60– Main. (6)
60– Main. (6)
60.
Seo Chaerim sang on stage.
On the same stage as Jin Sohyang,
The same song as Jin Sohyang.
‘No, is it really the same song?’
Kang Seonghun was confused. If he went by the melody, it was definitely the same song. It was, but… the genre had changed.
So it felt like a single song had been rearranged into a different genre. If Jin Sohyang’s part was boom-bap hip-hop, then Seo Chaerim’s part right now was ballad rock—no, was this metal?
—Because you’re right next to me right now!
Even so, the lyrics continued. If Jin Sohyang’s lyrics were about dreaming of a future where they moved forward together through love, Seo Chaerim’s lyrics were calling out for love.
‘So it’s about getting confessed to and dating, that kind of thing?’
And for that, he changed the genre for each part? But if that was the case, there was no sense of unity on stage.
And it wasn’t just about the song’s genre. The light that had shone on Jin Sohyang was red. But the light shining on Seo Chaerim now was blue.
Two extremes.
And it wasn’t just the lighting.
Even their outfits were different. Jin Sohyang wore a very thin, light white outfit. A fluttering white top, with pants that felt like the same kind of look.
But Seo Chaerim was dressed in black tones overall. A leather jacket, tight black pants, and black boots that came up to her calves.
With the outfits, the lighting, and even the song all feeling different, it felt like an entirely different song. Even the wall created by the partition looked like a separate space—a small stage inside the stage.
—I’ll forget everything for a moment, held in your arms.
That didn’t mean the song was strange. In fact, the song was good, which made it even harder to understand. To take such a good song and make it feel like a different song by part.
Why?
For what?
That thought kept coming up. And it wasn’t just Kang Seonghun. Everyone in the audience watching Yoon Hajun’s stage was thinking the same thing.
Then Seo Chaerim’s part ended.
The blue light went out.
And a white light came on in the center, revealing Han Goyo. At that sight, people drew in their breath. Han Goyo wore an outfit where white and black were balanced in just the right way.
The melody changed again. The guitar and drum sounds grew louder. The bass grew louder too—so loud it almost felt like a mixing mistake.
On top of that, the tempo got faster. Even the key was rising. Overall, it felt like it was driving forward relentlessly. To that melody, Han Goyo began to sing.
—Left alone here, after everyone’s gone.
As if she was searching for someone.
From the start, the pitch was extremely high, but Han Goyo handled it lightly. Her voice cut through the huge melody and reached the audience.
In that moment, the audience felt a kind of shiver.
Goosebumps rose, prickling across their skin.
Everyone knew Han Goyo was incredible. She had already proven herself on the opening stage of day two. But Han Goyo on that stage right now felt like something else entirely.
And in that moment, Kang Seonghun realized what Yoon Hajun had been aiming for.
‘He split the song’s progression itself by parts?’
Songs had forms. They called it Song Form, and it was basic theory you learned once you started composing. If you summarized that form simply, it was roughly verse -> chorus -> bridge -> chorus.
A verse was the song’s introduction.
Usually, the vocal range was low.
The chorus was what people commonly called the highlight.
In other words, the core part.
Unlike the verse, the vocal range was high.
A bridge was a part that existed to connect parts to parts.
Then, depending on the composer, you added a pre-chorus, inserted an interlude, or finished with an outro. That was how you built a song.
But now, Yoon Hajun twisted that form.
Not verse -> chorus -> bridge, but
verse -> bridge -> chorus.
He changed the progression itself. And even the way he used parts was special. Instead of splitting each part cleanly, he used Jin Sohyang’s part as the intro and verse, used Seo Chaerim’s part as the bridge and interlude, and used Han Goyo’s part as the chorus in its entirety.
So each part felt like a different song, and the whole thing became a song that felt wildly free. Realizing that, Kang Seonghun sucked in a sharp breath. Twisting the song form and driving the song forward using multiple genres.
It wasn’t a completely unprecedented attempt. Bands and composers who liked experimenting had twisted song forms before, and songs that put multiple genres inside a single track already existed.
The problem was that Yoon Hajun was only seventeen. At just seventeen, he tried something like that. And the result was genuinely excellent.
Of course, it wasn’t a masterpiece that would go down in history. There were definitely still parts that were lacking. But considering Yoon Hajun’s age, the quality was unbelievable.
On stage, Han Goyo kept singing. She sang a gloom that didn’t match the frantic speed and massive melody.
—I’m drowning in muddy water, swimming desperately.
As if someone no one needed was searching for someone.
A voice that sounded like it might break into tears.
With that voice, she sang of the past.
Jin Sohyang’s part, dreaming of a future after being loved. Seo Chaerim’s part, wanting to stay in the present with the person she loved. And Han Goyo’s part, left alone, dreaming only of the past.
He had put a single story into the song. The audience was already pulled into that story. They focused on the song, felt heartache, and hoped for a different ending.
—Here, forever.
Then Han Goyo’s part ended.
And—
Snap—.
The two lights that had been off came back on. Jin Sohyang and Seo Chaerim were revealed again. Then Jin Sohyang and Seo Chaerim, and finally Han Goyo, stepped over the “wall” made by the partition and moved toward the front of the stage.
—I only waited for someone.
The piano line that had diminished grew louder. The melody that had been driving forward frantically calmed down. The key returned to where it belonged.
—I’m going to stop now.
Not someone else’s kind of life,
I’m going to try living my life.
Han Goyo sang. Jin Sohyang sang. Seo Chaerim sang. The three of them sang one song on the same stage.
“Ah.”
At that song, Kang Seonghun stared blankly, his mouth hanging open.
Then he let out a hollow laugh.
When the part he’d assumed was the chorus ended, the chorus began again. In other words, Yoon Hajun hadn’t used Han Goyo’s part as just the chorus—he had used it as both the chorus and the bridge.
—I’ll say.
Not someone’s something.
—I’ll say.
Not someone else’s story.
—I’ll say.
My own story—
Han Goyo belted out a high note. Jin Sohyang sang as if whispering. Seo Chaerim added harmony. It all blended into one, enriching the song.
—Freely───!!
And once again, Han Goyo’s high note continued. Jin Sohyang’s scat and Seo Chaerim’s harmony supported her. The audience shuddered.
On stage, the people they had thought were just performers broke through the wall that the partition had been and came out into reality. They weren’t singing someone else’s story—they were singing their own story.
—In the end, as myself.
Not someone else’s life.
For a life that’s mine.
“Main” was a freewheeling song.
That didn’t just mean the progression or the lyrics were freewheeling. “Main” broke the fourth wall however it pleased. The singers who had been singing someone else’s story burst out, denied it, and sang their own song.
To express that, Yoon Hajun had set up a partition on stage. They kicked away the small stage made by that wall, and on a bigger stage, they told their own story—that was what it meant.
—The only one who can decide your life,
In the end, is you.
With Han Goyo’s singing, the stage ended. The lights went out. And at the same time, the audience began applauding. Some people even cheered loudly.
Right now, the audience felt moved as if they had watched a musical. They didn’t know why, but emotion swelled up inside them.
At that sight, Yoon Hajun smiled. It wasn’t like they had understood this song perfectly. There would be people who didn’t understand why each part had a different genre.
No, he thought there would be even more people like that. Originally, it was hard to grasp the creator’s intent one hundred percent. But they were moved, cheering and applauding.
Wasn’t that enough?
While Yoon Hajun smiled, Kang Seonghun wore a dazed expression. What could he even call this song?
It was a mess. A total mess. Twisting the song form however he pleased, giving each part a new genre, and then, at the end, denying those parts?
But that chaotic song was tormenting Kang Seonghun. His hands trembled. His eyes stung. An emotion he couldn’t explain filled his chest.
A song is free.
It was something he had heard his parents say until he was sick of it.
But Kang Seonghun couldn’t agree with that. Successful songs had formulas. There were forms, and Kang Seonghun had only ever made songs by fitting them to those forms. To him, songs weren’t free.
But the song Yoon Hajun made right now was far too free. He made what he wanted to make, and did what he wanted to do.
“Ah.”
Now Kang Seonghun understood.
His parents were right.
Songs were free.
§ § §
With the ending stage, the long, long Winter Festival ended. And Yoon Hajun stood beneath the stage in the small performance hall, looking at the now-empty stage.
“It was pretty good, right?”
Then someone spoke to Yoon Hajun. At that voice, Yoon Hajun turned and looked at the owner of the voice. Seo Chaerim was there.
At some point she had changed out of her stage outfit—seeing Seo Chaerim in her school uniform, Yoon Hajun smiled and nodded.
“It was a good stage.”
“If our producer says that, then I guess it really was.”
At Seo Chaerim’s teasing words, Yoon Hajun gave a bitter smile. From Yoon Hajun’s perspective, this stage was extremely satisfying.
A different kind of song form he had never made before, limited staging, not enough time. There were a lot of restrictions, but the stage still turned out well.
“So what are you doing now?”
“Well. Winter Festival is over, so I want to rest, but… I can’t, because of the composition major exam.”
“You’re going to submit a different song for the composition major exam, not this one?”
“Yes. That’s what I’m thinking.”
Submitting “Main” for the composition major exam wouldn’t be a problem. If anything, he would get a very good score. In fact, right after the stage ended, Teacher Ha Hyoju came over and praised Yoon Hajun.
But there was a big problem with submitting “Main.”
“I’m not confident I can play all of that on guitar.”
“Main” was divided into four major genres, and Yoon Hajun wasn’t confident he could play all of it on guitar.
At that, Seo Chaerim let out a quiet laugh.
“That’s a realistic reason.”
“I’m a realistic person.”
“Yeah? To me, you looked like someone endlessly romantic.”
“Romantic?”
“Choosing the harder path, making a song like this. Wasn’t that because you were chasing romance?”
Romance, my ass.
Yoon Hajun shook his head.
“Main” wasn’t a song Yoon Hajun made with a plan. He had seen the painting hanging in the central corridor and felt inspired, so he made it.
“I’m someone who values reality more than romance.”
“That’s not romantic.”
“I’m too tired to look for romance. But aren’t you going back, sunbae?”
“Huh? Ah, yeah, I should. Before that, though, I have something to say to you.”
“What is it?”
At Yoon Hajun’s question, Seo Chaerim let out a slow breath. Then she paused, thinking about how to start, before slowly opening her mouth.
“Do you have an agency you’re signed with right now?”
“No. Not really.”
“Any offers?”
“I’ve gotten offers asking for songs, but I haven’t gotten an offer to sign yet.”
“Hm, I see.”
That answer made her think, thankfully. Then again, unlike vocal majors, composition majors didn’t easily get exclusive love calls.
“Then do you have any intention of signing with an agency?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not like I’m completely against it, but… I want to work, as much as possible, only with people I want to work with. But if you sign with an agency, that gets hard.”
But why was she asking this? Yoon Hajun blinked. At that, Seo Chaerim rubbed her chin. He looked so plain that it was hard to believe he was the director who had planned that incredible stage.
The more she looked, the more she liked him.
She wanted him.
“Then if there’s an agency where you can freely work with the people you want, would you sign?”
“If a place like that exists.”
“Perfect.”
Seo Chaerim clapped once, sharply. Then she pulled out a business card she’d already put in her pocket and held it out to Yoon Hajun as she said,
“Then want to talk with me?”
When Yoon Hajun took the card and looked at it, his eyes widened in shock.
“Komm”
And,
“mm Entertainment.”
That was what was written on the card Seo Chaerim gave him.
“I don’t think it’ll be something you regret hearing.”
For you,
And for me, too.