Release and Promotion
In the early 2020s, if you had to summarize Japanese popular music in a single phrase, it would probably be “the golden age of faceless singers.” The reason for this can be traced to the generation that grew up enjoying Vocaloid and utaite culture finally rising to the mainstream. Music consumption had shifted from television to platforms like YouTube and TikTok. But at its root, it was possible because they were genuinely good at what they did. By not showing their faces, they could experiment with distinctive musical styles, and those unique qualities helped their songs go viral—especially in short-form content.
“Right around the time the pandemic was just beginning to spread…”
To be precise, this was the moment when a few faceless singers were starting to stand out from the crowd. If I could join their ranks, what had once seemed like an impossibly difficult path for Seo Siyeon—breaking into the Japanese market—might suddenly become much easier.
But even setting aside those cold calculations—
“What the hell? Why is this coming out so well?”
Once I decided to run a side account, songs started pouring out of me with suspicious ease. It seemed like the solution Yuna had mentioned was working far more effectively than I’d expected.
The track I referenced most heavily while preparing to debut as a Japanese faceless singer was glassy sky—my biggest hit to date, and one I had deliberately written with Vocaloid subculture grammar in mind.
“Keep the build-up calm.”
That said, the structure wasn’t completely identical. Unlike before, the song opened with the quiet sound of rain falling over a gentle piano. Then a fast, rhythmic piano riff kicked in, as if raising anticipation for the speed that was about to come. After that, my vocals laid down calmly over the track.
Having passed through puberty, my voice had shed its elementary-school timbre and gained a certain maturity. It gave the song a completely different feel from my past work.
“Hmm. Yeah, this version is definitely better.”
Meanwhile, restrained bass and drum sounds formed the background. As the hi-hat grew more intricate, the guitar’s distortion began pressing against the melody. Then came a brief moment of empty space—only the sharp slap of the bass filling the silence. Finally, my vocals surged into the ultra-high register, and every instrument joined in a full chorus.
In truth, this final section was the real core of the song. Everything before it had been a build-up leading here.
Since the era had changed, I needed to create music that could grab people’s ears through short-form content. My choice for that was hyperpop.
Hyperpop. A genre defined by mechanical high-pitched vocal processing like Vocaloid, exaggerated bass, and fast, chaotic progression. The early part of the track broke some of hyperpop’s conventions, but the highlight section followed the grammar perfectly, layering the melody on top.
“My range really has gone up.”
It had already been over ten months since I stopped my activities. During that time, I had gone through a relatively short puberty. Unlike boys, girls don’t experience an extreme voice change, but their range usually drops slightly and their tone shifts a little. Strangely, while my normal speaking voice had become a bit lower, my upper limit had actually risen. At the same time, through vocal training, I had changed my technique—completely abandoning any concern for vocal health—and gained the ability to belt notes up to the mid-to-late third octave.
Of course, it wasn’t a singing style I could use often, but since this was a song I would probably never perform live anyway, I designed it without considering any live constraints.
“Yeah. This is definitely worth listening to.”
I nodded alone as I listened to the final mixed recording.
“Now… how do I handle the mastering?”
I had no intention of going through Blue Sky Entertainment for this project. It was partly a rehabilitation effort to keep my musical senses sharp, and I didn’t want anyone around me to realize I was running a side account. After thinking for a moment, I contacted the mastering engineer our company usually worked with.
Honestly, I expected him to refuse because he was always so busy, but—
“Hahaha! Of course I’ll do it! After all the good things Miss Siyeon has done for me, how could I say no?”
“But… I don’t think I’ve done anything for you.”
“No, no! Working on Blue Sky Entertainment tracks has really boosted my reputation.”
“Then… would it be okay to ask? Oh, and please keep this a secret from the president and the unnies… I’m counting on you.”
“Understood. My lips are sealed!”
Unexpectedly, he accepted right away.
The next worry was the music video. I could handle composition and lyrics myself, but creating a music video was a different story. Especially here—most of the people in my network specialized in live-action videos based on real filming. However, because I was debuting as a Japanese faceless singer, the video absolutely had to be animation-based.
That was when unexpected help arrived.
It turned out to be a company that took subcontracts from Japanese animation studios. Surprisingly, they also produced short animations for music videos. When I contacted them, the boss had the attitude that as long as the price was right, he’d do anything. Of course, he didn’t seem to be considering the exhausted faces of his overworked employees… but that wasn’t really my problem.
After silently offering a prayer for their well-being, I entrusted the music video to them. Full animation would cost too much, so we agreed on a contract that used live 2D for the base with short animated sequences inserted only in the highlight sections.
Time passed.
During that period, I attended the WMA and received an award.
“Congratulations! Composer of the Year—Seo Siyeon!”
I also posted a photo on Instagram of myself wearing a hanbok and doing a New Year’s bow, letting my fans know I was still around after a long silence.
And finally, one year after announcing my hiatus at last year’s Handaum—
I revealed my voice to the public once again. Of course, the form it took was quite different from what people had expected.
And then, one month later.
“…Why aren’t the views going up?”
I had crashed and burned spectacularly.
Some people might say, “Getting 800 views in a month on a completely empty channel isn’t bad, right?”
They wouldn’t be wrong. Unlike other faceless singers, I was starting from absolute zero—no fame, no following, nothing. But there’s such a thing as relative perception.
The music video for Noirith’s debut single, released in the middle of this year, had 86 million views. It had even crossed 40 million in the first month alone. While MIKANSEI had 50 subscribers, my main Seo Siyeon channel had surpassed 800,000. After experiencing that kind of success as if it were normal, suddenly having days where views only increased by thirty felt like cognitive dissonance.
“…Do I actually have no talent?”
No, that couldn’t be it. Even with the advantages of being an orphan and appearing on an audition program, there was no way I could have swept four awards at Handaum without talent. I had even won the Composer of the Year award at the WMA for two years in a row.
“Maybe it just doesn’t work in Japan?”
That was nonsense too. Seventy percent of Noirith’s album sales came from Japan. While Haruka’s presence had been critical, I couldn’t say my own contribution was zero.
In other words, the reason my song was currently sinking to the bottom of the ocean was simply a lack of promotion.
But since I had uploaded it independently without involving the company, there was no promotion I could do. Unless I shamelessly posted on my main Instagram, “Hey, this song is pretty good,” which would immediately expose my identity and defeat the entire purpose of creating a side account.
“…Should I ask Haruka unnie for help?”
If it came from her, it might not be too obvious.
But while I was thinking that, salvation arrived from an unexpected direction.
(Lately I keep hearing this song and for some reason I can’t stop replaying it)
MIKANSEI 「Happiness Theory」 YouTube link
A famous person with 670,000 followers had shouted me out on Twitter. It was completely out of nowhere, but in any case, I had been given an opportunity.
A good song can rise if it’s just given the right spark. It didn’t take long to prove that.