Episode 25. Debut Evaluation (1)
‘This is insane.’
It was a choice of vocabulary unbecoming of a full-fledged adult, let alone a working member of society.
But it was the only word capable of expressing my current emotions.
The Spark guys, who had even shredded the February evaluation to pieces just like my letter of resignation, were flying around like contestants on a survival audition show.
Choi Jeho and Lee Cheonghyeon had always been good, so no surprise there.
The growth of Jeong Seongbin and Kang Giyeon was remarkable to behold.
First off, Jeong Seongbin entered with bonus points just for appearing even more confident than usual.
Since he was already good at both singing and dancing, simply showing what he’d prepared with such refreshing confidence made his depth of experience palpable.
And Kang Giyeon.
He still had the habit of his hands shaking and his expression stiffening during interviews, but today, in the evaluation, he didn’t make a single mistake.
In dancing, his specialty, there was absolutely no hesitation.
It was a performance worth all the time he’d spent grinding in the practice room until the moon shone brilliantly. The dance instructor’s eyes were already growing misty.
No matter how much they say you never know the results until they’re revealed, this was obvious even without looking.
This kid Kang Giyeon had landed a solid hit.
In the midst of all this, Park Juu, who’d chosen his evaluation song a week early, had even heard the vocal instructor say, “There are no lacking parts anymore.”
‘Should I be happy about this, or not?’
My original goal had been to narrow the gap with the Spark members, even if just a little, and show potential for growth. Only by showing future potential could I prove my worth.
But just as I took a single leap forward, these guys went and pole-vaulted, causing my challenge to fail before it even began.
“Hyung, fighting!”
When my turn came, Lee Cheonghyeon, who’d been sitting next to me, whispered softly.
Thanks for the support. I don’t know if I’ll survive with you guys bringing great songs, dancing well, and singing well.
* * *
‘It’s already Iwol’s turn.’
Min Jugyeong of the Artist Management Team under the Management Headquarters checked the last remaining profile and February evaluation form.
He was a trainee who’d joined UA most recently, just two months ago, but Kim Iwol was quietly acknowledged even among the trainees recognized for their diligence as the friend who turned off the practice room lights every day.
Diligent people tend to win favor through their attitude alone.
Min Jugyeong felt he was someone worth rooting for based solely on the attitude he’d shown so far, not merely because he was the trainee she’d brought in.
‘I hope he did well.’
The existing trainees were members who’d spent at least a year longer in training than Kim Iwol.
Because of that, the company was weighing his chances of joining the debut team versus joining the next group at roughly a 4:6 ratio.
‘It’d be easier for him to promote if he built up his skills before debuting, but… no one knows when the next group will come out.’
Considering the idol market where youth itself was a weapon, Min Jugyeong wanted to debut Kim Iwol even a little sooner.
If Kim Iwol could carry one person’s worth of vocals, it wasn’t an impossible story at all.
‘He just needs to be at sub-vocalist level…!’
Cheering him on internally, Min Jugyeong looked at Kim Iwol, standing straight and proper just as he had last month.
Oh Eun, seated beside Min Jugyeong, asked Kim Iwol,
“You chose the same song for both singing and dance?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
At Kim Iwol’s answer, Min Jugyeong checked the song selection list.
It was a song by a famous boy idol group. However, the title was unfamiliar.
‘Is it a b-side?’
Min Jugyeong thought it was quite a good choice.
Because if the original song’s image was too strong, no matter how good the cover was, it’d easily be buried by the original. Especially if the performer was a trainee.
In the few evaluations he’d had so far, Kim Iwol had always made good choices.
That naturally brought to mind what Oh Eun, one of the evaluators, had said at a past meeting.
‘He seems to have sense. He works hard, too.’
Min Jugyeong could agree with those words as well.
Even an idol group needed what people called an “intelligent character”—whether for fan service or variety shows.
‘If Iwol fills that role, our kids will have less to worry about, too.’
Though his experience was short, his age as the eldest hyung and his impressive attitude made Min Jugyeong feel it would be a waste to let him rot for several more years.
But Min Jugyeong didn’t have long to indulge in sentiment.
“Then shall we try singing while dancing?”
Until now, evaluations had assessed singing and dance separately before scoring, but the CEO, saying, “Since it’s the same song anyway,” had issued an unprecedented mission.
UA naturally wanted to create an idol group capable of live performance, but singing while dancing required completely different things from standing still and singing.
‘His breathing, and there’s so much else to worry about!’
Min Jugyeong was shocked.
Not that any trainee wouldn’t feel that way, but this was a truly crucial moment for Kim Iwol.
As such, Kim Iwol, who’d practiced diligently for a full month, deserved the same opportunity as the other trainees.
Flustered by why this had to happen on Kim Iwol’s turn, Min Jugyeong’s eyes caught the wall clock hanging in the corner of the practice room.
There were only about ten minutes left until the meeting scheduled for the new idol group launch.
In a project requiring collaboration from many people, a meeting running even slightly late could cause considerable trouble.
Min Jugyeong knew that all too well, but…
For a trainee with a bright future ahead, she felt that at least such an important opportunity should be guaranteed.
Just as Min Jugyeong was about to stand before her employer and say, “I don’t think that’s right!”
Kim Iwol beat her to the punch.
“I understand.”
…he said.
And four minutes later, Min Jugyeong realized she’d been worried for nothing.
* * *
When the seemingly eternal performance ended, there was only one thought in my head.
‘So this works.’
The reason I’d chosen a famous group’s song was clear: UA pursued the image of the “quintessential idol.”
You could tell just from how they demanded a song with an especially strong K-pop flavor from Park Juu, and how they’d gone with a youth concept—a textbook choice for a rookie group—for the debut album.
Had I been fixated only on avoiding deductions and chosen some song only I knew, I would’ve been highly likely to be evaluated as lacking the passion and drive a new recruit should have.
Instead, I’d chosen a b-side with more vocal leeway over a title track with many high notes and intense sections.
All to look suitable for the position of sub-vocalist.
The song’s own lack of recognition could be covered by the group’s fame.
‘If it’s a song performed only once or twice at concerts or music shows, there’s almost no chance of being compared to the original.’
It was what you’d call cashing in on name value alone.
The advantages of a b-side didn’t end there.
Since they often came up as special stages, the choreography was often easier than title tracks.
If I’d covered this as a group, there’d inevitably be criticism that we were taking the easy way out.
But if I performed it alone from beginning to end, the story changed.
Being able to handle a song sung by a large group all by myself was an undeniable advantage in terms of individual capability.
To show that I could pull my own weight alone in both dance and vocals, I had to present them simultaneously. And in a dramatic fashion at that.
For example… showing the evaluation song, which should have been presented separately, together due to a sudden suggestion barging in at the last minute.
The turn of a trainee who’d just entered two months ago and was preparing to be an idol for the first time.
At a time like this, if you had to listen to a song that didn’t look too difficult, with choreography that didn’t seem too hard, twice in a row, how would that feel?
Especially if there wasn’t much time left before a meeting with multiple attendees?
People who consider time money—especially the execs—would think like this:
‘Can’t we just watch it all at once?’
If things went wrong, they could just say they’d take the different evaluation method into account.
If it went well, all the better.
This turn of events was somewhat predictable by reviewing the decision-making style of UA that the Spark guys had talked about on broadcasts.
I’d also checked all of UA’s conference room reservations for the week through the manager, Min Jugyeong, and other people around them.
Thanks to everything falling into place so well, the evaluation flowed in the best direction among the scenarios I’d anticipated.
Thank goodness. I wouldn’t have to use “Operation 21: Inducing Sympathy Through Sob Stories and Self-Volunteering for a Slave Contract.”
‘Though I worked myself to death until I succeeded at both singing and dancing…’
Since completion was a prerequisite, I couldn’t avoid the path of asceticism.
I had no choice but to hope that once again my diligence record would earn me a bonus in the form of extra points.
‘Now I just need to show an appropriate image and get out.’
Balance is important when scheming.
If nothing shows, there’s no appeal; if you show the blueprints from one to ten, you give the impression you were toying with the other person.
‘The best outcome is them not realizing the reaction was induced, and just evaluating me as having made a good song choice.’
I quickly gauged the evaluators’ moods. The staff members, who’d been whispering amongst themselves and marking papers, looked thoroughly satisfied.
It was the moment my small, precious leap forward ended successfully.
* * *
“The teenage years really are scary. This month is different from last month again.”
At the words of UA’s CEO, Yun Hyeonju, all the personnel who’d attended the monthly evaluation agreed.
“The kids did unusually well this time. Is it because we told them we’d pick the debut team?”
“Being motivated does make them focus more.”
“Giyeon's performance was really unexpected. I was worried the pressure would make him more nervous.”
Song Junhwan, the dance trainer who’d always regarded Kang Giyeon as a sore spot, wore an expression of a weight lifted off his mind.
“They say he practiced with Iwol every night.”
Manager Chanyeong, who checked the trainees’ comings and goings, said.
“Really?”
“Giyeon has dogged persistence. Oh, and Jugyeong, have you listened to the track Cheonghyeon sent?”
“Yes. It was pretty good?”
“Right? I heard he took it to the A&R team, too.”
In an environment where long-term trainee life could easily lead to complacency, the trainees showing renewed motivation was an incomparably good thing.
They’d been hardworking members from the start, but recently the trainees had been aggressively proactive about practice to a degree the staff and trainers could feel.
Realizing that it wasn’t just her but everyone thinking the same thing, Yun Hyeonju seriously contemplated.
What was improving the trainees’ atmosphere?
From the company’s standpoint, they needed to know the clear reason.
And they needed to hold onto that reason tightly. Only then would this good flow continue.
While neatly organizing the six evaluation sheets, Yun Hyeonju asked the excited staff.
“What do you think was the decisive trigger that changed our trainees’ atmosphere?”
Starting with the CEO’s question, a brainstorming session lasting a full two hours commenced in the conference room.