveness, symbolism, and personal memories unique to each person.
Even heaven-blessed singers can't authentically sing about the '80s bubble economy without living it.
People have limits expressing emotions they've never felt.
Songs are culture, and culture carries memories to the next generation.
History teaches lessons, but it doesn't gift memories.
You can glimpse eras indirectly through art, but you can't make those your memories.
That's a privilege for those who lived it, soaked in the culture firsthand.
Playing instruments is the same.
No matter the monstrous talent or grueling practice, you can't bridge the gap of years.
Without accumulated experience, expressiveness has limits.
"But you say Izumi surpassed you..."
"I'm talking pure technique. Even that's insane—technique doesn't bloom overnight."
Making music is like athletics.
Without consistent practice and maintenance, skills atrophy with age.
No singer is exempt, no matter how gifted.
Like athletes honing themselves for peak performance, musicians refine daily to surpass yesterday's self.
Through endless repetition, muscles remember and react without thought—that's when true skill shines.
Reaching that point takes at least five years.
Yet his daughter's talent had apparently erased over ten years of his friend's investment—unfairly so.
He eyed his friend, who claimed superiority in expressiveness, with pity.
I couldn't have handled that.
He had pride too. Hearing a three-month newbie outshine a decade-plus tower would crush anyone, even if it was his own daughter.
Yet here his friend was, calm as ever. He gazed at him wistfully.
His friend slung an arm around his shoulder.
"I guarantee it—your daughter's a genius. An once-in-a-generation prodigy. She could aim for the next Queen of Pop after debuting."
"Come on, that's ridiculous. Even if our Izumi's amazing, comparing her to a Queen?"
As a house band vet, he'd seen countless stages by singers hailed as Queens.
Sometimes as a session musician backstage, sometimes cheering from the crowd.
Queens were realms beyond mere "talented" mortals.
Monsters among monsters, reaching pop's pinnacle through blood, sweat, and tears.
That glorious title: Queen, Geihi.
"Hard to believe, I know. But it's true. What took us years to drill—muscle memory, breathing, habits—she picks up intuitively and wields freely. I said I might top her in expressiveness, but honestly? I can't be sure. She sees something different from us."
You should've seen how shocked I was.
His friend chuckled bitterly, tilting his glass.
"So, any real thoughts? If you're okay with it, I could recommend her to a solid agency."
"I'll ask her first. Her will matters most."
"She'll jump at it."
After that, the conversation blurred into drunken haze. Glasses refilled and emptied mechanically.
Staggering home from the afterparty, he found his daughter tinkering with a guitar on the veranda.
Monster, huh.
His friend's words flashed through his mind.
The buzz vanished.
"Hey, kiddo, tuning the guitar?"
"Yeah."
As he approached, she wrinkled her nose.
"Dad, you reek of booze..."
"Th-that bad? Sniff sniff. I don't smell it..."
But with her hands clamped over nose and mouth, backing away unsteadily, he showered, brushed, and finally sat for her guitar practice.
"This right?"
"Perfect. You're picking it up so fast, Izumi."
"Yeah."
She said little, but her joy in the new skill shone. He broached gently.
"Why do you sing, Izumi?"
"'Cause it's fun?"
She tilted her head, puzzled, unsure herself.
"Dad's friend says you're actually a huge genius."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Says you could debut anytime if you wanted. Told me to ask."
Do you want to debut, Izumi?
She shook her head at his question.
"Dunno."
Not refusal—a question.
She wanted to be like them.
Did that mean debuting as a singer? Was she even ready?
Compared to them, she felt tiny.
Izumi had never been confident in her skills. Growing up around giants bred subtle self-doubt.
Sudden "genius" praise felt unreal, fueling her doubts.
Her strict trainer never handed out compliments lightly, whipping her harshly and forging her with advanced techniques.
To outsiders, it might look like venting frustration.
She needed proof. Solid evidence of her talent. Without it, she couldn't face a broadcast stage or an audience.
That night, she never answered her father.
The next day, he acted like the offer never happened.
She appreciated his tact.
Better that way.
Instead, she turned elsewhere.
A band.
She wanted to test her talent.
Let's put myself to the test.
Sensing she couldn't achieve her dreams debuting solo now, Izumi gathered musically inclined kids at school and formed a band. That was BARD.
Unknown to the world, BARD dominated as a school band.
But unlike BARD's success, Izumi's challenge failed.
The bold school band venture, from middle to high school graduation, never escaped covers and arrangements of famous songs.
In other words, just another run-of-the-mill school band.
Musical risks were farthest from their minds.
Predictably, neither audiences nor agencies cared.
BARD wasn't unique enough to warrant attention.
The once-joyful band activities stalled without progress; Izumi and members lost motivation. Gatherings dwindled, then halted under exam prep excuses—effectively disbanding.
No one remembered them.
One takeaway.
Failure.
"No talent..."
Failure turned doubt to certainty.
Izumi realized she lacked the brilliance of stage stars.
The absence of vital talent in the arts crushed her.
Yet she didn't break. She pivoted, honing sense instead.
If not the peak, at least a respected spot.
First step: self-reflection.
She analyzed her failure.
BARD reformed about a year later. Surprisingly, all members agreed eagerly. Lingering regrets weren't hers alone.
After twists and turns, they reunited and tackled original songs for the first time.
They challenged themselves, amateurishly.
For their debut original, they chose a famous busking park.
My last chance to prove my talent.
Another flop, and she'd lack faith to continue.
Probably end up a session player.
Confidence at rock bottom, Izumi prayed desperately.
Dark park path.
Passersby, but none stopping.
Capture them.
For the first time, she poured desperation into her stage talk while singing.
Even knowing she sang well, never this earnestly.
Please.
Just one person.
One is enough—watch our stage.
Notice we're here.
She prayed through the song.
And her desperate plea...
Clap clap.
...reached the heavens at last.
Flashback: Tenma Izumi - Complete -