Viewers watching music programs on TV might think that all performances are done live on stage—but that wasn’t the case.
Music shows are structured with a mix of pre-recorded stages and live performances.
That’s why, compared to other shows, they have a long and complex rehearsal process.
SBN’s Music Box was no exception.
The broadcast began at 6 p.m.
Dry rehearsals began at 9 a.m.
A full nine hours were allocated just for rehearsal time.
Personal Color’s dry rehearsal was scheduled for 10 a.m., in the first half of the broadcast.
“You don’t have any other questions?”
Jung Jiwoon, who had been explaining how music shows work, asked.
Han Seon-ho asked the question he had been waiting to ask.
“So even famous singers have to wait around all day?”
“Not exactly. Think about how much money famous singers make in just a few hours. No way they’re stuck here all day.”
“Then what do they do?”
“Teams with tight schedules do sah-nok, meaning pre-recordings. Music Box does pre-recordings on Tuesdays.”
“What if they have schedules on sah-nok days too?”
Jung Jiwoon replied.
“Then they plan alternating schedule. They’ll fit in other commitments between rehearsals.”
“That sounds tough.”
“That’s why they usually schedule static stuff in between—like photoshoots or interviews. Oh, unless it’s the same broadcasting station—then they might shoot variety shows in a nearby studio.”
Just then, Personal Color came up on stage.
It was finally their turn.
“Ah-ah.”
The members, dressed in tracksuits, warmed up and checked their mics.
Since it was just the dry rehearsal, everyone was in comfortable clothes.
Jung Jiwoon asked,
“By the way, have you listened to their songs?”
“Yes. I’ve heard all their officially released tracks.”
“What’d you think? Be honest.”
Seon-ho thought for a moment before answering.
“They’re talented, but I don’t think there’s much synergy. Their musical tastes seem quite different from each other. Still, there were a few good songs.”
“That’s it?”
“Sorry?”
“No, never mind.”
To Jung Jiwoon, Seon-ho’s answer was something anyone could say.
The discord among Personal Color’s members was too well-known at MOK.
At that moment, the music started.
The real dry rehearsal had begun.
Juicy Boy—Juicy Girl—
Juicy Boy—Juicy Girl—
Their comeback track was Juicy, the title track of their mini album.
Juicy.
A hook song with an addictive chorus that repeated over and over.
As with many hook songs, Juicy was the kind of tune you’d start humming after just a few listens.
This song’s actually pretty good.
Watching the rehearsal, Jung Jiwoon nodded slightly.
No matter how many people found hook songs cliché, the public had already grown used to simple, catchy choruses.
For idol groups whose top priority is mass appeal, hook songs were no longer a choice—they were a necessity.
The real question was whether Juicy could stand out among the many similar songs out there.
That’s why Jung Jiwoon snuck a glance at Han Seon-ho.
He didn’t trust all the rumors, but if even a fraction of them were true, Seon-ho’s musical sense had to be better than his own.
But Jung Jiwoon couldn’t read Seon-ho’s thoughts.
The slight bobbing of his head suggested he was enjoying it, but his face remained expressionless.
Why am I trying to read a rookie’s face, anyway?
As Jung Jiwoon crossed his arms with that thought, the dry rehearsal ended.
While the stage crew and Personal Color exchanged feedback, Jung Jiwoon asked again,
“What do you think?”
“Hmm…”
“Think this one might be a hit? The song itself seems pretty good.”
“Yes. The song is good.”
It wasn’t just flattery.
The song was genuinely good.
Through Juicy, Seon-ho could get a glimpse of the strength behind MOK’s production lineup.
But regardless of the song’s quality, the chances of Juicy becoming a hit seemed slim.
It wasn’t that Personal Color couldn’t sing.
An Jia had average vocal skills, but she was assigned parts that suited her and pulled them off well.
Even if her actual ability was a bit lacking, her facial expressions and emotional delivery made up for it—no one would think she wasn’t good enough.
The rest of the members, aside from An Jia, were good vocalists.
Lead vocalist Baek Songyi led the song smoothly, and Teiji and Riha, as main vocalists, performed excellently.
The rapper, Woochan, delivered a clean and rhythmic rap.
And yet, Seon-ho still felt that Juicy wasn’t likely to succeed—because the song had no core.
Juicy had no leading presence.
After a long pause, Seon-ho finally spoke.
“Senior.”
“Yeah?”
“Do the members of Personal Color… not get along?”
It was an obvious question.
Jung Jiwoon replied, looking puzzled,
“They don’t. Didn’t Manager Park tell you anything?”
“No. I’ve heard some things…”
“Then why ask?”
“Ah, I think I phrased the question wrong.”
Seon-ho asked again.
“Do they not get along because they hate each other?”
“That’s right. Jia’s early success caused problems within the team.”
“Just that one reason?”
Actually, Seon-ho had felt something subtle from the members of Personal Color ever since the waiting room.
They definitely avoided each other.
But it didn’t seem like they hated one another.
That was the feeling Seon-ho got.
He didn’t think they hated each other.
If they really hated each other, would they be this considerate?
The problem with Juicy was just that.
They were overly considerate of one another.
Each member sang with an attitude of, “I’ll be the supporter—so you take the lead.”
Because of that, Juicy ended up sounding like a song being performed at arm’s length.
At that point, it would’ve been better if they’d acted like other idol groups—each one fighting to be the main character.
Just then, Jung Jiwoon spoke again.
“You’ll find out soon.”
“Find out what?”
“What kind of problems arose after Jia became successful. Why the members ended up resenting each other.”
The aftermath of one member succeeding in a failing group.
“You know what I call the time between the dry rehearsal and the dress rehearsal?”
Jung Jiwoon said with a meaningful tone.
“War of the Stars.”
Music shows go through countless rehearsals, but they could be broadly categorized into three types.
First, the dry rehearsal.
A rehearsal without cameras.
This was the stage where singers checked their group synergy and got a feel for the stage.
Second, the camera rehearsal.
The cameras would record during this one, allowing the crew to check camera movement, sound, and other technical setups.
The biggest difference from the dress rehearsal was that performers didn’t wear their stage outfits.
Third, the dress rehearsal.
The final rehearsal, where they wore full stage outfits and checked every last detail—often referred to as the final run-through.
Though sometimes, if they were short on time, the camera rehearsal would double as the final check, Music Box always insisted on doing a dress rehearsal.
As the rehearsal stages progressed, the biggest visible change in the singers was—appearance.
To be exact, their confidence in their appearance.
During the dry rehearsal, singers would hide their faces as much as possible under hoodies, thick glasses, and big masks, but as they approached the dress rehearsal, the transformations would begin.
Of course, because of the flashing cameras at the front entrance, most singers would already have their makeup done before even arriving. Still, there was a clear difference between casual makeup and the confidence that came with full stage makeup.
Once the singers were armed with that confidence in their appearance, the “War of the Stars,” as Jung Jiwoon called it, would begin.
The War of the Stars unfolded through greetings exchanged back and forth between waiting rooms.
Call it a greeting—but really, it was more like a check of the pecking order.
Kwon Hosan watched the members of Personal Color after they finished their makeup.
They weren’t in stage outfits yet, but they looked every bit like celebrities.
Not just because they were his group—Personal Color could hold their own visually against most teams out there.
But in an industry full of beautiful men and women, looks alone didn’t matter much.
What mattered was popularity.
Popularity was the true measure of rank.
“Would be nice if the popular juniors stayed out of our hair.”
That was Kwon Hosan’s wish, though he knew it was unrealistic.
“We really love your music, sunbaenim! It’s so good—it’s bound to climb back up the charts!”
Soon, a whole swarm of successful juniors would come pouring in.
“It was tough for our team in the beginning too. We stuck it out, and now we’re even getting nominated for first place. Don’t worry—you guys will make it too.”
And then, they’d have to go greet the senior idols who were doing well for themselves.
It might be called encouragement, but the words would be dripping with condescension.
Not that this kind of external pressure was all bad.
Just like a nation bands together when invaded by a foreign power, sometimes a group would become more united when other singers got under their skin.
But Personal Color had a problem.
An Jia.
Even singers who ignored Baek Songyi, Riha, Teiji, and Woochan would go out of their way to get friendly the moment they saw An Jia.
That’s because a short-lived idol and an actress who had proven herself through acting existed on entirely different levels in the hierarchy.
And that wasn’t the only problem.
An Jia’s individual fans were another issue.
They believed An Jia was being exploited to keep the ruined Personal Color afloat.
If An Jia so much as looked slightly unhappy at a premiere or event, the other members would get dragged through the mud.
Because of that, Personal Color could never really unite as a group.
The more outside pressure they got, the more they fractured.
That was why Kwon Hosan hated the greeting rituals that took place between the dry and dress rehearsals.
He hadn’t felt this way when he was managing a successful group, but ever since he took on Personal Color, he’d grown to hate music show rehearsals altogether.
Knock knock.
At that moment, a knock came from the waiting room door.
Here we go.
Honestly, it’d be better if all the successful juniors just came in right at the start.
That way, the less popular groups could at least bond in their shared struggle.
Of course, even with that kind of camaraderie, any group that blew up would still get resented just the same.
Knock knock.
“Yes, just a moment please.”
Another knock, and Kwon Hosan quickly checked the members’ makeup.
No issues, as far as he could tell.
He opened the door.
Two singers stood outside.
“Hello, manager-nim. Is it okay for us to come in now?”
“Nice to meet you! Hello!”
The two singers were people Kwon Hosan hadn’t expected in the slightest.
“Uh…”
Right now, they were the top artists in Korea.
The singers behind the songs you heard no matter where you went.
Not just chart-toppers—they were practically glued to the number one spot.
It was none other than Cha Hye-mi and Jung Su-rim.
TL : They are coming to get their boy back. LOL
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