Little Pink Starfish

When traditional musicians in hanbok blandly played “Uptown Funk,” the audience reaction was underwhelming.

Some in the idol community blamed Han Si-on’s “indie pretensions” for the flat performance.

But everything changed the moment a lightning bolt struck the stage—and Koo Taehwan appeared.

Koo Taehwan wore a flashy stage outfit usually reserved for end-of-year music festivals, creating a striking contrast against the traditionally dressed musicians.

The musicians, startled as if they were truly from a bygone era, froze at his appearance.

Koo Taehwan looked a bit startled too.

But the silence didn’t last.

The musicians, seemingly compelled by some invisible urgency, resumed their playing.

And so the dull base rhythm of “Uptown Funk” started up again.

Hearing it, Koo Taehwan erased his startled expression, nodded to the beat—

And began to sing the intro with a clean, crisp voice.

This hit, that ice cold Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold

His delivery was eerily clean and unexpectedly gripping.

Some in the audience who had rewatched Coming Up Next episode 1 multiple times were stunned.

Koo Taehwan had performed on broadcast before—but never left a strong impression.

But this intro? What was this?

The once uninspiring music now sounded rhythmic and full of life.

It wasn’t the music that had changed.

It was the vocal that transformed it.

This intro was the result of a week’s worth of tireless effort by Han Si-on and Koo Taehwan, honing his unique rhythmic sense.

And it wasn’t just the audience who was surprised.

One of the drummers, who had been playing mechanically, looked up in shock—

And, as if inspired, started drumming with larger, more expressive movements.

Boom—boom—boom—!

A tight rhythm emerged.

The sound of percussion spread even further than drums, filling the stage.

Flash!

A soundless lightning bolt struck, and Choi Jaesung and Lee Ieon appeared on stage.

Unlike Koo Taehwan, they weren’t fazed.

They jumped right into harmonizing the bridge:

Girls hit your hallelujah— Girls hit your hallelujah— Girls hit your hallelujah—

This time, the taepyeongso and nabal players seemed inspired and unleashed a clear rhythm.

Cheers and applause erupted from the audience.

Next was On Saemiro.

She began humming the song’s iconic intro melody—“Dum, dum-dumdum, dumdumdum dum-dum”—

And it was high.

Incredibly high-pitched for a hum—almost unbelievable.

At the same time, hi-hats, claps, and a powerful brass section began blending into the traditional instrument sounds.

It was perfect.

So perfect it felt like nothing more should be added.

But—

Flash!

Han Si-on entered, unleashing bass, electric guitar, and electric piano—and the crowd exploded in screams.

Because what they had thought was the perfect soundscape had just been surpassed.

At that moment, the five members of Saedal Baekil burst on stage with dance steps perfectly synced to the percussion.

There was no need to build up any more excitement—Koo Taehwan jumped straight back into the intro.

This hit, that ice cold Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold

Seoul Town Funk by Saedal Baekil felt distinctly different from the original thanks to its traditional Korean instrument foundation.

The taepyeongso tried to sound more aggressive, the nabal aimed for grandeur.

The drums formed an exquisite rhythm, blending with the beat, hi-hats and claps filled the spaces, and brass marked the end of each measure.

Then, Choi Jaesung took over the verse:

Competing romance, This is how we do it, Go ahead, overtake me if you can!

Han Si-on had assigned the parts, then told them to write their own lyrics.

After all, Uptown Funk didn’t have meaningful lyrics—just clever references for hype moments.

So Han Si-on instructed the members to choose fitting words and make them as honest as possible.

The more childish or cryptic, the better.

Except for Koo Taehwan, who had to sing the familiar intro, all other lyrics were self-written.

Saedal, Baekil Livin’ it up the city —
On Saemiro stayed faithful to the original’s tone.

Singing high Like it’s day one again tomorrow —
Han Si-on added metaphors only he could understand.

But it didn’t matter.

Han Si-on had rearranged all the lyrics into a new rhythm anyway.

At first, the audience thought Saedal Baekil was doing a cover like TakeScene—
(TakeScene had Korean lyrics but used the original vocal lines.)

But no.

The verse of Seoul Town Funk sounded similar, yet different—and different, yet similar.

That ambiguity gave it an auditory thrill, while the performance hit the beats with visual satisfaction.

Then came the chorus.

The insane chorus that kept Uptown Funk at the top of Billboard for 14 weeks.

Kyaaaaaah!
Whoaaaah!

The audience reaction was insane, even visible from the stage.

Truthfully, Han Si-on had wanted to tweak this part too.

But no matter how he analyzed it—there was nothing to fix.

Could he make a technically better sound than the original? Sure.

A more exciting instrumental arrangement? Definitely.

But would it be better than the original? Doubtful.

The chorus was the perfect culmination—perfect sound, perfect excitement.

A little space here, a little pause there—everything fused into a spectacular climax.

Han Si-on had no choice but to leave it as is.

But just copying the exact sound?

His pride as a regressor wouldn’t allow it.

So he sampled traditional instrument sounds to recreate a “just-as-good but different” version.

“This is good enough.”

That’s what he thought—but the audience thought otherwise.

Especially people like Chris Edwards, who had deep musical knowledge, were shocked.

Creating the exact same emotional punch as the original using completely different, unique instrument textures? Is that even possible? Why do composers even agonize over sound choice then?!

It felt almost like betrayal.

Amid those emotions, it was finally Lee Ieon’s turn.

The only one who hadn’t had a part during the first verse and chorus.

---

To be honest, Lee Ieon had been thrown off while preparing for Seoul Town Funk.

He had never once thought of himself as lacking in skill.

He knew he couldn’t beat monsters like Han Si-on or On Saemiro in vocal power.

But he’d always been confident he could own any part in his own way.

Objectively, Lee Ieon was a good singer.

But Han Si-on had said something else:

“Hyung, your tone is the kind that has to be the main character.”

“What does that mean?”

“Here, sing Do-Mi-Sol. Hit the notes exactly.”

Lee Ieon, with his years of training, easily hit the notes.

Han Si-on then had every member record the same.

They had to redo Choi Jaesung a few times because he kept going flat, but they all managed it.

“Now everyone, close your eyes. Raise your hand if the harmony sounds off.”

He played randomized mixes of the members’ voices, each singing Do, Mi, or Sol to form a C chord.

Do from Choi Jaesung, Mi from On Saemiro, Sol from Han Si-on, etc.

They all created a proper C chord—except for one person.

Whenever Lee Ieon’s voice was included, people raised their hands.

“Did I hit the wrong note?”

“Nope. It’s still technically a correct C chord in terms of harmony.”

“Then?”

“Your tone doesn’t blend with the others. It stands out—like dissonance.”

“…”

“Don’t worry. I wanted to explain this before assigning parts so everyone would understand.”

Lee Ieon thought Han Si-on was about to tell him he’d get fewer lines.

But instead:

“From now on, hyung, you’ll be the rapper in Saedal Baekil.”

“Rap? Me?”

“No, your singing will be used like rap.”

“Why?”

“What’s the role of rap in idol music?”

“…Impact?”

“Not wrong. But more accurately—it resets the threshold.”

Idol music often has repeating riffs with catchy melodies and choruses.

But constant exposure to the same level of stimulation makes it feel weaker over time.

That’s how human senses work.

That’s why concert engineers gradually raise the volume: 10, then 11, then 12—

To prevent people from thinking the sound has gotten quieter.

“Rap can reset the threshold. It’s a totally different texture from singing.”

Finally, Lee Ieon understood what Han Si-on meant.

“You have to do that part.”

---

As the Seoul Town Funk chorus ended, the electric guitar and keyboard dropped out.

Traditional instruments surged to the forefront, raw and powerful.

And in that six-bar gap, Lee Ieon began his line:

Stop, wait a minute Guitar and keyboard out Camera! Move back a bit Am I framed well? How’s my smile?

The moment Lee Ieon’s voice formed a groove, there was something almost violent about it.

Not the lyrics or tone—but the delivery.

It didn’t sing so much as slam.

And yet—

It didn’t feel bad.

In fact, it felt amazing.

Han Si-on even thought Lee Ieon’s voice might be perfect for post-disco and boogie.

And Uptown Funk was exactly that—a mix of soul, disco-pop, and boogie.

This stage was Lee Ieon’s playground.

Seoul, Town, The city I was born in In this grey jungle, We split into grey factions

His rough tone filled the space left by the vanished guitar and keyboard.

The audience didn’t know, but Han Si-on had even adjusted the EQ of the overall beat to support Lee Ieon’s solo.

And as soon as his part ended—

BZZZZT!

The tweaked EQ snapped into discord—and the chorus exploded back in.

It wasn’t the same structure as the original song.

But that didn’t matter.

Because Lee Ieon’s voice had reset the threshold to zero.

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