Applicant No. 12
But hyung's an actor, though.
The session musicians' expressions shifted into something genuinely intrigued. Bassists were sometimes saddled with the nickname "root-note shuttle," but supply never kept up with demand, and in any band they were treated like nobility.
"Whoa···."
"What the—was that slap?"
Yoon Jay had simply reproduced, note for note, a performance he'd once watched a musician give at a bar where he used to work.
"No way···."
How is that even possible? The session team and the Buster members still couldn't close their mouths. The playing was high-level. This wasn't just chasing the notes—the phrasing and technique were seriously sophisticated.
"And where on earth did you see that and copy it?"
"At a bar, back when I worked at one."
"Hah···."
A sudden silence settled over the room. Some people could watch a choreography once and memorize most of it. But being able to mirror a musical performance perfectly, from the first bar to the last···. Some of them felt the sting of relative deprivation, while others simply let pure admiration spill out.
"I can only copy what I've seen. Creating's a different story."
In truth, he didn't know whether he could or not, because he'd never tried—but the atmosphere wasn't exactly cheerful for Yoon Jay.
"Then would you like to watch this piece once and try it?"
"Sure."
Chae Jinhyeok sat down at the keyboard and played a song he was currently working on. A piece no one but himself had ever heard.
"You think you can do it?"
Yoon Jay gave a small nod and took the bench in front of the keyboard. The onlookers' expressions turned from professional interest to plain human curiosity. Just how far could this guy watch and follow along?
And Yoon Jay played Chae Jinhyeok's piece back, exactly as he'd heard it.
"By the way—did you make that one section in the middle a deliberate mistake?"
"Uh··· yes. How did you know?"
"It just felt off."
On top of everything else, he'd caught the deliberately botched passage and called it out, and the session men clicked their tongues.
"Hang on—if you can follow along without stumbling, doesn't that mean you've got some real sense for it?"
"Exactly. Rhythm isn't something you're born with, you know?"
"And he even caught the part you played wrong on purpose···."
"Then··· would you mind checking whether you can do it without watching? Just by listening?"
Setting aside their tangle of complicated feelings, they proposed a test: could Yoon Jay perform a song he'd never heard before after a single listen? They looked like researchers who'd finally found their lab specimen.
"I think that's doable."
Music, no—but he'd done something similar. Back when he'd absorbed the CIA's language-acquisition program.
Wait, didn't I come here to act? Why am I taking a test?
Yoon Jay tilted his head for a moment, then listened to the piece and set his hands moving. At first he was a little clumsy, and the session men thought, well, there it is—but soon they went slack-jawed as the playing grew steadily more assured.
Huh. It's working?
Yoon Jay was inwardly surprised, but he didn't stop playing. Meanwhile, the session men and Buster members were whispering among themselves.
"Wow, seriously···. That talent is insane."
"Is that some kind of perfect pitch thing?"
"It's not 'some kind of' anything. It's the real deal."
"That's our hyung for you."
"Honestly? I'm a little jealous."
Yoon Jay pulled off his headphones and spoke.
"Mm···. That was harder than I expected."
Hard, he says. This conman. The session men narrowed their eyes, then eventually let out hollow laughs. Honestly, watching him sit at an instrument was like looking at a painting.
His face alone put him in a different league from the rest of them—better for everyone's mental health to just accept that he belonged to some other species entirely.
"What do we even call this? Talent poached from the acting world?"
"Any interest in joining us as a guest member?"
Watching Yoon Jay surrounded by the crowd, Yoon Do-jun nodded to himself. Yeah. That's my brother alright.
At this rate, he really could do a band. He could even perform with me someday, and—
Running his happy little fantasy, Do-jun gazed at his brother with a contented smile—and then belatedly came back to his senses.
But hyung's an actor.
The Intermission audition hall had been packed with people since morning.
"Director, there's a huge crowd waiting outside. Could you move things along a little faster?"
"Got it."
With so many applicants, they'd staggered the audition slots into different time blocks, but the schedule was running behind because of how long it took to hear each musical performance.
"I can't believe this many people are flocking to a film this small."
"It's a lead role. And we're casting two of them, so···."
When had there last been an open lead audition? Actors who couldn't seem to escape supporting parts had all applied first and asked questions later, whether or not their playing was actually up to par.
They'd already sat through two people brazenly hammering out Czerny exercises. Both performances made it painfully obvious they hadn't touched the instrument since childhood.
"And this is all thanks to our director, isn't it?"
"Oh, don't start."
After all, Director Shin Ji-won of Intermission was the black sheep of a venerable, hereditary line of musicians.
Even his debut feature had been a musical film—one that earned glowing reviews across the board and swept up awards besides. On top of that, the production company had its own record label.
There was real demand for music films in Korea. The trouble was that foreign films and animation had cornered the market, while homegrown Korean efforts had largely flopped.
Intermission carried a certain ambition: to bring together a director and a production company who were dead serious about music, and finally make a Korean well-made music film.
"Mm···. Applicant eight would've been better off with stronger drumming···."
"I thought he was fine? Director Shin, exactly how good does someone need to be?"
"At minimum, he should handle keys, guitar, and drums reasonably well···."
Choi Sujin, the production supervisor, was skeptical that anyone of that caliber would ever apply to their modest little film.
"Just let them do some hand sync and call it a day. You think an all-rounder with real skills is going to apply for a small indie like this? They'd all be on a stage somewhere."
Choi Sujin drummed her fists on the desk, pressing Shin Ji-won hard. For all the bickering, the two were old schoolmates and close friends.
Shin Ji-won's name had drawn in a handful of investors, but Choi Sujin still found it a shame. A few established actors had been interested in this synopsis—actors famous enough that they could have pulled in even more investment.
Their playing, though? Honestly, it was rough.
Which is, well···. Maybe don't count on the performances.
No. Not acceptable.
But that damn director was the problem. And she couldn't exactly cut him and rebuild the production under someone new—Intermission existed because Shin Ji-won existed. Hence this open audition.
If an actor who could attract investment applied, things might change···.
But that actor would have to play well enough to please Shin Ji-won and sing well besides. Fat chance. That was winning-the-lottery odds.
"Which is why I keep telling you—go pull in more investment."
"That's···. I'd be too ashamed to face anyone."
Excuse me? That problem solves itself the moment you bend your principles a little. Choi Sujin heaved a long sigh.
The two leads of Intermission were geniuses with completely different temperaments, and no one could talk the director out of his stubbornness. The bonus condition he'd tacked on—prior idol trainees welcomed—had been the production company's pressure, an attempt to take a slightly more commercial route this time.
"We'll find one, at least. I'm sure of it."
"And if you keep waiting and find nobody?"
But Shin Ji-won's appetite had been whetted, and he refused to give up hope. This might be exactly how a hidden gem got unearthed. What he wanted was something more authentic than mere hand sync.
"Fine, fine. Anyone who shows a spark, we pass through to the next round for now···."
"Good call. Otherwise this audition will eat up the whole day."
It was only the first round anyway—all they needed to do was weed out the hopeless cases. And even applicants who couldn't play but performed with sheer nerve would still be under consideration.
"Next, please—applicant number nine."
While the audition hall rang with music, the area outside was nearly as noisy.
"Is that···. No way."
"Isn't that Yoon Jay?"
His frame was impossible to hide even when hunched in a corner—and as if a hoodie swallowed over his head weren't enough, he'd piled a cap and a mask on top of it.
Even up close, no one would recognize him as Yoon Jay, but one applicant who happened to lock eyes with him saw through it instantly.
"Come on, why would Yoon Jay come here?"
"I mean···. True."
"Honestly, showing up here would be pretty shameless."
Yoon Jay flinched and tugged his cap down deeper. Wait, why would that be shameless? First round's supposed to be a blind audition anyway.
I covered everything there was to cover, and they're still talking.
Why? Yoon Jay decided he'd add sunglasses to the ensemble when his turn came.
And as he sat there alone, he felt someone's presence settle in beside him.
"It's you, right, hyung?"
It was Kang Hajun, whom he'd run into back at Baeksan. Yoon Jay gave a small wave—long time no see.
"How'd you know it was me?"
"Your build, for one. Screams you."
He had the best physique of anyone in the applicant pool. Plus, he'd caught what the other applicants were saying earlier and had sat down next to the hooded figure on a hunch. Right on the money.
"So you're auditioning here too, hyung?"
"Yep."
"Oho···. So you must play pretty well, then."
"I practiced a lot."
What Yoon Jay had actually done was exploit the session men's goodwill to watch a huge variety of playing. By the end, they'd been begging him to stop. So yes—he'd "seen" a lot.
Kang Hajun grinned. Behind him, the applicants' furtive glances gathered. He'd debuted successfully in a lead role in an indie film, which made him a rival to watch too.
"Practice alone won't get you there, though, will it?"
"Confident, are we?"
"I did grind through years as a trainee, you know. Some of them were band-idol trainees, too."
"Oho."
The bravado was all for show—there was no malice in it. Yoon Jay smiled.
Showing healthy competitive spirit beat sulking with a festering jealousy, the way Lim Si-woo had. Besides, Yoon Jay could see that Kang Hajun was deliberately chattering to hide his nerves.
"Applicant number twelve?"
"Yes."
While he'd been whispering with Kang Hajun, Yoon Jay's turn had crept up on them. Kang Hajun's face went ashen even though his own number hadn't been called. Guess he was nervous after all.
"Fighting."
"Yeah. Fighting."
Stepping into the audition hall with Kang Hajun's cheer ringing behind him, Yoon Jay found it was a peculiar setup. The space was ringed with a floor-to-ceiling white curtain, various instruments arranged behind it, backlit by a bank of lights.
The judges would be sitting outside the curtain—and they were presumably there to verify, by silhouette, whether an applicant was really playing.
Who's this?
Not content with the lighting alone, one staff member had been seated inside the curtain as well. The staffer squinted at the thoroughly muffled Yoon Jay, tilting his head. It was a blind audition anyway—was all that covering really necessary?
"Applicant twelve, you're free to play whichever instrument you're most confident in."
The instruction came from outside the curtain. Yoon Jay answered with an OK sign.
He could have at least said something, but he just gestured—was silence part of his concept, to make himself stand out? Choi Sujin felt her interest stir. Even judging by silhouette, the kid had a good frame. Long limbs, too···.
"Oh···. Rachmaninoff?"
"He's good."
The piano spilling out through the curtain was impressive even to Choi Sujin's untrained ear. She stole a glance at her friend, the director once hailed as a musical prodigy.
"Yes. This. This is it. My ears are being cleansed."
Shin Ji-won had his eyes closed, lost in the performance. Great. We're not finishing on schedule today.
"Did you major in classical piano?"
"Hmm···."
Beyond Shin Ji-won and Choi Sujin, other judges sat as well—musicians the production company had recruited specifically for the audition.
They too nodded along, looking satisfied. It helped that the preceding applicants had all been uniformly mediocre.
Wait. Isn't this that friend of Yoon Jay's? No···.
Chae Jinhyeok, the session man who'd claimed a judge's seat at the director's request, kept thinking of Yoon Jay as applicant twelve opened with a performance meant to intimidate from the very first note. And that silhouette—100 percent, no doubt about it.
"What's he doing?"
"Ah—loved that, though···."
At the climax of the piece, applicant twelve cut the piano off mid-phrase, strode over to the drums, and plopped down onto the stool.
Classical piece, then suddenly drums? The director swallowed hard. Right. He'd said applicants could play whatever instrument they liked. Which meant···.
Oh, he's good.
At the assured drumming, Chae Jinhyeok broke into a wide grin.
Before long, Yoon Jay moved on to the acoustic guitar. His picking style and technique were on another plane entirely from the half-hearted strumming a few earlier applicants had scraped through.
"Man, that's good."
Piano good enough to suggest a classical major, drums, and now guitar. Even accounting for the fact that he was playing it all from memory, this was a pass.
But applicant twelve's rampage didn't stop. He'd already moved on to the next instrument.
"He—he plays bass too?"
"How many instruments can one person play?"
"Hey—hey! That's the guy you've been looking for!"
Even the skeptical Choi Sujin was worked up now, smacking the director on the shoulder. Director Shin Ji-won wore the expression of a man falling head over heels in love.
There's more, actually.
Inside the curtain, the frozen staff member stared blankly as Yoon Jay reached for the next instrument—a violin. Then, a beat too late, he spoke.
"Th-thank you for your time."
"Is that the end?"
"Yes. We've already gone well over the time limit."
"Then I'll see you next round."
If the judges were carrying on like that outside, Yoon Jay figured it was safe to assume he'd passed. He gave the staffer a polite bow and stepped out.
Huh? Wait—that voice just now···. The staffer stared blankly at the door Yoon Jay had gone through.
Meanwhile, outside the curtain, the judging panel had descended into chaos.
"Pass. Absolutely a pass."
"Do we even need to see him in the second round?"
"No—he goes through to the second round. We have to."
The second round was an interview. They simply had to lay eyes on the face behind that performance.
Choi Sujin found her hands clasped together in prayer all on their own. If he turned out to be handsome on top of everything else, that would be the icing on the cake. Maybe she'd start praying from tonight. Please. Please let number twelve be the winning ticket.