Vox Populi, Vox Dei
The undisputed queen of the West End had personally invited him, yet that wasn't enough—she stuck by his side the entire party. The attention poured on him exceeded even his wildest imagination.
It was inevitable from the start. Just being her guest was enough to draw every eye in the room. And on top of that, Woojin was the only Asian there.
At first, people's gazes landed on Lily and her cherubic son William, giggling happily in her arms. But then...
"Nice to meet you, Woojin! Welcome to the West End!"
"That's right. Music is equal for everyone. And the place your feet have touched is none other than the city of equality, the West End!"
"Enjoy yourself to the fullest. This place where the music never stops is a paradise on earth open to all!"
"To Lily, William, and Woojin. A toast to your friendship."
...it was only natural for those eyes to shift to the Asian man right beside them.
Of course, there wasn't a hint of discrimination in their stares. It was just the natural curiosity sparked by basic difference.
"Your first musical? Oh, perfect. Could you share your thoughts on tonight's performance with us?"
"Right now, you're the most objective person here to judge our show! What did you think?!"
For the cast and crew sweating bullets to deliver a flawless Notre-Dame de Paris on and off stage, Woojin replied, "Well, how was it? In one word..."
The opinion of a foreigner experiencing their very own production as his musical debut, right here in the heart of the West End? What better conversation starter?
"Vox populi, vox dei."
Woojin substituted the answer with the famous Western adage: "The voice of the people is the voice of God."
Eyes widened around him.
The core of Notre-Dame de Paris revolved around the love triangle between the archdeacon, the young captain, and the bell-ringer. But filling the background were the voices of the outcasts and gypsies beyond the city gates—the people. Plenty of room to interpret it that way.
His one-line review, drawing on a Western proverb, must have landed with profound weight.
"Notre-Dame de Paris is hugely popular in Korea too, so even a musical newbie like me knows the songs. With its relatively low barrier to entry, I think it's the perfect gateway into musicals."
Woojin added softly, slowly, "Plus, the tangled character arcs and those raw, screaming lyrics hit right in the chest—I couldn't stop the tears throughout. Seeing Notre-Dame de Paris in the mecca of musicals, the West End, was truly the pinnacle of pinnacles! This is..."
Suddenly, Woojin spun a full 360 in his seat and thrust his thumb sky-high.
"And that's it—the voice of one foreign everyman (vox populi) who witnessed the masterpiece born from your fingertips. Thank you."
Was it the magic of the musical holy land, where rhythm and lyrics became art? Even a simple review pulled out words and symbolic flair he wouldn't use in everyday speech.
By quoting the phrase now etched in everyone's minds, Woojin wrapped up his thoughts.
Clap clap clap clap clap!
"The best rave review I've heard lately!"
"Your expression is killer. Woojin, are you a writer by any chance?!"
"I almost mistook that review for song lyrics, haha!"
"What foreign everyman? The West End doesn't discriminate against difference. Woojin, you're already one of us!"
"Hear hear!"
The applause and cheers doubled back louder. These were people who reacted big to even small things—good folk. Surrounded by them, Woojin's own excitement bubbled up without him realizing.
Then—
"I pay my respects to that memorable voice of the people."
Michael, playing the poet Gringoire, stepped before Woojin, gracefully dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.
Woojin being Lily's invitee, the peak festive mood, a touch of tipsiness—all factors sparking the gesture. But more than that, it stemmed from the West End's core culture, where every move and word from industry pros carried a theatrical flair.
The British reputation as the "land of the rising sun" and "gentlemen's country" came to mind once more.
Woojin gladly mirrored the gesture. Clinking beer bottles with him, Michael smiled and asked, " Notre-Dame de Paris consists of 52 songs. Which one touched you the most?"
A refreshingly novel question.
And sure enough—
"Oh, Michael~ Perfect timing, perfect question!"
"Mac's off at the bathroom just in time! Let's wrap this up before he gets back."
"Kuhaha, brilliant idea! Can't wait to see that guy's face—he'll be dying of curiosity."
Curious eyes turned to Woojin; mischievous arrows aimed at absent Mac.
Art thrived on feedback. No matter how niche, performers couldn't ignore an audience response. The voice of the people on music? The West End's infamous "cold-blooded" Mac—the most sensitive to that—happened to be away.
So Michael, who posed the question.
Jon, slyly slinging an arm around Woojin's shoulder.
Lily, the heroine whose eyes sparkled brightest.
And tiny William in her arms, staring wide-eyed at "back uncle."
All urged Woojin on with pleasant anticipation.
"How about this?"
Lily tossed out a fun idea. "The voice of the people in the cathedral's era chooses one song. What an honor for its owner."
Huh? It felt like a familiar scene unfolding.
No way...
"The owner of the chosen song takes charge of the gypsies' day. Sound fun?!"
As Lily finished, William wiggled his hand up and down. Not his whole arm—just his wrist flicking.
But it perfectly mimicked nodding, so...
"Great idea, Lily!"
"William approves~"
"No more beating around the bush—let's start the game. Let it go!"
The cute baby's timely wrist flick became the "go-ahead," independent of Mom. Classic after-party betting game. A global "national rule," apparently—not just Korean.
"Hey, Michael! Grabbed the mic? Get on with it."
Someone's dad joke landed amid the British banter.
"Alright, Woojin! Can you tell us your pick?"
Michael asked again. Woojin pondered, drawing out the tension.
Dozens of melodies floated through his mind—not all 52, but plenty.
"Well, my choice is..."
Doo-doo-doo-doo... Subtle suspense hung in the air.
"...Ah, hold on. Too many great ones."
Ooohs followed his breathy sigh. The master of push-pull continued.
"If I had to pick just one from 52 masterpieces, it'd be..."
High before tomorrow comes, moon shrouded in fog.
Are you listening? The cry from a beast-like human heart!
Before musical masters, Woojin unwittingly hummed the sole melody lingering in his head. He just felt like it.
It is the howl, Quasimodo's song of love, his mad scream!
His voice scatters beyond all worlds, reaching even you.
The song Woojin chose: "Lune." From Act 2, the poet and emcee Gringoire cries out to the moon. A lament for Esmeralda from the bell-ringer Quasimodo—the Notre Dame hunchback—through a third party's eyes.
"Yes!"
As Woojin's hum faded, its recipient—Michael—let out a thrilled shout.
Snapping out of his melody trance, Woojin gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. What did I just do?
Strutting like a pro before the pros. Where had that courage come from?
Embarrassment flooded him; he shook his head. But Michael, Lily, Jon, and the actors—not to mention everyone around—showered him with applause.
Two hours thirty or one minute—time didn't matter. In that instant, Woojin was the artist, they the audience. Cheers and claps were the due for a great show.
"Woojin! Incredible immersion in your singing."
"Uwaah, no way."
Woojin waved it off, but praise kept coming.
"No, seriously. I saw it—your fleeting expressions and emotions! Gypsies, how was it for you?!"
"I saw it, I tell you!"
Quasimodo's aching emotions seeped from the lyrics. Sung plainly, yet Gringoire empathized deepest. Recalling the tune alone brought back Michael and Jon's stage fire, layering their characters' hearts.
That's why, humming briefly, Woojin's chest inexplicably hurt.
What they'd witnessed in his quiet song: the rhythm laced with a foreigner's sincerity.
Immersing a crowd in a blink? No small feat. So,
"By the way, Woojin! What do you do? You sure you're just a regular guy? Haha!"
A timely quip cracked open Lily's lips. Lighthearted praise, probably.
"Oh, I forgot to mention. My friend Woojin here is an actor from Korea!"
"Eh?"
Not just the crowd—Jon and Michael closest gawked.
"A very very famous actor back home."
Lily beamed proudly, shoulders squared. Her hands pointed to her friend. Eyes followed her fingertips.
"What? An actor?"
"Wow, what's your stage name?!"
"Woojin! Ever done theater?"
Questions burst like a dam. Their curiosity? Vox populi. The true voice of the people.