The Silent Snare
We were assigned a waiting room on the fourth floor and unpacked our bags.
“All right, grab your instruments. We need to get to the stage and set up.”
“Yes!”
We had twenty minutes, from 6:20 to 7:00, and that meant we had to use every second to build our live setup. Even that wasn’t guaranteed, though, so we had to prepare as if the clock might be even less forgiving than it looked.
Until today, we’d taken our time getting ready with the help of Mr. Jang Deokcheol at Hyeon-ui Ullim. Besides, Kang Min and I had plenty of experience in this area, so it should have been fine—unless something completely insane happened, like our prep time suddenly being cut to ten minutes.
We grabbed our gear and ran straight for the stage.
We’d be using our own instruments, while the station’s amps, console, and cables would have to do. The first thing we needed to do was connect everything to the console’s input channels and make sure the sound came through properly. And it wasn’t enough to plug in a single instrument; we also had to check that the guitar and bass effects were working correctly. If everyone could verify their own gear, we’d have enough time.
Of course, that was only the most basic step. Once we confirmed that the instruments sounded good on-site, we still had to check the audio switching system for broadcast output. Then came the live console mix, the correction work, and everything else after that . . .
We still had a long road ahead of us.
That was when I heard Mr. Jo Hyeonseop’s voice from the console, where he was sitting with a staff member.
“All right, let’s hear the vocal first.”
After confirming his instruction, I leaned toward the mic and sang.
The grip of the handheld microphone felt surprisingly good in my hand. From what I’d heard, this mic would only be used by me and one other singer among everyone performing today. The other teams were all using AR and had to dance, so there wasn’t much point in giving them handheld mics. And unlike a handheld, a head mic didn’t pick up sound very well. I’d specifically asked them to prepare one for me, and I’d been told this one had been arranged temporarily.
I was genuinely grateful to Park Yunchan, the PD.
As expected, the mic sounded fine, and Mr. Jo adjusted the EQ on-site with ease.
“Let me check the backing track for a second.”
Mr. Jo played Rendezvous, the track that would be used as our backing.
After he adjusted the volume, the song faded into place.
“Seoha, what’s the BPM on this?”
“134!”
“I’ll make a click track. We can listen to it when we check the in-ears later.”
“Thank you!”
Mr. Jo quickly put together a track to use as a metronome.
Vocal was the fastest part to prepare, and after a rough check, I turned to the others.
Kim Jihoo had already finished getting ready and was preparing for soundcheck.
“Keyboard’s ready.”
“Good. Play a little for me.”
Kim Jihoo played a short passage and passed without any trouble.
“Guitar’s ready too!”
“Good. Let’s hear the clean tone.”
Heo Junseong played without any effects, and the sound came through crisp and clear.
“All right, I’ll step on the pedals now.”
Heo Junseong then launched into his performance with the pedalboard engaged.
“Whoa, hold on—wait a second!”
Mr. Jo cut him off midriff performance.
I moved toward Heo Junseong at the same time.
The distortion was too severe.
“Can you turn the distortion knob down a little?”
“Huh? But it needs to be this much for—”
Heo Junseong hesitated.
He wasn’t wrong; if this were just a live show, that amount would have been fine. But we were performing a broadcast track.
“Heo Junseong, if we do post-processing for broadcast output, your sound will clash badly with the drums and bass.”
“Hey, isn’t that what EQ is for?”
“This is a live broadcast.”
“Ah—oh, right!”
We were probably going to be pre-recorded, even if it looked like a live broadcast. And even if, against all odds, it really did go out live, there would still be a few minutes’ delay between the actual performance and the signal on air. That gave us more room for correction than the teams that were truly going live.
Even so, there was no way a drastically reduced engineering crew could sit there and babysit our sound forever.
To make the stage as polished as possible, we had to cooperate with the engineers even while we were on stage.
Heo Junseong immediately understood and started turning the knob to the left.
We needed a lighter sound, one with less interference from the lower-range instruments.
This time, we got the OK.
“Next.”
“Bass is ready too!”
“Drums are set up.”
“Okay, I’ll check the bass first.”
Drums were simple enough that all we needed was to adjust the mic levels, so I started by checking Lee Doyeong’s bass.
That, too, went through without any trouble.
Watching everything move so smoothly made me feel oddly proud.
“All right, next is the drums.”
“Yes!”
Kang Min hammered the kick drum with both feet.
Thunk. Thunk. The deep, heavy sound was excellent.
Then he cracked the snare.
“……”
“Huh?”
“What the hell? Why isn’t there any sound?”
There was no sound.
More precisely, the mic mounted over the snare wasn’t picking up anything. Only a faint trace of the sound leaked into the mic set on the kick drum.
“Wait, is the mic cable actually connected?”
“I’ll check again.”
Kang Min checked the mic cable, and although there was nothing visibly wrong, it was clear the overhead mic wasn’t working.
It seemed like an internal issue with the equipment, but there was no way to confirm that here and now.
“I’ll swap the mic once.”
This had to be a problem with either the mic or the cable. If we checked by replacing them one by one, we’d be able to solve it. But the problem was elsewhere.
A staff member suddenly came running over from the side, said something to Mr. Jo Hyeonseop, and then the fatal announcement came down.
“We have to stop soundchecking here because of the next team’s rehearsal.”
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
In the end, we had to return to the waiting room without fully building our live setup.
We’d used up all the time we were given, but that didn’t mean we had no chance at all.
“What are we supposed to do about the drums?”
Kang Min asked in a half-deflated voice.
It hadn’t been his fault, but was he seriously blaming himself for it?
“It’s okay. We’ve got two rehearsal slots later, too. Let’s look for a solution then.”
“Will we even have the time?”
We probably wouldn’t.
Swapping out the mic and cable would take a while, and there were already other teams crammed into the waiting area. On top of that, it was strike week. Right now, there was no way to fix the problem.
Was this where we had to give up?
“Even if we’re short on time, we have to try everything we can. For now, let’s leave that for later and change clothes. We still have makeup to do.”
“Ugh.”
At the word makeup, Kim Jihoo’s expression went blank with dread.
“Kim Jihoo, you’re not doing it again?”
“Honestly, I really don’t want to.”
He knew there was no helping it, since this was a music show. But even someone who could reason through everything logically still had things they simply couldn’t stand.
I couldn’t force him without any basis for it.
Fortunately, I had basis.
“Remember the wish coupon?”
“Ah!”
I wore a distinctly wicked smile, and Kim Jihoo looked thoroughly offended.
“Damn it . . .”
What exactly were you going to do about it if you were upset?
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
We decided to handle styling right before the afternoon rehearsal.
Until then, we had a short break before using rehearsal time to build our live setup.
We also exchanged greetings with the idol group sharing the waiting room with us.
And while the rest of our group had dozed off, I slipped over to the schedule posted beside the door.
There were plenty of names I was happy to see.
Coworkers I’d run into often in my past life.
They were all seniors to me, and some of them I’d stayed close with for years.
“Huh?”
Then one team caught my eye by chance.
Jo Hyeonwu Band Rehearsal.
So that band was on a music show too.
Jo Hyeonwu Band, which had debuted in 1997 and was still going strong.
They had the years behind them, sure, but their skills and character were both outstanding, which was why they were respected by everyone.
They were one of the few bands that had managed to survive in this dead band market by earning real public recognition.
Maybe they could help us after all.
A possible way for us to perform live flashed through my mind.
But I wasn’t sure whether it was actually feasible.
Even if I had regressed, my actual career as a band musician wasn’t all that long.
“Hey, what do we do? Should we just hand-sync it?”
“But like Seoha said, that wouldn’t mean anything.”
“Right. If we want to prove ourselves properly later, there can’t be any lies in the process.”
As time passed, the others only grew more worried.
We wanted our music to always be pure and real.
We wanted to make every song with sincerity and show a stage that wasn’t built on lies.
But hand-syncing could become a fatal scandal for a band.
And that scandal could turn into a tide claiming our music was fake.
“Mr. Jo.”
“Yeah?”
“Aren’t we supposed to make the waiting-room rounds?”
Back then, it was still common to visit the other waiting rooms and exchange greetings.
“Oh, right. I’d actually been wondering whether we should or shouldn’t. You lot are a pretty unusual case.”
It was only natural to greet people, but there would definitely be teams who’d sneer at us for daring to do it as if we had any right.
There were always strange people in every society.
“Let’s just visit a few places. Not the teams that already went out for their schedules.”
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
- Jo Hyeonwu Band Waiting Room
Knock, knock, knock.
I knocked and opened the waiting room door.
The guitarist was lounging comfortably while scrolling through his smartphone.
The drummer looked half-buried in his chair, on the verge of sleep.
The bassist was fixing his makeup.
And the vocalist, Jo Hyeonwu, happened to meet my eyes exactly as I stepped in.
“Hello. We’re the band OKTOP!”
We greeted them with bright, confident voices.
And the instant we did, the Jo Hyeonwu Band members all sprang to their feet.
“What, a band?”
“You’re a band?”
“Whoa, for real?”
“What kind of band? What genre?”
They looked like veteran players who had gotten absurdly excited at the sight of newcomers in a tiny little pond.
I had to bite back my laughter at the sight of our seniors.
Of course, the others were completely frozen, apparently too awestruck to move after meeting their respected seniors.
“Yes, we’re a band with my friends.”
“In this day and age, a band? Who the hell made you go through something this hard—wait, isn’t that Mr. Jo Hyeonseop?”
“Oh, long time no see, Hyeonwu.”
“What is this picture? Did you get back into entertainment?”
Jo Hyeonwu froze for a moment at the sight of a high school band standing with Mr. Jo Hyeonseop.
After hearing the full story, Jo Hyeonwu sat back down and let out a dry laugh.
“Wow . . . hahahaha. That sounds like something out of a movie. An indie band on a music show.”
Jo Hyeonwu and the other band members looked genuinely shocked.
It made sense. A junior band, and an indie one at that, plus high school students—there was no way such a dramatic move wouldn’t catch them off guard.
I probably would have been shocked too.
Would I have thought, Does he regressed too?
“Are you doing a live set today, seniors?”
“Live? No, you probably know this already, but once the staff goes on strike, there’s no live performance.”
“Really? They told us we could do it.”
“Huh? How are you supposed to do live?”