The Wasteland of the Band Scene
A cutthroat, extreme world—the band landscape reduced to a barren wasteland. A vast plain where not a single blade of grass grows, soaked in blood. Mountains of corpses piled high, trampled underfoot, leading to an abyss that swallows people whole. To survive, you have to climb high, far from that pit. The strong survive, the weak perish—survival of the fittest, natural selection. Those who call it luck, born with nothing but fortunate coincidences and no real skill—they don't last in the true battlefield. It was only in the shadowy underbelly of the band industry, untouched by light, that the Heavenly Demon emerged.
Shedding her decadent, gloomy shell, a band playing refreshing music spread its wings after two years grinding in the indie scene. To illuminate this dark gloom, they carried their ancestors' light and became the moon rising at night. She started her band life at just 18. The band's name, taken from their vocalist's surname: Moonlight. And that vocalist? A name we all know well. Moon Juhee. The genuine rock star who rose from the indie trenches. She couldn't save the fallen band world... but she was the only one who survived.
"......"
"......"
That legendary bandwoman is in my apartment right now.
"Hurry up and spit it out. Why'd you call me here?"
And she's glaring at us with a razor-sharp expression. I heard she used to just whine a bit if you woke her up back in the day, but why's she getting more sensitive with age? Last time I accidentally woke her while she was sleeping, I had to listen to her bitch for two hours straight. From my perspective, waking her up is terrifying.
"Haa... Do I look like I have time on my hands? I've been crazy busy, finally getting a chance to rest, and you wake me up to sit here..."
"...."
"Fine, let's hear it. What's this grand reason you had to wake me up for?"
Moon Juhee, her status undiminished, keeps growling. Junwoo and I avoid provoking her, keeping our eyes down and heads bowed. Obviously, she stayed up late gaming and slept in, but pointing that out would just rile her up more. Usually, she calls me over, but Junwoo deals with her post-wakeup moods as part of his job.
Junwoo meets my eyes briefly, then looks at Juhee, who's radiating menace toward us. The face of malice personified. He slowly speaks to her furrowed brow.
"Hey, sis... you eat yet?"
"You think I did?"
Even to her snappy retort, Junwoo stays calm and pulls out his phone. Is he calling 112 or animal control? No—his fingers land on a familiar delivery app icon. He searches for nearby chicken joints and gives her an awkward smile.
"...We haven't eaten either, was gonna order chicken... you want some, sis?"
"......"
Juhee, still scowling, eyes him like prey, then lowers her voice and replies slowly.
"Order from a place with cheese balls."
Junwoo sighs in relief, and I gaze at him with overflowing admiration and awe. The fierce legendary bandwoman, Moon Juhee. Luckily, she can be tamed with food.
About 30 minutes later, the bribe for her arrives at my place. Two chickens and a cheese ball serving. She devours it all in 20 minutes and flops contentedly on the floor. I tidy up roughly and shove aside the makeshift table in the middle of the room (a cardboard box from the mart).
Juhee seems in a better mood now. Junwoo, airing out the room, cautiously broaches the topic.
"A way to build real-world experience and boost recognition?"
Juhee chews on her last cheese ball, hearing our desperate question. She doesn't ponder long. Sucking the powder off her fingers, she grins, showing her teeth.
"Anything besides busking? Nah, busking's the way, no question."
The indie emperor, Moon Juhee, decrees busking as the answer. But lowly me and Junwoo can't grasp it, tilting our heads.
"Busking? That builds skill?"
In my memory, busking was just idle losers begging on the street for attention. Indies use SNS these days anyway, and skilled artists get scouted or join labels—no need to sweat it out on the pavement. Back then, people might watch out of curiosity, but in this era of endless stimulating content, even that's gone.
"Tch, that's why I can't talk to people who never did indie. So clueless."
She shakes her head at my cold assessment, then opens her eyes wide to impart wisdom.
"Listen up, Gwang. No matter how advanced the times get, for vocals or indie bands to blow up, nothing beats performing on the street."
Thus spake Moon Juhee: Busking is the lifeline for the underground.
"Lack of experience means you haven't exposed your music to others enough. Right?"
"Yeah, spot on."
"So you lose your sense. Don't know if you're good, if you click... You're holed up in your own world with stuff you gotta show people."
"...So busking? For the exposure?"
"Yep. Kills your stage fright, gets direct feedback to improve skills. Fans gather as you grow."
Explaining busking's greatness, Juhee gets lost in her own tale, nostalgic and misty-eyed. I mull it over seriously. Junwoo, listening too, grins at her and chimes in.
"Nah, that's not it, sis."
"...What?"
"I've done it a few times. Honestly, busking's lost its edge these days."
He boldly denies her without fear of repercussions. Juhee stares daggers at the rebel challenging her words.
"Our band climbed from Hongdae busking. Back then, the country hated bands. All that oppression and persecution! We ignored it and pushed through."
"What oppression? The blacklist hit indies in '05, lifted in '09. You started in '13—what...?"
"Hey, there were regs back then too. When I was pitching everywhere, the big shots gave me so much shit."
"That's 'cause you caused all the drama. Every scandal of yours had people freaking that indies would get banned from TV again."
She can't counter that, lowering her head slightly. Her band had tons of fans in their prime, but equal haters. Fans create antis. Juhee's path was littered with scandals and curses, driving both stans and haters mad—a true superstar. Even her anti-cafe trembled in fear per scandal.
"Well... yeah, there was that... Image thing on TV."
Outmaneuvered, she backs down with a grumble. Shameless as she is, even she knows her screw-ups.
"But seriously, busking's fine."
Still miffed, she turns to me and finishes.
"Kids these days only show perfect tracks. But that's wrong. The raw, imperfect stuff—that's where the vibe comes from, draws people in. Just dropping polished songs lacks humanity; you might trend briefly, but no solid fanbase."
She keeps preaching busking's virtues. I'm half-convinced—it's got merit. Imperfect feels closer, builds loyal fans better than flawless.
As I fall for her sweet talk, 100% T-type Junwoo butts in.
"So that's why you pulled all that shit on TV? Humanizing yourself?"
"Not that—ugh, butt out! I'm talking to Gwang! This fucker's busted for illegal gambling and hanging judgments!"
"'Cause you're talking nonsense! This ain't the 00s—what busking? SNS, Shorts, Reels—go viral there, best way."
"That's not being a musician, Junwoo! No pride? Win with music, not...!"
"Haa... Sis. 'Hit the stage to hone skills'—that old-school crap doesn't fly. You're not old at 30 in this biz, why's your mindset so outdated?"
Her views dismissed, Juhee flushes red—her white hair makes it obvious—like she's about to explode.
"Gwang, nail the first impression, then ease in slow."
Ignoring her, Junwoo grabs my shoulder, pitching new-gen promo. More industry-savvy than retired Juhee, he spits shocking, lowbrow tactics without hesitation.
"Building vocals takes forever. Skip showing skill, stack fans first, drop overproduced tracks later—they'll eat it up. Cover weak live skills with image; fans cover for you later."
"Hey!!"
Junwoo lays out the cold music biz truth seriously; Juhee lunges like a tiger, grabbing his collar.
"You, hired as a teacher—what the fuck you teaching?!"
"This is it, sis! Kids don't listen past 10 seconds. Flop once? Dead forever. Pull aggro no matter what!"
Their debate spills to me; they fight over my fate. Junwoo's pro-viral content, relic of the past; Juhee insists street shows for true musicians. Not a debate—I'm no judge. The two delinquents spew vulgarities, yelling emotionally. It shifts from topic to insulting achievements and character, belittling efforts. Musician fights always devolve: from logic to "So what's your sales?"
Juhee asks album sales; fame-heavy but low-sales Junwoo shuts up. He asks her college; dropout Juhee curses. As gestures escalate...
"Enough alreadyyy!!"
"......"
"......"
My shout draws their glares.
"No more raising voices. As homeowner, I won't tolerate more fighting..."
"Freeloader paying nothing—I bought this place with my money."
"Quiet, ajumma. I live here."
Poor soundproofing means noise complaints hit me. Plus, friends getting heated sours the vibe. I'm Seonggwang, hater of loved ones quarreling. Tearful at this tragedy, I must end the war. Redhead mediator Seonggwang. Clutching my chest, I plead earnestly to them.
"I... I can't watch you fight anymore."
"...Gwang."
"Why fight? There's Chopin Piano First Place right here—why snipe each other?!"
"...Gwang?"
Pure sincerity this time, 100% genuine to the bickering duo.
"Mister... and ajumma... both bombed abroad—can't you just get along?"
"......"
"Hah, no wonder—can't even win world's top three contests. So tacky. Tacky."
How dare no-international-award nobodies fight before me? I'm awestruck by this pathetic sight. Not just Chopin—tried Tchaikovsky too, but Russians rotate wins; 4th place. Not my skill. Mere beasts hating, ranking—what for? From the start, I stand in the heavens; their feats hit my wall, heads can't rise. Before my immense talent, domestic-only musician Juhee mutters praise.
"This fucking punk...!!"
She charges; we tumble in fierce tussle. Ex-classical Junwoo knows Chopin's prestige, stays quiet—but nitpicks it's junior division, lesser than main. Anyway, stopped their fight successfully. Despite hairs yanked and nail scratches, glory wounds.
30 vs. 17 brutal bout. Ends only when downstairs neighbor bangs up about noise.