A Composer’s Offer and an Idol’s Dilemma

“Hmm… I apologize. I’m not quite getting it. Shall we try three takes, experimenting with different styles?”

“Hmm, alright. There’s no helping it. Let’s proceed.”

‘No harsh reprimand came, no scolding for failing to grasp even such a simple direction.’

Without delay, I presented three distinct versions. One was transparent and mild, completely devoid of vocal flourishes. The second emphasized a chewy texture with strong accents. The third embraced the most trendy style, intentionally slurring the pronunciation.

Once the recording concluded, Gaeul’s brow furrowed as he sank into deep contemplation.

“Number two… no, number three… Ah, no, that’s not right. It’s number one.”

He mumbled to himself before meeting my gaze and speaking again.

“Can’t we mix all three?”

“We could, but it might become a bit excessive. Are you sure you’d be alright with that?”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Just give it a try.”

When the distinct characteristics, which didn’t blend well together, were reduced by half and mixed, the result was precisely as over-the-top as I’d anticipated. It didn’t convey skill so much as an intense sense of self-indulgence. If I felt that way myself, it must have been quite a spectacle for others to hear.

Gaeul clicked his tongue and scratched the back of his head.

“This just won’t work… There’s no other choice. Let’s go with number three.”

Version three bore a strong resemblance to a title track from a full-length album: a refreshing sound, yet one that had lost its fizz. Gaeul seemed to have chosen it, mindful of current trends, but I seriously doubted whether Lee Heeyeon would be satisfied with the final product.

This particular song, after all, was meant to be purely refreshing, without any ethereal nuances. It wasn’t by chance that Kwon Yohan and Lee Seon had been chosen as the vocalists.

‘If this went well, we’d probably have to re-record.’

Just as that thought crossed my mind, Han Doyoung, who had been slouched on the sofa, half-reclining and watching us, abruptly sprang to his feet.

“I understand what you’re trying to achieve,” he stated, “but don’t you think you’re risking ruining the song by being overly ambitious?”

As the tall young man, a head taller than himself, approached, Gaeul recoiled, much like a turtle retracting its neck. He even seemed to resemble one somewhat. Regardless, it was clear he was thoroughly intimidated.

“I think this would be fine if we just added a slight nuance of version two to version one. Try it again with that.”

The engineer, who was presumed to hold a higher position in the company than Gaeul, watched them with an expression akin to observing a fire from across the river. He likely agreed that Han Doyoung’s suggestion was superior.

However, he clearly had no desire to openly side with him and intentionally provoke Gaeul, with whom he would still have to work.

Perhaps he simply saw it as a refreshing, entertaining interlude in his daily routine, confined to the studio as a mastering s*ave.

In the ensuing silence, everyone’s gaze was fixed on Gaeul. Regardless of whether he followed the advice or not, as Lee Heeyeon’s stand-in, his approval was necessary for any further progress.

After a long moment, Gaeul finally opened his mouth and sneered.

“…HEX isn’t a self-producing group, is it?”

His pride had clearly taken a hit, evidenced by the flush that crept across his face in front of HEX, a group he had treated with such caution.

Indeed, UNI-Q employed many veteran composers, so it was rare for members to be primarily involved in songwriting. However, they frequently offered opinions during the process, often leading to their names being listed at the very end of the arranger credits.

‘It wasn’t as if they had no relevant knowledge at all.’

“Who do you think knows better, me, the composer, or Doyoung, who sings the songs a composer gives him? No, wait, you haven’t even sung it yet, but you just waltz in and throw a wrench into the atmosphere like this? What are we supposed to do? We’re professionals, aren’t we?”

Han Doyoung retorted, unyielding.

“Just because I can’t compose doesn’t mean I lack an ear for music. If it sounds strange to an amateur, isn’t that an even bigger problem? Well then, if you have a better idea than someone who ‘doesn’t know anything,’ why don’t you try it? Go on.”

With that, he crossed his arms, assumed an arrogant posture, and claimed one of the chairs near the booth. Before another heated argument could erupt, I quickly interjected.

“Um, since it seemed like you weren’t happy with version three, why don’t we try it one more time, following Doyoung’s suggestion? You might just like it.”

“…Shall we?”

Gaeul glared at Han Doyoung with his small eyes, then met my gaze and offered a feigned smile. His actions overtly conveyed: ‘I don’t like it, but since Kwon Yohan is asking, I’ll make an exception.’

****

A few minutes later.

“…It’s good.”

Gaeul surrendered. There was simply no other option; the recording had turned out so perfectly, it couldn’t have suited the song any better.

He didn’t, however, offer any words of apology or acknowledgment to Han Doyoung. Instead, he completely ignored him, as if he were invisible despite being right there, and finished my portion of the recording.

Even as Lee Seon’s turn approached, Gaeul remained stiffly facing forward, as though turning his head towards Han Doyoung’s direction would be fatal.

It wasn’t a quick task; to undertake such time-consuming work in that state must have been uncomfortable. His stubbornness knew no bounds.

“Lee Seon, you need to blend with Yohan, so shall we try relaxing a little?”

“Yessir.”

There was an unexpected benefit to the series of events. Lee Seon, who had maintained a bewildered expression—’What the… Why is he like that?’—was now completely relaxed.

Thanks to the slightly extended recording time for my turn, his voice was fully warmed up, allowing him to perform at his usual peak.

Emerging from the booth, Lee Seon mumbled softly as he passed by my side.

“I was really looking forward to working with Lee Heeyeon…”

‘He certainly had a lot of artists he admired.’

“So, we’re done here, right?”

The engineer asked, removing his headphones. Positive replies popped up from various corners, starting with Gaeul.

“Uli and I are going to see Heeyeon’s performance, so we can’t do dinner together. What a shame. If another opportunity arises, let’s at least share a meal then.”

With a distinctly Korean, empty promise, she gestured for us to leave and began packing up her equipment. Lee Seon, after a moment of hesitation, politely offered his farewell first.

“Goodbye!”

“Good work.”

Following him, Han Doyoung, who had fixed his gaze on the engineer and bowed, moved towards the exit with Lee Seon. Feeling it was time to follow suit, I rose to my feet.

“I’ll be going now. You all worked hard today.”

Just then, Gaeul strode forward and blocked my path.

“Just a moment, Yohan. Shall we talk for a bit before you go?”

Han Doyoung’s foot, just about to cross the threshold of the exit, froze.

Since he seemed to have an errand and needed to leave soon anyway, it likely wouldn’t be a lengthy conversation. I spoke, remaining standing.

“Go ahead.”

“No, it’s nothing else. It’s just that I’d truly regret letting you go like this, Yohan.”

“…Pardon?”

“Do you perhaps have any plans for solo activities? I’ll give you a song. What do you think?”

‘…Hmm?’

I had assumed his exceptionally gentle treatment of Kwon Yohan was merely because I was a member of a popular idol group from a major agency. It seemed that wasn’t the only reason, after all. He genuinely must have been impressed.

“As it happens, I have a song that would suit you perfectly, Yohan. I’ll send you the demo; just listen to it. This isn’t an opportunity that comes around often, you know? I may look like this, but I’m a busy man.”

A wave of dizziness washed over me, confronted by such an inflated ego.

‘Where on earth did he get such confidence?’

Certainly, Gaeul was a composer known to the public, boasting several mega-hit songs. However, his output was highly inconsistent; apart from those well-known tracks, almost everything else had flopped.

While he attempted to tackle various genres, the types of songs that actually succeeded were quite specific: newtro pop with addictive choruses and odd compositions that felt somewhat alien upon first listen.

Only when these conditions, along with several other factors, synergized perfectly did he achieve explosive results.

In summary, one could say he was a case where luck had favored him far more than skill.

Yet, the composer before me seemed to believe that those few successful cases perfectly represented his true ability. He appeared to think that the less fortunate outcomes of his other songs were simply due to the public failing to appreciate them.

‘What should I do about this? It would be fortunate if I got a decent song by sheer luck, but the probability of that was far too low.’

After a moment of deliberation, I finally spoke.

“I appreciate the offer, but we’re only in our first year, and I want to focus on group activities. If another opportunity arises, I’d be grateful if you could approach us again through the company.”

“…Is that so? Well, there’s nothing for it, then.”

‘Was it enough to just soften his words, even with such an obviously offended tone? …Fine, whatever. There was no reason to stir up trouble unnecessarily.’

I offered a polite farewell once more, then followed the members who had already left.

As I got into the car, Han Doyoung and Lee Seon, already occupying the back seats, stared at me intently. Their gazes were strangely meaningful, and an awkward silence settled between us.

Fortunately, the manager, who was a bit lacking in tact, broke the silence.

“Doyoung, I’ve told you before, you can’t speak to outsiders like that… We’ve finally achieved some peace; let’s be careful, okay?”

His face was pale, as if he might quit at any moment. Han Doyoung nodded, his expression slightly downcast.

“I understand. But still, if I hadn’t said anything, we would’ve had to re-record, wouldn’t we? You were watching the situation too, Hyung; you must know.”

“That’s true, but… you could have phrased it more gently.”

“…Yes, I apologize.”

Han Doyoung, who would usually have offered a few more defiant words, was unusually compliant today. His dejected appearance was unsettling.

‘It would be best to end this topic now.’

“But why are you both staring at me like that?”

‘And I had something I was curious about, too.’