Chapter 46 : Open Mic (6)

“How?”

Iseo looked at Myeong-jeon.

Her unwavering, resolute gaze made it clear that she wasn’t speaking lightly.

“There are two options. First, we can add a bass solo line to the two original tracks we have. But honestly, I don’t think that’ll work well.”

“Why?”

Because our songs weren’t composed with a focus on the bass.

Of course, we could try rearranging them to emphasize the bass more or add a solo line.

But it’s an arduous task.

Once you start tweaking one part, you might end up having to rework the entire song.

Myeong-jeon  wasn’t someone who thought her compositions had perfect balance that would collapse with one change.

But she knew that revamping an entire line wasn’t like making minor adjustments while playing—it often required extensive revisions.

If the revision worked out, it would be fine.

But as you tweak and tweak, things might start to feel off.

At some point, you find yourself completely lost.

“Even if we manage to revise it, I doubt it would be particularly effective.”

“Then what’s the second option?”

“The second option is to pick a different cover song—one that’s bass-focused.”

The song they’d chosen this time, Guns N’ Roses’ Sweet Child O’ Mine, reflected a bit of Seoha’s taste.

While they had made progress with it, the piece wasn’t entirely mastered yet.

“If we schedule our practice tightly, it’s not impossible.”

“Then wouldn’t the second option be better?”

“No, what I mean is we could practice, but that doesn’t mean we’ll master it in time.”

Seoha responded to Hyuna’s question, and Myeong-jeon agreed.

“She’s right. That’s the issue. There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to practice thoroughly.”

Having time to practice didn’t equate to perfecting it.

Myeong-jeon might be able to memorize it in the given time and even have a few spare days to relax, but the others wouldn’t necessarily have the same experience.

“If we keep practicing the current cover, we’ll likely perform it at a decent quality. We might even add some of our own flair to it. But that’s just an assumption. If we performed it as-is now, the quality would be lacking.”

Myeong-jeon looked at Iseo.

The more she spoke, the more burdened Iseo’s expression became.

“But if we choose a new song and practice it, and it doesn’t work out—that is, if the quality isn’t good enough for the stage—we’d have no way back.”

“So, you’re saying it’d be tough to go with that option. Maybe we should just stick with what we’re doing…”

At Iseo’s despondent comment, Myeong-jeon shook her head.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

Though Iseo might have interpreted it that way, that wasn’t Myeong-jeon ’s intention.

What she wanted to convey was something different.

If I meant that, I’d just tell you to endure.

I’d say your skills are already sufficient and avoid this entire conversation.

After all, what’s the point of discussing something you can’t achieve, only to say you can’t do it?

Iseo quietly listened.

What was Myeong-jeon trying to say? She dismissed the suggestions, and when quitting was mentioned, she said that wasn’t an option.

So what was she proposing?

“Up until now… I’ve led you all as the leader. Everyone wasn’t sure of things, and there weren’t many opinions. But for us to truly function as a band, the members need to have their own voices.”

“Voices?”

At Iseo’s question, Myeong-jeon tilted her head slightly.

“I’m not saying you should start opposing everything or lead the band in the direction you want. But if there’s something you want, you should be able to express it before decisions are made.”

Bands that failed to do so were common everywhere, regardless of East or West.

Some voices were silenced, others were overvalued.

Even if the result turned out well, conflicts arising during the process could ruin everything.

Take Pink Floyd, for instance.

Despite Roger Waters creating countless masterpieces and steering the band to success, the members couldn’t tolerate his authoritarian style in the end.

“If there’s a direction you want to take, speak up. Someone else might show you the path, but if you want to take that road, you have to say so. No one else can decide that for you.”

At Myeong-jeon ’s firm words, Iseo seemed lost in thought.

Hyuna watched her with concern, while Seoha remained expressionless, as if expecting this moment to come.

“If we choose a new song, does that mean we’ll discard Sweet Child O’ Mine?”

“Not necessarily… but I’m not sure how it’ll turn out. Honestly, I intended to bring this up later.”

In response to Seoha’s question, Myeong-jeon brushed her hair back.

She wondered if it was a bit early to foster this kind of independence in the group.

It might be better to focus solely on success for now.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

If she wanted to do it alone, there’d be no need for a band.

She could handle everything herself and hire session musicians for the bass and other parts.

But that wasn’t the life she chose.

On her first day of awakening, she’d resolved to pursue music for enjoyment.

Success, auditions, and YouTube—those were all secondary.

“Then, I think we should try it. I want to show what I’m capable of… I’ve practiced until I could barely stand. It feels pointless to just write online posts and do nothing.”

“Hmm. Do the rest of you agree?”

At Iseo’s words, Myeong-jeonmturned to the others.

Both nodded.

“Practice will be much harder. There’s also the risk of failing the performance.”

“Well, even if we fail, there’s always next time! Our skills won’t disappear, right?”

“That’s true.”

One thing Myeong-jeon had realized over the decades was this: life, bands, and music all needed to be seen in the long term.

There was no such thing as something that absolutely had to be done in the moment.

After all, there were no once-in-a-lifetime opportunities in life.

“So, what song should we play?”

“I’ve got something in mind. Not sure if you’ll like it, but it’s the kind of song that makes people who don’t know us think, ‘Wow, they’re really good.’”

As Myeong-jeon smirked, Iseo had a gut feeling that smile spelled trouble—a “time for you to suffer” kind of feeling.

Club Paradox.

Open for over 30 years, it was one of Hongdae’s proudest live clubs and a gateway for rookie bands.

Known for its openness to all genres, you could find acoustic performances one day, rap metal the next, then J-rock, and even death metal.

Regulars affectionately nicknamed it a “dumpster fire,” which, paradoxically, added to its charm.

Recently, however, Paradox had been catching the attention of Hongdae’s band scene and its rookie enthusiasts.

The reason? A new band, Group Sound, was set to make their debut at the open mic event tonight.

“Why aren’t you selling beer? I came for the beer!”

“Today’s first act is a high school girl band. No alcohol sales until after their performance.”

“A girl band? What the hell?”

Whether it was unsuspecting patrons who came for a drink only to be surprised by the news…

“Uh, excuse me… Is this Club Paradox?”

“Yes, it is~”

…or first-timers cautiously stepping into the band scene…

“Are they performing today?”

“Yep, I checked the timetable.”

…or even seasoned regulars, eagerly awaiting a new wave in the Hongdae music scene—everyone had their own reason for being there, waiting for Paradox’s open mic to begin.

And among them was another group waiting anxiously for the first time slot: Group Sound.

“Argh! I’m freaking out. I’m so nervous!”

“It’s not that bad…”

Iseo, plucking random bass notes, suddenly let out a high-pitched screech.

Startled, Hyuna replied in a timid voice.

Watching this, Myeong-jeon chuckled softly and peeked out from behind the stage curtain.

The crowd wasn’t massive, but for an open mic, it was decent—around 70 to 80 people.

“Is everyone ready?”

In the middle of their chatter, a knock came at the green room door.

A man entered, his appearance showing years of wear and tear, dressed in an unmistakably “metalhead” style.

“Yes, we’re all set,” Myeong-jeon answered.

The man gave an OK sign and said, “I’ve been running Paradox for over 30 years, but this is my first time hosting a high school girl band.

Thanks to you all, I even made a trip to the police station.

They said I can’t sell alcohol until your set is over.”

“Really? We should be helping you sell drinks~ What a shame, right?”

Iseo’s comment earned nods from the rest of the group, prompting the owner to chuckle.

“You’ve prepared three songs, so you’ll have 30 minutes as previously agreed. That includes 5 minutes for setup. Pace yourselves, greet the audience, throw in some chatter—it’ll help you connect with them. Make sure to leave an impression. Oh, but…”

As he explained the rules, the owner hesitated, looking at Myeong-jeon.

“What is it?”

“Well, are you really that Myeong-jeon ’s student…?”

Ugh, not again.

Instead of answering, Myeong-jeon looked up at the ceiling.

Lately, every guitarist he met asked him the same thing, and it was driving him mad.

Why the hell did people treat him like some kind of Van Gogh? Only to lament, “Oh, Myeong-jeon , why did you leave us so soon?” after his death?

If they cared so much, they should’ve supported his music while he was alive.

Not that it mattered—they’d probably have dismissed him anyway, saying, “That’s all Myeong-jeon could come up with?” Predictable nonsense.

“I see. Got it,” the owner muttered, as if he’d solved some mystery, before leaving the room.

The others glanced curiously at Myeong-jeon , but he didn’t offer any explanation.

Hello, everyone! We’re Group Sound.

Nice to meet you all.

Actually, this is our first time performing on a stage like this.

Our first gig was at school, and our second was at an anime convention.

As the show began, Iseo assisted Hyuna and Seoha with their setup, while Myeong-jeon engaged the crowd like a pro, answering questions and buying time.

“You’re so pretty!”

Am I? Thank you.

But aren’t all high school girls naturally pretty? It’s the prime of life.

That said, I suppose my looks are objectively above average.

I won’t deny it.

Anyway, I heard a lot of people came because of the buzz about us.

We don’t have many songs, but we’ll do our best not to disappoint you.

While Myeong-jeon worked the crowd, Iseo stepped onto the monitor speaker at the front of the stage, gripping her bass.

Someone shouted, “Even the bassist is pretty!” Bowing her head in thanks, she flexed her fingers, considering the day’s setlist.

The first song wasn’t too demanding physically, but it offered the perfect chance to highlight her bass skills.

Focusing, Iseo felt the world around her fade—sounds dimming as if submerged underwater.

Whatever Myeong-jeon was saying didn’t matter; her job was to hold the spotlight until Iseo was ready.

Before the performance, Myeong-jeon had explained the lineup.

“We’ll start with a cover.”

“Wouldn’t it make more impact to save it for last, to really showcase the bass?” Iseo asked.

“If we were only thinking about your bass impact, sure. But if the first two songs don’t impress, people might just think, ‘Meh, the bassist isn’t great.’ Starting with the cover sets the tone.”

Myeong-jeon  twirled her pen and continued, “Remember, we’re here to promote the band and gain experience, not just show off your skills. Don’t forget that.”

Iseo had nodded in agreement.

She knew Myeong-jeon was right.

This performance was about making Group Sound known.

A brief silence fell.

Then came the sharp clicks of drumsticks: tap, tap, tap, tap.

But at least for this first song, this stage is mine.

With the starting cue, Iseo struck the bass aggressively, unleashing a powerful 16th-note fuzz tone.

The sound exploded from the speakers, shaking the floor and igniting the room