Starting Line
Indeed, fateful encounters make people grow.
That thought suddenly struck Tae-il as he stared at the same screen on his monitor for the thirtieth minute straight.
The morning after his encounter with BARD, on a Sunday.
Tae-il woke up early and, after much deliberation, gripped his mouse with trembling hands.
Click.
After a brief buffering, an alert popped up announcing the upload's success.
He'd done it.
"Haaah."
Tae-il let out a deep sigh without realizing it.
Embarrassed, he rubbed his face with both hands.
The die had been cast.
Tae-il gazed anxiously at his SoundSky page where the song had been uploaded.
Refresh.
Views and visitors remained stubbornly at zero.
"What the hell are you even hoping for, Shin Tae-il...?"
To snap himself out of it, Tae-il thumped his temples with his fist.
SoundSky.
In Korea, it served as a gateway for hip-hop artists, and in the West for electronic music—a massive streaming platform.
Honestly, it didn't pack much punch in Japan relative to its scale.
It was great for promotional previews and arranged tracks since you could upload freely, but for someone like Tae-il with no fanbase or recognition, it felt like a white elephant.
Japan was the most isolated market in the world—a true Galápagos island.
Outsiders often dismissed it as their own little league, but no one could deny the sheer size of Japan's music industry, second only to the US.
Even global pop stars and the success of Korean idols' overseas tours hinged on cracking the Japanese market.
Japan's music boom owed much to the bubble economy and economic growth, of course, but the real key was its musician-friendly infrastructure.
In Japan, anyone could form and perform a band anywhere.
It wasn't some pure-hearted utopia, naturally. It was a capitalist machine built on profit.
In other words, demand for music was sky-high.
Online spaces were no exception.
Japan had its own video platform, InuDong, and powerhouse Utaroids that let solo creators simulate full band activities.
InuDong was one of the prime gateways for amateurs.
Producers who made names there usually debuted professionally and succeeded.
Anyone checking SoundSky in Japan was probably just kawaii bass fans built on future bass foundations or hardcore electro addicts hunting remixes.
"Yeah, strategically, I should debut on InuDong too."
What kind of country was Japan?
An advanced economy and the land of otaku.
Japanese was basically Latin in the otaku world—solve communication issues by defaulting to it, and most problems vanished thanks to its massive influence.
Utaroids were a byproduct showcasing Japan's otaku culture and market scale.
Most creators were amateurs, so royalties were low overall, but the potential shone through: nearly all young hit singers started as Utaroid producers.
Tae-il had originally planned to record with Utaroid and upload to InuDong and YouTube.
But he hit a snag.
"Utaroid or whatever, I just can't write lyrics..."
Tae-il scratched his scalp irritably.
Writer's block for lyrics.
Humming guide vocals wasn't a bad workaround, but he couldn't avoid lyrics forever.
If it had to be done eventually, delaying wasn't his style.
The problem? He'd never written lyrics once in his life.
"This is driving me crazy."
He had a rough idea of the vibe.
But turning it into lyrics choked him with frustration.
Composers lacking lyric skills weren't rare, especially in an era of specialization and division of labor.
It wasn't a huge flaw.
But for an indie band aiming for fame, agency deals, and mainstream success? Different story.
Assuming vocal and instrumental chops as basics for famous bands, what set them apart was personality and uniqueness.
In band-saturated Japan, members' songwriting became the band's signature. Weak in either, and you faded into obscurity—no longevity.
Unlike K-pop idols backed by massive capital and experts in factory-line projects, bands had to fend for themselves.
If idols were mass-produced commodities...
bands were more like cottage industry crafts.
Crowded living and working bred constant fights.
Personality clashes and musical differences led to breakups all the time.
Even the Beatles, who conquered the world, lasted just eight years post-debut due to infighting.
"This is driving me crazy."
Tae-il swallowed another sigh.
Whatever, songwriting was essential for any bandman. Admit weakness in private, and you'd get ridiculed by peers.
The band scene was rough.
Bands were delinquents.
Polite, backstabbing Japanese? Didn't exist here. BARD was weirdly tame by comparison.
Girls' bands from a beautiful zoo?
Fantasy.
Real girls' bands were either agency groomed prospects or battle-hardened survivors of the brutal scene.
Tae-il, who'd roamed Japan's live houses for years, felt their desperation and cutthroat survival viscerally.
Songwriting was another point of pride for bandmen.
"Alright. Let's give it a shot. It was something I had to tackle anyway."
Tae-il immediately searched how to write lyrics.
No dice.
Online tips were all generic platitudes.
Everything came down to practice.
Tae-il, who knew this from experience, propped his chin on steepled fingers.
He stared holes into the notepad on his monitor.
His eyes felt ready to pop. Staring didn't magically produce lyrics.
Desperate to write anything, he placed his hands on the keyboard.
"Ugh. Move. Come on, move...!"
He glared at his hesitant fingers.
Tap tap.
His index finger idly pecked the spacebar.
"Maybe write in Korean instead of Japanese?"
It somehow felt more feasible.
Over a decade in Japan since reincarnation, but his Japanese lit scores were abysmal—even the most passionate teacher had given up.
"Right. My approach is wrong. How's a Korean supposed to write Japanese lyrics?"
He'd always struggled grasping them anyway. Japan's metaphorical sensibilities eluded him.
Sure, psychedelic songs were hard everywhere—but those you just felt, no overthinking.
Japanese lyrics felt different. Cultural gap? Sensibility clash? Each song's worldview blanked his mind.
His plight summed up as: "What the hell is that, weeb?!"
"Still, quitting now feels wrong. Maybe study more mainstream stuff...?"
Unlike Utaroids, games, or anime, pop lyrics were more direct and everyday, he recalled. He searched Ninomiya Kanna.
Currently on hiatus, but top of mind as a prime J-pop example.
Blame Ayane humming her songs constantly.
Ninomiya Kanna debuted in the 21st century to massive hype and still drew steady love years into her break.
Popularity meant broad resonance.
Not just catchy tunes.
Tae-il played her trendy, accessible hits and groaned.
"Ugh. Mostly from a female perspective..."
Her songs stuck because the speaker and subject were clear.
Especially hits like 'MY Friend' and 'Lover's Manual'—girl sensibilities any guy could get, with witty flair.
Still, the gender mismatch loomed large.
"Doesn't look that hard at first glance, but trying to write? Total block..."
Check other songs?
He dug into legendary singers who'd left marks across eras.
"Yeah, these are more straightforward."
Authentic lyrics resonating across generations.
But too blunt for his taste.
Something more metaphorical, lyrical, yet revealing...
"Am I secretly a chuunibyou...?"
No, good for a lyricist?
Slap! Tae-il smacked his cheek.
"This sensibility might actually help with lyrics."
Just jot down whatever.
First, transcription.
Notebook out: core themes, keywords piercing the song's heart. Analyze rhythm, rhyme—then copy verbatim.
Imitation mothers creation. He transcribed until his hand hurt, over and over.
A literature teacher would've wept at that focus.
Half that effort in class, and his grades would've soared.
Morning bled into afternoon; he didn't stop.
Impressive phrases? Muttered aloud, repeated.
Dinner? Cup ramen.
Sunset yielded to rising moon.
Prime time for rich emotions.
Tae-il dove into lyric practice proper.
"Okay, just write anything."
Staff paper out, scribble freely.
First: the theme.
He picked love—timeless, universally adored, history-approved safe bet.
But nothing came.
Eight hours of transcription wasted? His mind blanked white.
He tried setups first.
Build male speaker's personality, female listener's background—plot the confession, describe the agony.
Blocked.
Reset relationships, rebuild from scratch—same result.
"O-okay, Frankenstein words into sentences!"
He blamed his puny vocabulary.
Forced it out.
The result? Elementary book report.
"K-kisses like chocolate... Arrrgh!"
Unbearable cringe.
Reading his first self-written lyrics flooded him with self-loathing.
"This isn't lyrics!"
He ripped the page, shredded it.
Not enough—cutter knife diced it unrecognizable.
His virgin work vanished utterly.
Looked like a shredder's output.
"Thought I was gonna die."
Sweating bullets, Tae-il kicked the floor.
Chair spun.
In the dizzying whirl, he sorted thoughts.
'Japanese lyrics plan scrapped as scheduled. Can't hack it yet. Write in Korean first, translate later.'
Better than elementary drivel.
Rhythm-matching came after.
Language gaps would hurt, but shared hanja roots offered similarities. Worst case, rope in Ayane. He punted to future self.
Luckily, tons of adaptation references.
K-to-J or J-to-K.
"Sort K-pop idols who broke Japan..."
Add J-originals famous in Korea: 'Snow Flower', 'Spring Day of My Life', 'I Love You', 'Come, Spring'.
"Trying stuff makes the path clearer."
"Should've done this sooner," he muttered.
His hands flew over keyboard and mouse.
Tomorrow at school, print in the computer lab, analyze comparisons.
"Oh right. Gotta recruit members too."
Mountains upon mountains.
Spot a path, another obstacle looms.
Tae-il's dream teetered at the starting line, road ahead long. But the grind? Pure joy, not drudgery.
The clock hands crept past midnight toward three.
Lost in work, oblivious to time—he looked more exhausted than ever, yet happier too.