As October entered its middle stretch, the scent of autumn began to fill the air.
Autumn was the season entertainment agencies loved most.
It was because the college festivals happening all over the country would fatten their wallets.
This was also why Seon-ho had returned to the MOK headquarters well past midnight.
As soon as An Jia’s script reading ended, he had to accompany Jung Jiwoon and Personal Color to perform at three different university festivals in Gyeonggi Province.
“Ah… I’m so tired.”
Though he said that, a small smile lingered on Seon-ho’s face.
At twenty, after escaping the orphanage—more accurately, the gangster den—he had lived like a dead man until he was twenty-five.
He worked and earned money.
He ate meals and slept.
But that wasn’t truly living—he was merely not dead.
Because his heart was dead.
But now, it was different.
His body was tired, and there was still so much to do, but he was alive.
And now was the time he felt that life most intensely.
After parking Personal Color’s van in the garage and arriving home, it was just past one in the morning once he finished washing up.
While organizing his laundry with a refreshed feeling, Seon-ho found a business card in his pocket.
“Oh, right.”
It was the business card he had received at the script reading for High School in Melody.
The card, bearing the name “Min Heeyoung,” belonged to the drama writer who had written High School in Melody.
Min Heeyoung.
Online, she was better known under the pen name Mini0.
She had entered the broadcasting industry at twenty-two, endured countless hardships, and after thirteen years, finally secured her first prime-time network drama.
At the script reading, Min Heeyoung had suddenly thrust a script into Seon-ho’s hands.
It was for a minor role appearing midway through the story, but the character was critically important. She said that Seon-ho’s vibe matched perfectly with what she had envisioned.
Hearing this, Seon-ho explained that he wasn’t an actor and had no interest in acting, but Min Heeyoung was relentless.
So instead of a script, he accepted her business card.
He still had no interest in acting, but listening to her had sparked some curiosity about the drama.
More precisely, he was interested in the OST that would be included in the drama.
“Hm.”
While entering Min Heeyoung’s number into his smartphone, Seon-ho poured water into the electric kettle.
As the water boiled, the power lights of his equipment started flickering on.
In one corner of Seon-ho’s 13-pyeong (about 43 square meters) studio apartment, a modest set of composing equipment was assembled.
Though calling it “equipment” sounded grand, it wasn’t anything too fancy.
A computer with a high-end sound card.
A premium master keyboard from Y company, beloved by overseas artists.
A monitoring system from M company for precise sound checks.
Monitoring headphones from S company, famous for their sensitivity.
That was all.
Feels like I’ve spent about 20% of all the money I’ve saved up over the years on this.
In any case, it wasn’t an era where people played instruments live anymore.
Since virtual instruments via composition software were the standard now, fancy equipment wasn’t necessary.
The truly important things weren’t the gear but the virtual instrument sources.
And since Seon-ho had copied all of MOK’s virtual instrument sources, he didn’t have to worry about that.
It wasn’t as if this mini studio had been set up in his apartment from the start.
While working on Autumn Leaf, he ordered the equipment, and it was all ready by the weekend when Autumn Leaf topped the unified music charts.
Although Seon-ho could have used MOK’s engineer room, he chose to set up a studio in his own space because he hated letting fleeting bursts of inspiration slip away.
While eating.
While showering.
Even while sleeping.
Inspiration would strike without warning, and it felt like such a waste to lose it.
Now that he had started recording those moments, there were already double-digit numbers of song snippets on his computer.
Most weren’t full tracks.
They were short lines recorded whenever inspiration hit. There were still countless processes to go through before they could become finished songs.
And through the act of starting proper composition, Seon-ho realized one clear problem with himself.
I desperately lack basic skills.
Strictly speaking, HSH and Autumn Leaf weren’t entirely Seon-ho’s original works.
They were songs he had recreated—arrangements of pre-existing foundations.
Although he had remarkable talent, talent alone couldn’t solve everything.
Basic skills weren’t something talent bestowed; they were forged through relentless repetition and effort.
He needed to go through the process of building those basics step-by-step.
Thus, lately, he had been dedicating himself to watching composition tutorials online and reading composition theory books he had purchased.
There was one more thing: analyzing and correcting amateur songs where entire sessions were made publicly available.
“Hah…”
Listening to a song uploaded by an amateur using the ID “shainak,” Seonho let out an incredulous sigh.
He had no idea where the confidence to release that session came from.
It was an absolute mess.
Alright, what’s the problem here?
First, the drum textures didn’t match at all.
The hi-hat, which should have floated higher than the drum, was at the same level, robbing the track of any exciting vibe.
Next?
The bassline, which sounded like it was played live by the composer, was subtly off.
The timing wasn’t wrong, but the scale was mismatched, causing it to sound awkward.
Even when pressing the same duration, the resonance of a C note and a G note naturally felt slightly different.
There was no post-production work here to clean up those details.
Thus, Seon-ho began correcting Shainak’s amateur track one step at a time.
His ears had always been extraordinarily sensitive.
And the training he was doing now was meant to refine that sensitivity into sharp precision.
Rather than just vaguely sensing a problem, he was training himself to pinpoint exactly which part and what aspect was causing it.
Good. Good.
About thirty minutes had passed.
In that time, the amateur’s song had changed so much that it was hard to believe it was the same track.
If Shainak had heard it, they would have surely shouted:
This is a revolution!
What was even more astonishing was that Seon-ho was working only “roughly” on it.
Unlike when he created Autumn Leaf, he wasn’t meticulously checking and deciding on each instrument source.
He was just pulling in whatever seemed to fit appropriately.
It was a process aimed at strengthening his fundamentals, so he was prioritizing time efficiency.
Despite that, the combination of instruments Seon-ho created was outstanding.
This one’s done…
After that, Seon-ho downloaded and edited several more amateur sessions.
It might have been a tedious process for others, but for Seon-ho, it was an incredibly fun game.
Every time he repeated it, he could feel his fundamentals growing stronger, to the point where it became addictive.
A long time passed like that.
When Seon-ho’s eyes began to feel dry and he checked the time, it was already past 3 a.m.
Thankfully, his schedule for tomorrow only involved a university festival event in Seoul, so he just needed to show up by 3 p.m.
Just as he was thinking that he should watch one more video lecture and then go to sleep, his phone rang.
[Are you awake?]
It was Manager Yoo Ayeon.
He quickly sent a short reply, No, and almost immediately, a call came in.
“Hello?”
—What are you doing, still awake?
“I was working. What about you, Manager?”
—I was working too.
Seon-ho could sense a slight drunkenness in Yoo Ayeon’s voice.
As he suspected, it seemed she had just finished a drinking session.
—The drinking party just ended, and it’s confirmed.
“You mean the Personal Color appearance?”
—Yes. We’re not releasing an article about it yet. Since the drama division is promoting An Jia first, the variety division has to wait its turn.
Come to think of it, both High School in Melody and Idol War were KBM broadcasts.
“Thank you.”
—The first article will probably come out next week. Now it’s time for you to start sowing seeds, Seon-ho.
“Seeds?”
—Yes. Making yourself look good.
“Making myself look good?”
—Listen. I’m about to start showing off.
Yoo Ayeon continued.
—From mid-last year until now, Personal Color had zero public network variety show invitations. There were plenty of solo requests for An Jia, but no one sought Personal Color as a group. Not even once on cable this year. And they’re under MOK, mind you.
“Yes.”
—But I pulled it off. A top-tier pilot program with a solid lineup on a public network at 11 p.m. How does that sound?
“That sounds pretty amazing.”
—Right? That’s the seed.
Seon-ho could understand what Yoo Ayeon was saying.
—A manager with good luck? Great. A composer who writes good songs? Also great. But in this industry, what matters even more is having connections. Han Seon-ho, raise your own value.
Listening to her, a question arose in Seon-ho’s mind.
“Director, why are you helping me so much?”
—I have an eye for people, and I think you’re going to become much bigger than you are now.
“Really?”
—Yeah. It would be a waste to end our relationship with just one deal. I want to use you a bit more.
“Your honesty is refreshing.”
Laughter echoed from the other end of the line.
Listening to Yoo Ayeon’s laughter, Seon-ho thought that this was indeed a good deal.
For him, HSH’s buzz wasn’t of major importance, and for Yoo Ayeon, she was already helping a variety show PD with casting.
A deal with no risks and only gains.
That was what this deal was.
—After you finish showing off, contact me right away. Just drop a location and I’ll fire a missile for you.
“Got it. By the way, when will the article about HSH come out?”
—Hard to say. Internally, there’s a lot of discussion about who will end up owning the song. Once that’s decided, it’ll be published right away.
“I’ll make final adjustments to the song once the artist is decided.”
At Seon-ho’s words, Yoo Ayeon said:
—Anyway, what’s important for us is the buzz. Who gets the song that Drake and Jang Sang-won were eyeing? That’s the real story. The producers here will touch up the song anyway.
“Understood.”
—Just make sure to remove AT’s session cleanly before you send it. It’s such a basic loop that claiming copyright over it would be ridiculous, but still, better safe than sorry.
“Okay.”
After checking a few more details with Yoo Ayeon, Seon-ho hung up.
After ending the call, Seon-ho sat there thinking for a moment, then moved his mouse.
Soon, the tracks he was working on appeared on the screen.
Showing off, huh…
Out of about a dozen songs, there were three where he had already designated a clear “owner.”
First was Hye-mi’s song for the Tomorrow K-Star third round.
It was almost complete.
Just needed fine-tuning and mastering.
The second was the HSH project, where he was removing AT’s session and reconstructing the song.
He was rebuilding the foundation by programming new drums and bass himself.
This was about halfway done.
He planned to watch a few more composition videos and then finalize it once the artist was decided.
The last one he was working on had just been started yesterday: Personal Color’s new song.
Listening to Personal Color’s Juicy, Seon-ho had formed a clear idea.
A song that would allow every member of Personal Color to show their ideal selves.
The title was Vivid.
Vivid — the most saturated, intense color.
Vivid was still at such an early stage that it was embarrassing to even call it “in progress.”
Only the drum and piano sketches were done; he was still figuring out which instruments to use and how to use them.
But the moment Yoo Ayeon said the word “showing off,” inspiration struck.
Personal Color needed to show off.
Problems arose because everyone was hiding their true feelings and only pretending to be considerate toward each other.
They needed to show, openly and proudly, Look at how much I care about you.
Come to think of it, “showing off” could also mean revealing raw, unfiltered colors.
If only I could write lyrics myself. Or I should find a lyricist who can capture exactly what I want.
With that thought, Seon-ho dove into full-fledged work.
The plan to watch one more video lecture before bed had long since flown away.
At 3:30 a.m., when most people were fast asleep,
Seon-ho was feeling truly alive amidst a world of countless musical sounds.
TL : Damn, it’s hard to figure out what’s going on with the music when you don’t even have the slightest clue about music production.
Leave a Reply