75 – Genius Producer. (7)
75 – Genius Producer. (7)
75.
Jin Ilman had produced a total of three music programs, including this one.
Because of that, he’d worked with countless singers, and he knew something to a certain extent.
That among singers, there were a lot of freaks.
There were people who went beyond being simply delicate or sensitive—people so incomprehensible they were called “four-dimensional.” And there were plenty of people who were mild in everyday life but turned into lunatics the moment work started.
They claimed it was because they were perfectionists, but to Jin Ilman, they were nothing more and nothing less than personality wrecks.
And watching how Yoon Hajun worked right now, it felt like the same type.
Ah—though it wasn’t that Yoon Hajun was a personality wreck.
It was just a feeling.
That distinct vibe people have when they call themselves perfectionists.
He felt that from Yoon Hajun.
He never recorded carelessly. If it didn’t satisfy him, it was endless retakes. And he demanded exactly what he wanted, refusing to stop until he got it.
Because of that, Kang Minseok—the sub vocalist—was suffering badly. He was suffering so much he even started glaring at Yoon Hajun.
But Yoon Hajun didn’t care.
If someone ten years older than you glared at you, you might flinch, but instead, Yoon Hajun confidently demanded more from Kang Minseok.
“That’s it. That. Put that into the song. Resentment, han, the feeling of refusing to bow to absurdity—like you’re raging and wrecking everything.”
The guy injecting Kang Minseok with resentment, han, and absurdity in real time was saying that, so Kang Minseok finally snapped.
—Whatever it is you want.
I won’t kneel!
A beast’s howl, screaming with han. And even then, the voice rose cleanly.
At that voice, Yoon Hajun nodded with a satisfied expression.
“See? I told you you could do it.”
“If you couldn’t talk, you wouldn’t be so annoying.”
Behind them, Choi Minseok muttered at Yoon Hajun’s words. The other members nodded like they agreed.
“How long have we been a band now?”
“Seven years now?”
“It’s already been that long? But seriously. Out of everyone I’ve met, I think he’s the weirdest.”
“He’s only eighteen and he’s vicious as hell. I guarantee it—if he keeps that up, he’s going to get punched by a singer someday.”
“He’d probably just smile and say it’s fine as long as the song turns out good.”
“Right. Or he’ll go, ‘Put that emotion into the song.’ Like that.”
At Ahn Hain’s spot-on imitation of Yoon Hajun, the members burst into snickers.
Watching them, Jin Ilman smiled.
Filming was getting more and more interesting.
And it wasn’t just because the members were teasing Yoon Hajun.
The thing that had felt lacking in Yoon Hajun—his character, his presence—was starting to fill in.
In a music program, especially a competition program, the most important thing was drama.
And drama needed a protagonist.
Someone who stood out among all the contestants.
That could be someone with overwhelming talent, or someone lacking at first but steadily growing.
In that sense, Yoon Hajun was more than enough to be a protagonist.
Overwhelming talent at a young age. An unknown producer brought in by a band known worldwide.
From what he’d heard, the kid wasn’t a trainee from some agency—he’d signed as a professional producer—but he only had one proper credit so far.
In other words, an anonymous hidden powerhouse.
A position the public, obsessed with underdogs, would go crazy for.
“Make sure you capture everything about Hajun.”
Jin Ilman said that to one of the VJs holding a camera, then looked at Yoon Hajun.
He had a feeling.
The feeling of a massive hit.
§ § §
“So you’re going to keep working in front of cameras?”
“Yeah.”
I answered while drinking coffee. The bitter taste made me feel good. At first it tasted like burnt beans and I didn’t like it, but somehow it got addicting the more I drank it.
“So jealous~”
Suyeon muttered enviously as she rolled around on the sofa.
I lifted up the hair that had fallen over her face and said—
“Just hold out a little longer.”
“How long is ‘a little’?”
“For now, August.”
“August is the second semester. Why—something happening then?”
I nodded.
“I’m going to start looking for an agency around then.”
“Can’t I just go to your agency? You said they need singers.”
“I could. But it’s better if they come looking because they genuinely want to sign you, rather than signing you just because you’re my sister. Then we can demand a few things too.”
“That’s true.”
Suyeon nodded. Then she made a small “Mm” sound and rubbed her face against the sofa. She looked really sluggish.
“Sleepy?”
“No. I have to go to cram school later, and I don’t feel like going.”
“Study hard.”
“I will.”
“Oh, and I heard there’s an audition program in September. What do you want to do?”
“An audition program?”
Suyeon pushed herself halfway up.
Then she looked at me with sparkling eyes.
“Can I go on it?”
“The program isn’t even confirmed yet, and we don’t know what’ll happen. But if you want to go on it, then you go.”
“What do you think?”
“I want you to go. There’s a lot you can get from it.”
“Then I’ll go. I want to go.”
Looking excited, Suyeon bounced her feet against the sofa.
In the past, she would’ve asked if it was really okay for her to go.
She’d changed a lot.
Compared to before, she’d become more honest about her feelings.
I thought it was a good thing.
“Then let’s make the first goal the audition program in September.”
“Okay! Ah, but am I going alone?”
“For now, yeah. But don’t worry too much. I’ll make your songs.”
“Really?”
I nodded and turned my gaze to my laptop. The final song we were going to upload to Cloud was almost finished. Working on it bit by bit while at Haul Studio really paid off.
“Alright, then I should tell my teacher. Ah—oh, right! Speaking of teachers, our teacher asked when you were going to come.”
Hearing the word “teacher” made Suyeon remember something, and she got excited.
Ah, right. Lee Jiyoon said she wanted to see me.
She’d been saying that since before winter break, but I kept forgetting. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go—work had just been too hectic.
“Then I’ll go as soon as this filming ends.”
“When does filming end?”
“Four days from now.”
“Then we can go together this weekend.”
I nodded. Spring break would be over soon. No matter how I thought about it, spring break was way too short.
As I was thinking that, Suyeon flopped back onto the sofa.
“Next week is the entrance ceremony.”
“Nervous?”
“No. I’m excited.”
Suyeon said that and let out a small giggle.
§ § §
“The competition stage is way bigger than I expected.”
I stared at the stage with a surprised expression. There were three days left until the competition. Blue Aka and I were touring the stage to prepare.
“We only get one rehearsal, right?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. How are you thinking of doing the stage production?”
“We’re worried about that too. Since we’re a band, there are limits to stage production. At most, we can use the screen?”
“What about props and stuff? Can’t we use those?”
“We can, but we don’t have time.”
That was true. Only three days left. And we had to submit any necessary stage props to the station by tomorrow.
Which meant we had to finish the stage plan today.
“The schedule is insanely tight.”
“We were supposed to have about a week, but we spent way more time making the song than we expected.”
“Ah… sorry.”
The recording running long was entirely my fault. I should’ve compromised at some point, but I couldn’t. Once recording started, it was like a switch flipped.
“I’ll go take a closer look at the stage.”
“Okay.”
At Won Seongmin’s reply, I stood up and went down under the stage. Then I slowly looked it over.
This stage was the biggest one I’d ever been on.
But Blue Aka couldn’t use that whole huge stage.
Blue Aka’s vocalists—Kang Minseok and Won Seongmin—weren’t just singing. They also had to play keyboard and guitar, respectively.
So their movement was limited.
“In the end, it’s the screen.”
Screen-based production. Like typography graphics. Bands use that kind of method a lot during live performances.
“The screen is huge too.”
It wasn’t only behind the stage—there was also a screen above the stage.
Hmm. Above the stage.
Wait—above the stage?
I pulled my phone out and opened iTube.
Then I searched for a band live video. Soon, I found what I was looking for.
A live performance from about five years ago.
A rock festival stage considered legendary among bands.
Hmm. We could use this.
“Sunbae!”
“Yes!”
At my voice, Won Seongmin answered loudly and ran over.
“Did you think of a good idea?”
“It’s not anything huge. This just seemed okay.”
I handed him my phone. Won Seongmin watched the video playing on the screen, then let out a small impressed sound.
“This is a good method. It’s considered a legendary stage too.”
“Wouldn’t there be plagiarism controversy or something?”
“It’ll be fine. That band wasn’t the first to use typography graphics in the first place. It’s just that their stage became ‘legendary.’ This kind of production existed before. And more than anything, this kind of falling typography is also a technique that’s used a lot in modern art.”
“Then it should be fine.”
I nodded. Good—stage production was decided, so I wrote down what we needed.
And this was as far as I could help.
Other people might help during rehearsal too, but with Blue Aka, there was nothing I could do in rehearsal. All they did on stage was play instruments anyway.
And in instrument performance—technique and eye-catching tricks—they knew far more than I did.
“You’ll come watch practice and rehearsal, right?”
“Of course.”
It wasn’t like I was dropping out here.
Once I started, I should see it through to the end.
§ § §
For the remaining days until the competition, Blue Aka did nothing but practice.
Practice, practice, and more practice.
Since they were a band that had played together for a long time, they were extremely in sync.
And I watched them.
Constantly.
Sure, I said I’d watch their practice, but I didn’t need to watch every practice session.
Honestly, they knew band practice better than I did.
So why was I watching?
Because Jin Ilman, the main PD of Star Kingdom, asked me to.
Up until now, Jin Ilman hadn’t asked me for anything, but for the first time, he made two requests.
One: that I attend and watch all practice sessions.
Two: that during rehearsal and the live stage, I watch from under the stage, not from the audience seats.
“Why would he ask that?”
During a break, I asked Won Seongmin carefully.
I didn’t understand why Jin Ilman would ask for something like that.
Won Seongmin took a sip of water and said—
“Maybe PD Jin Ilman wants the public to recognize that you’re a producer, Hajun.”
“Recognize it?”
“In these competition programs, you know how there are producers who help the stage.”
“Right.”
“And those producers usually watch from below the stage. They go ‘wow,’ like they’re impressed. They say things like ‘Good job,’ and clap.”
“Ah.”
“I think that’s what PD Jin Ilman wants.”
So he wanted me to show the producer image the public already had in mind.
It wasn’t a difficult request, and it was something people did often.
“That’s not hard.”
Even if I didn’t really see what the point was.
But if he wanted it, I’d do it.