Damn Idol Episode 80
—Instrumental sounds that call to mind a beautiful beach, and a melody like a breeze swaying palm trees.
A sentence often used to describe tropical house.
Sedalbaegil’s “Sedalbaegil” was also tropical house.
But the audience could not picture the peaceful scenery of an exotic beach.
Instead, another image came to mind.
Choi Jaeseong sprawled off to one side, and Gu Taehwan blankly observing the members.
Han Sion churning something out on his MacBook, and On Saemiro singing beside him.
Even Lee Ion coming over with drinks.
Strangely enough, what came to mind was the image of Sedalbaegil that had been shown in the VCR.
As Gu Taehwan’s singing continued, the light surrounding him began to grow larger and larger.
At last, Gu Taehwan’s light touched Choi Jaeseong’s light beside him.
With an effect like two droplets colliding, the two lights merged into one.
The moment the stage grew a little brighter, and the sound of the marimba became clearer.
Choi Jaeseong began to sing.
A sweet taste
lingers at the tip of my nose
Choi Jaeseong showed exactly why he liked tropical house the most.
It felt like running barefoot and unhindered across the white sand beach Han Sion had created.
He took the vibe Gu Taehwan had formed in the intro and delivered it just as it was.
In truth, Han Sion had always felt a certain regret about Choi Jaeseong’s talent.
But that was only because he was a regressor who had to sell two hundred million albums.
A team needed people like Choi Jaeseong, too.
Just as there was no soccer team made up of eleven forwards, there was no team where everyone was the protagonist.
There had to be someone who kept the balance.
In Sedalbaegil, that was Choi Jaeseong.
Of course, there was a possibility that Choi Jaeseong might feel dissatisfied with such a role.
He might covet a flashier position.
But at least on this stage, he did not.
Because Han Sion, and On Saemiro.
He believed in just how outstanding the hyungs who would come after him were.
Like you said
This moment, not forever
The light onstage grew another shade brighter.
When Sedalbaegil, who had only been making light movements, stepped into full-fledged choreography, cheers erupted.
It was group choreography based on shuffling, but it did not feel excessive.
It was closer to the feeling of swaying around and playing lightly.
And yet the angles and timing fell perfectly into place, creating fun in watching it.
At the end of this time
I send a greeting
With both hands full
I send word of how I’ve been
After that, Han Sion and On Saemiro took turns developing the song.
The vocals of the two, layered one over another, formed a pleasant blended sound and heightened the atmosphere, and in time with it, a distorted electric guitar began to mix in.
If ordinary distortion gave off a sound that was not clean, in “Sedalbaegil,” it was closer to the feeling of being a mess.
It felt like adults who had been living their lives ten years later had returned to being messy boys again.
On Saemiro fired off a high note, jumping up an octave in one go.
Goodbye—!
A story where sounds
had been written as letters
Choi Jaeseong caught it.
Goodbye—!
A photo taken
with laughter left behind
Gu Taehwan cut in with the same melody as the intro.
Oooh~
When time passes and we look back
What would they feel if, ten years later, they looked back on the team called Sedalbaegil?
Would they be happy, regretful, nostalgic?
No one could know.
But at least one thing could be said for certain.
That it hadn’t been bad.
That it had been rather good.
Such emotions were flowing out—not too tacky, yet not overly refined either.
However, some of those on-site felt puzzled even as they enjoyed the performance.
‘Lee Ion isn’t there?’
Lee Ion had no part.
Aside from creating live sound effects, there was no section where he sang.
Of course, Lee Ion had announced the beginning of the song a cappella, but that had been closer to acting than singing.
If the coming chorus was Han Sion’s part, then what had happened to Lee Ion?
At that moment, Lee Ion took the microphone.
* * *
Needless to say, Lee Ion knew that he was handsome.
He was the eldest son of a conservative family of educators, and he had gone to an all-boys middle school and an all-boys high school, but…
Lee Ion’s looks had destructive power.
He was grateful to his parents for giving birth to him this way, too.
But once he entered the agency, moments came when he began to hate it.
“Are you just half-assing it because you trust your face?”
He felt wronged.
He was only bad at it because he had never learned it, so why did that become him half-assing it?
So he gritted his teeth and worked hard.
Once he worked that hard, even if he was not overwhelming, he became fairly skilled.
But nothing changed.
“My goodness. You’re good at singing, too?”
The standard by which he was judged was always his appearance.
What was bewildering was that he could not tell anyone about this.
People he was close with would say, “Then switch with me,” and to people he was not close with, it would just sound obnoxious.
So when he appeared on Coming Up Next, he was a little flustered.
Because no one expected anything from him.
“Coming Up Next. Translated literally, it would mean something like ‘the next turn,’ right?”
“I believe the most anticipated next turn so far is Han Sion. Thank you for the performance.”
Han Sion.
A person who seemed to have been made by mistake by the god of music.
Even looking at his singing ability alone, it was hard to believe he was twenty, but he was not someone who could only sing.
Dancing, rapping, composing.
He could do everything.
That Han Sion seemed, deep down, not very pleased with Lee Ion’s singing ability.
It did not show in his attitude, but circumstantially, that seemed to be the case.
He found out the reason later.
“Hyung, your vocal color is one that has to become the protagonist.”
“It doesn’t blend with other people.”
Han Sion had no interest in the members’ external appearance.
Though that changed little by little as time passed, at first, he was almost excessively uninterested.
So even when evaluating Lee Ion, he did not add any plus points; instead, he viewed him as someone whose minuses had to be taken into account.
It was truly unfamiliar.
In other words…
‘Am I dead weight?’
He could not help but think that.
The more the other members grew, the more so.
But that did not mean Lee Ion despaired.
It might sound strange, but he instead felt a sense of freedom.
Because all this time, he had wanted to be evaluated solely as himself.
There was no reason to grumble just because that evaluation was harsh.
But he did not want to leave it harsh, either.
So he asked Han Sion.
“Then what if it’s just two bars?”
“…
The possibility would go up. But hyung. Then on the final stage, your solo part won’t even be ten seconds.”
“I still want to do it.”
It was time to confirm it.
Whether Lee Ion would be remembered as a burden on the stage that marked Sedalbaegil’s finale.
Or…
As someone they wished they had made more music with.
* * *
Pre-Hook.
Bridge.
Pre-Chorus.
They were terms used interchangeably according to a composer’s taste, but their meaning was the same.
The section between the verse and the chorus.
Usually, it was a section inserted when the gap in sound or emotional line between the verse and chorus was severe.
But the part I entrusted to Lee Ion this time was a far more advanced pre-hook than that.
Because without this pre-hook, the chorus could not happen.
After Choi Jaeseong’s part, Gu Taehwan inserts the same melody as the intro.
Oooh~
When time passes and we look back,
This is a hint.
It means that the Sedalbaegil members, who had been immersed in the past of ten years ago, had returned once again to the point ten years later.
Then what would we, ten years later, miss the most?
Our meeting? Our friendship? The events?
None of them.
The answer is the stage.
“Seoul Town Funk,” “Crossroads,” “Sedalbaegil.”
If we really went ten years into the future, we would reminisce about those.
The three stages that Sedalbaegil performed as a complete group.
So the role of the two bars Lee Ion had to perform was simple.
He had to play the guitar.
For example, it was like this.
I can layer the melody of “Aegukga” over “Canon Variations” on guitar.
Of course, the two songs are so different that you cannot play them as they are.
You need a process of adjusting the melody so the harmony fits.
But you can make it so that anyone who hears it knows “Aegukga” has been placed on top of “Canon Variations.”
What Lee Ion had to do was the same.
On top of the tropical house “Sedalbaegil” currently playing, he had to perform “Seoul Town Funk” and “Crossroads.”
Only, not with a guitar, but with his voice.
It was an extremely difficult thing, but it was just two bars.
If Lee Ion failed, not only the pre-hook but also the chorus that followed would be ruined.
But if he succeeded, something incredible would happen.
I do not trust Lee Ion.
Because regressors do not easily trust people.
But I trust the earnest effort he has put in.
If a regressor cannot trust time spent in effort, then what on earth is he supposed to trust?
Two bars.
In lyrics, two lines.
In time, 8.9 seconds.
It was an instant on which everything depended.
At last, Lee Ion, who had taken the microphone, opened his mouth.
Time seemed to flow in slow motion.
The first bar he had to pull off was the chorus of “Seoul Town Funk.”
Don't believe me just watch.
Don’t—
He hit the exact first note, but I did not know whether it had gone properly.
Until now, Lee Ion had repeatedly succeeded and failed even after catching the exact first note.
At that moment.
My eyes met Lee Ion’s.
It was a very brief instant, but it seemed as though he smiled.
The result poured out in a flash.
Don't believe me just watch!
His rough vocal tone struck the exact pitch, intervals, and sound pressure like a guitar.
The Sedalbaegil members smiled brightly and added an echo of, Watch!
The second bar.
The chorus of “Crossroads.”
Wheeled truck on the highway!
It, too, was perfect.
The audience let out cheers.
Surely they had heard “Seoul Town Funk” and “Crossroads” as well.
Ah, no.
“Crossroads” had not aired yet, so there must be people who did not know it.
And so the two chorus melodies had flowed out, and only one thing remained.
The final stage that we, ten years later, would look back on.
The chorus of “Sedalbaegil.”
The five of us Driving—Da-Da
Into memories, Diving—Da-Da
That was what I was singing right now.
Along with a tremendous roar of cheers.
* * *
Among today’s audience was Lee Yeongha, Lee Hyeonseok’s niece and a music college student.
She liked the team called Sedalbaegil, but about seventy percent of that was Han Sion’s share.
Because Han Sion was truly a genius.
So much so that even she, a music college student, could not understand it.
The remaining thirty percent belonged to Gu Taehwan and On Saemiro.
Choi Jaeseong had no particular distinctive trait, and as for Lee Ion, there had been no scene she remembered aside from his face.
But now, listening to Lee Ion sing, she got goosebumps.
Because she had musical knowledge, she could understand exactly what Lee Ion had done.
The method Han Sion had shown under the streetlamp, treating his voice like an instrument.
He had pulled that off.
Lee Yeongha, too, had watched Coming Up Next, grown curious, and tried making melodies and singing them in her workroom.
And then she had become dumbfounded.
Because she could not understand how on earth Han Sion had done it.
It was not a matter of difficulty.
It was in the realm of the impossible.
So the moment Lee Ion’s voice placed “Seoul Town Funk” and “Crossroads” on top of “Sedalbaegil,” she could not help but scream.
It was not only her.
Most of the audience was letting out tremendous cheers.