Chapter 34 : Settlement and next schedule

When they arrived at the backstage waiting room, the next band glared at Ha Su-yeon with nervous expressions.

Someone sighed deeply and headed toward the stage.

“Why are they glaring?”

“Would you want to perform after us?”

Responding to such an obvious question, Iseo whispered back, and Ha Su-yeon replied in kind.

Then, with a sudden “Ugh!” sound, Iseo abruptly reeled backward. Did he eat something bad?

Tilting his head slightly in confusion, Ha Su-yeon calmly took a seat in the waiting room.

The faint sound of applause and cheers could still be heard.

It was time for the next team to perform, but everyone in the room realized one thing.

The audience’s reaction was noticeably different from earlier.

It wasn’t just different from Ha Su-yeon ’s performance; it was distinct from the first and second bands, too.

‘I feel a little sorry.’

That thought crossed Ha Su-yeon ’s mind.

Perhaps the band after them would suffer a poor reception due to the performance Ha Su-yeon had delivered.

Thinking about it made him feel slightly apologetic.

Was it really necessary to put on such an earnest show at what was supposed to be a playful event?

A-yoon, clutching her pounding heart, sat on the subway seat on her way home.

‘The performance was so, so amazing.’

At first, she appreciated the effort to faithfully reproduce the original work.

Then, she enjoyed the quality of the performance itself.

After that, she was impressed by their dedication and passion for recreating the original with near perfection.

But then came the bottleneck performance from the original work.

And suddenly, the solo performance started, breaking away from the usual progression of songs.

The guitar solo that struck a chord in her heart—it wasn’t part of the original.

It was an entirely new sound she had never heard before.

Yet, the moment she heard it, an indescribable emotion swept over her.

After that performance, to be honest, nothing else felt significant.

Songs that would have otherwise made her cheer and enjoy them felt dull, as if eating dry, tasteless snacks.

Even so, her emotions continued to surge wildly within her.

How could she describe this feeling?

Was it fandom?

No, it was far different from anything she had ever felt before.

It was beyond fandom—it made her want to know every detail about the band’s future performances, their past steps, their every move.

She even felt an urge to voluntarily promote them.

That feeling was…

‘Over-immersion.’

She exhaled deeply and opened her social media.

She began to write a post, stepping onto the lonely and solitary path of a pioneer.

“Great job, everyone! Who would’ve thought we’d sell out through on-site sales?”

At a gathering of the band and staff after the performance, the general manager spoke up.

They had thought the turnout was decent, but a sellout?

It seemed there were over 200 seats.

Ha Su-yeon guessed the organizers must have made a decent profit.

“To celebrate the sellout, our CEO has decided to settle payments immediately based on estimated sales. So today, we’ll pay everyone in cash!”

“Wow!”

“Thank you, CEO!”

“Much appreciated!”

The response, though not overly enthusiastic, was quite warm.

Even Soha clapped softly.

However, three people didn’t show any reaction.

‘Why not declare this quick settlement a national holiday while you’re at it?’

Ha Su-yeon scoffed inwardly.

“Wait, settlement? Now?”

The other two, clueless about what was going on, simply stared blankly.

While they stood there dazed, the planner called for them.

Ha Su-yeon walked over and accepted a paper envelope.

“Great work today! For those joining the gathering, we’ll give you a ride, so please come along! Travel safely!”

“Good job, everyone~”

“Take care~”

“Join us for a drink later!”

“I’m on a diet…”

With the planner’s closing remarks, everyone scattered.

The other four bands followed the planner, chatting amongst themselves.

But Ha Su-yeon had no intention of joining them.

“Shouldn’t we go with them?”

“It’s a gathering, but we’re minors.”

“Well… but didn’t Suyeon drink before?”

“Do you want to go drink?”

Iseo shook his head vigorously, and Ha Su-yeon led the kids to a café inside the building.

After ordering coffee, he opened the envelope.

Six 50,000-won bills.

“…300,000 won? Aren’t there four of us?”

“That’s quite a bit. Must be because it sold out.”

“Wait, is this calculation correct…?”

Reactions varied—a mix of disbelief, satisfaction, and confusion.

Ha Su-yeon put the cash into his pocket and transferred 75,000 won each to the kids’ accounts.

“Shouldn’t you take more, Suyeon? You led most of our practice and you’re the leader,” Iseo suggested.

The other two nodded in agreement, but Ha Su-yeon shook his head.

Money issues in a band had to remain clean.

There was no need to complicate things with unequal payments.

For the same reason, he ignored Hyunah’s suggestion to keep 100,000 won as a band fund.

Band funds could lead to future issues—it was better to split costs when needed.

Having settled the financial matters, Ha Su-yeon quietly thought.

If they received 300,000 won, then…

“If we got 300,000, the organizers must’ve made over 2 million. Considering the merch sales, probably closer to 3 million.”

“That sounds about right.”

After finishing his calculations, Ha Su-yeon concluded aloud.

Typically, ticket sellers take 5–20%, and with taxes, it’s around 20%.

From the remaining 80%, revenue splits were usually 60:40, with the artists dividing the 40%.

For their band, that meant splitting 40 into five shares of 8.

‘Reverse calculating, the pure ticket revenue allocated to bands was 1.5 million won.

That means the planners took 2.25 million, and considering merch sales and possible unreported revenue…

It’s reasonable to assume they made around 3 million.’

He could demand a breakdown of the performance’s financial records, but Ha Su-yeon chose not to.

It wasn’t worth it for such a small amount.

“Isn’t this too little? We sold out, after all,” Hyunah muttered unconsciously.

“Well, that’s why everyone dreams of succeeding as a band.

If we rented out a venue like this on our own and sold it out, how much do you think we’d make?”

 Ha Su-yeon decided to just do the math for them.

“It comes to about 500.

Then, when you add taxes, venue fees, and external contractor costs, it’s about 200, or 300 at most.

That leaves us with 200 in profit. Performing for two hours a day nets 50.”

“50 for a two-hour performance?!”

At his words, Hyunah began to let her happy delusions take over.

Ha Su-yeon egged her on further.

“For instance, let’s say we sell out a 1,000-seat venue with ticket prices at 30,000 won each.

That’s 30 million won.

After platform fees, taxes, venue costs, and contractor fees, we’re left with about 15 million.

So, we have 15 million won in profit… a 1,000-seat performance in a day leaves us with over 300.”

“What?! Seriously?!”

“But the problem is that kind of success isn’t easy,” Seoha chimed in, pouring cold water on the conversation.

If success were that easy, the golden age of bands would already have arrived.

“At some live clubs, you can perform all day and still make zero won, or the whole band splits 70,000 won for the day.”

“How… how is that even possible?”

“It’s because live clubs typically operate on a counting pay system.”

Hearing Lee Seo’s disbelief, Ha Su-yeon answered instead.

The bitter reality of the topic made him want to light a cigarette, but his hands instinctively searched his pockets only to find nothing.

“For example, a 100-seat venue with ticket prices at 20,000 won.

If 50 people show up, that’s 1 million won.

But you have to account for labor costs, club operating expenses, and since most tickets come with one free drink, that cost too.

After subtracting fixed costs, drink expenses, and other miscellaneous fees—about 400,000 won—you’re left with 600,000.

From that, the club takes 400,000, leaving the performers with 200,000.

Split that among four bands, and each gets 50,000 won.

But even then, it’s tough to make a profit, so the clubs often ask, ‘Who did you come to see?’ at the entrance.

If no one came specifically to see you, they might just give you zero.”

“How is that possible? You perform and get paid nothing?”

“Well, clubs can’t operate on thin air either.”

Lee Seo was horrified by the detailed explanation.

Ha Su-yeon , however, sympathized with the clubs’ perspective to some extent.

In the bigger picture, losing a band might be regrettable but manageable; they could always find other work.

But losing a club would shake the entire scene.

“If there are five live clubs and one closes, bands lose a venue to perform at. A lot of things start to go wrong.

So, from a band’s perspective, it might feel awful, but keeping the clubs running is essential.”

“But how is that fair? If you work, you should get paid.

This just shifts the clubs’ losses onto the bands.”

“There are people who think like that too.”

This was an unresolved, long-standing debate in Korea’s rock scene, and Ha Su-yeon had no intention of arguing further.

Besides, this was primarily a concern for indie bands, not for their current trajectory.

All the band members had agreed to apply for government support programs and, beyond that, participate in auditions.

If they were going to do this, they had to aim as high as possible.

Of course, all of this depended on the apology they deserved from the former “Ha Su yeon.”

Only a sincere apology could make this possible.

“Anyway,” Ha Su-yeon cleared his throat and continued.

“We’ve already written one song for the support program.

The next one should be ready soon. For both songs, I’d like Lee Seo to handle the lyrics.

As for the arrangements, we’ll need the whole band to discuss it together.”

Ha Su-yeon opened his phone and brought up a list.

These were places he hadn’t thought about visiting during his time as “ Ha Su-yeon .”

Now, he had to go.

As “Ha Su yeon,” he was only beginning to step into this scene.

“Next, we’re planning to perform at some of these live clubs.”

The list on his phone showed indie live clubs around Hongdae.

There were acoustic clubs, modern rock clubs, and general rock clubs.

“With about three months left before the official start of the support program, we’ll finish writing songs this month and practice a couple of cover songs for these clubs.

Once the next song is done, we’ll have four songs ready.

We’ll audition at these clubs and get some real performance experience.

That’s our next schedule.”