The Busker's Everyday Life
“I got a request for a broadcast appearance. It’s another variety show shoot this time.”
“A variety show?”
“But they said it’d be great if you came on too, Seoha.”
“What kind of variety show is it?”
“A busking program.”
Ah. Things were getting far too easy.
“Just Cha Seoha? What about me? What about OKTOP? They don’t like us? Don’t they need a guitarist?”
“Hey, Heo Junseong, shut up for a second, will you? This isn’t a classroom.”
“Why not? I can be curious.”
“Sorry. I’d love it if we could all go together, but the offer only came to Seoha. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Hah. The world should be paying closer attention to this body’s playing. What a national loss.”
“⋯⋯Anyway, Seoha, what do you think?”
“Why don’t we at least meet them first? Tell them I’m interested.”
“Yeah, okay!”
As far as my friends were concerned, OKTOP’s next plan was the same as the last one: go on TV and get flamed for it.
But I had one plan of my own in motion.
And the one person essential to that plan was a producer from K-Net.
Realistically, there was no easy way for some ordinary high school kid to get in touch with a broadcasting producer.
So while I was thinking through different routes, Mun Gayoung did me a favor and brought the opportunity right to me.
Through her, that producer had started looking to cast me.
Come to think of it, the moment a regular nobody started blowing up was probably the time when they were cheapest to book, and there were plenty of producers ready to milk that for all it was worth.
Things were going almost too smoothly.
What was the title again?
Something like Busker Everyday, maybe.
Either way, I wasn’t going to appear on this variety show.
I’d just turn it down politely enough to leave no room for complaint.
But I did have business with the producer.
That was why I’d come to this meeting in the first place.
“Hello. I’m Park Yunchan, the producer.”
“Hello. I’m Cha Seoha.”
The production staff, Mun Gayoung, and I had gathered in a meeting room at K-Net’s headquarters.
“Wow. Seeing you two together like this, your visuals really do go well as a pair.”
Park Yunchan clicked his tongue as he looked at us with a faraway expression.
He seemed genuinely pleased.
Then he launched into the basic rundown of the program.
A music variety show built around busking, with a few entertainers gathered together as the core format.
But⋯.
That was all the explanation?
So they were still at the stage where the finer concept hadn’t been decided yet.
And they were already casting?
No wonder this guy would fail.
Busker Everyday Season 1 would crash and burn hard.
Busking-format shows would become popular in the future, but at this point there wasn’t anything like that at all.
He was probably the first one to try it.
And it wasn’t even just the level of an unfamiliar program quietly fading away in indifference.
They’d gone on cruises, booked five-star hotels, even traveled overseas to rent out proper venues.
Then they’d gone and called it luxury busking and put on a stage there.
What kind of busking was that?
Sure, the image of foreign guests in suits nodding in admiration was pretty enough, but it had nothing to do with the soul of busking.
In the end, the show itself got dragged through the mud, and Season 1 ended in disgrace.
“Honestly, we’re still in the concept-development stage for the finer details. I’ve been turning it over in my head quite a bit, but⋯⋯ well, I heard you’ve been busking pretty actively lately, Cha Seoha.”
“Yes. I do it every week.”
“You seem to really love the culture, so from your perspective, what kind of picture would make for a good busking variety show?”
It wasn’t unusual for a producer to ask for advice from the people around them.
Even so, asking a first-time meeting high school student something like that meant he really was desperate.
“If you don’t mind, just say whatever comes to mind.”
I needed to make use of this man, and I needed to leave a good impression.
So⋯.
I’d give him the answer.
“Hmm. I think it’d be best to keep the busking format intact, but add something on top of it.”
“And that would be?”
“A sense of simplicity.”
“Hold on, let me record this.”
Park Yunchan switched on a recorder.
That was strange. In my memory, he’d seemed like a pretty intimidating guy, but maybe I’d had him wrong.
Either way, I kept going.
“For the obvious setup, they could busk somewhere like Yeouido Hangang Park or a university campus. And of course Hongdae would be a classic.”
“Right. And then?”
“Then I’d add a spoonful of everyday life to it. Stuff like the cast cooking a meal together while they prepare for the next busking set. Normal, ordinary moments like that.”
“Ohhh, yes. Simplicity!”
Park Yunchan glanced toward the youngest writer beside him, and the writer immediately started crossing things out.
Probably the luxury-whatever concept from a moment ago.
So I kept feeding the producer the right answers, one after another.
“⋯⋯Show the daily lives of musicians preparing for street performance. The everyday of buskers, if you will.”
“Wow. Busker Everyday⋯. That’d actually make a pretty good title.”
So they didn’t even have a title yet? Good grief.
“Wow. Anyway, this is great in so many ways.”
Of course it was great. It was the exact plan you’d go on to use in Season 2 and turn into a hit.
This was the answer I was giving you.
Maybe because I was pulling forward a concept he’d eventually come up with himself, his reactions were almost too good.
I was glad I’d abandoned my original plan and come here.
“Simplicity, huh. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Because that’s the foundation of busking. Rather than piling on a bunch of extra elements, wouldn’t this also cut production costs?”
“Haha! You’re a funny one. By any chance, have you ever thought about working in television production?”
“I appreciate the offer.”
The mood had grown pleasantly warm.
Mun Gayoung hadn’t said a word since earlier.
She was probably wondering what in the world was going on.
“S-Seoha, I can’t say for certain that I’ll use this immediately, but I probably will. Is there anything you want, regardless of the appearance fee? If the show goes well, I feel like I should do something for you. I’m really grateful.”
“Haha. Well, then, if the broadcasters ever go on a total labor strike and the music-show lineup ends up with an empty slot, please call me for a fill-in.”
“⋯⋯What did you say?”
“Ah, I’m joking.”
“A-ahaha! What a funny joke!”
Not really a joke.
Busker Everyday was Park Yunchan’s first variety show.
He was originally the director behind K-Net’s music program K-Counter.
Even while producing music shows, the dream he’d never let go of was becoming a variety-show producer, and Busker Everyday was the beginning of that dream.
That was why I’d wanted to get in touch with Park Yunchan in the first place.
Just as I’d told him, OKTOP’s next step was a music-show appearance.
Was there any easier way to cement our idol image than that?
If we went on a music show, the general public might not know what to make of us, but in the band scene we’d definitely take more flak than we did now.
That much was guaranteed.
A few days later, I politely informed Park Yunchan that I’d be declining the busking variety-show appearance.
Of course, I phrased it as respectfully as possible, thinking ahead to the future.
I used my current status as a student preparing for college entrance exams and my family’s fierce opposition as the reasons.
Park Yunchan said it was a shame, but there was nothing he could do.
Still, the conversation had gone well, so that was that.
Now there was quite a bit of time before I could carry out the next part of my plan.
In a few months, I’d hear from Park Yunchan again.
Until then, OKTOP would just have to keep doing what we’d been doing and wait.
“Wow, it’s seriously freezing.”
“Hey, are we really busking today? Should we take the day off?”
“We didn’t even announce anything.”
“Ha⋯⋯.”
The January cold felt like it could slice skin clean off.
They said consistency never betrayed you, but this was just too cold.
I’d have to see how many people showed up for today’s busking before deciding whether we should take a break until the weather warmed up.
Like Junseong said, it was freezing, and I felt bad about keeping an audience standing around in this kind of weather.
“Maybe busking really is impossible when it’s this cold?”
“Dude, obviously. What kind of busking are you doing in weather like this?”
Watching all of them tremble from the cold made me feel strangely guilty.
Should we call it off for today?
But then again, when I was active as an idol, I’d still go perform at outdoor events in scorching heat and under cold-wave advisories.
I’d performed in the rain, and I’d performed in the snow.
And these guys were younger than I’d been back then, with better stamina to boot.
Yeah. No matter how I looked at it, quitting didn’t seem right.
“No, I think we should keep going.”
“Hey! Cha Seoha!”
“You ruthless bastard.”
“Seoha doesn’t seem human.”
“That’s cruel⋯⋯.”
“Okay, then let’s decide based on the crowd. If there are people who came because they wanted to see us, you still won’t do it?”
“⋯⋯.”
There was no one in the world who would force themselves to watch a performance they didn’t want to see.
So if no one showed up, we could just rest until the weather improved.
We crossed the freezing air and arrived at Banhwol Park.
“See? You still not doing it?”
People had gathered in front of the low stage we always used.
There were far fewer than usual.
Still, there were people.
“They came out to support us even while we’ve been getting torn apart lately. Are you still not going to play?”
Honestly, I was incredibly grateful.
What about the others?
“Damn⋯⋯.”
“Huh? You said damn?”
You’re supposed to say you’re grateful. “Damn”?
“Damn! They came to see me even in weather like this? This is insane! The blood of a first-rate guitarist is boiling! Hahahaha!”
Come to think of it, Junseong might even be worse than Kang Min⋯.
“What a truly amazing thing. I think I can keep going even if it’s cold!”
Lee Doyeong was obvious, as expected.
“I brought thermal gloves, just in case.”
Kim Jihoo. As meticulous as ever.
Kang Min⋯.
“Hey, are you crying?”
“Sniff. Arigatou⋯. Everyone! Hontoni arigatou!”
Ugh, disgusting. You lunatic, just go home.
We’d always done fine without drums anyway.