Little Pink Starfish

Damn Idol, Episode 87

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Underground or Independent.

These words were often used to refer to non-mainstream musicians.

People who didn’t appear on TV, who made music independently.
Artists who pursued a self-made path without agency planning.

But even in this “non-mainstream” world, there was still a line between mainstream and non-mainstream.
That was the reality of the indie scene.

A band with a few thousand followers and the ability to draw 400–500 people to a solo concert? Still indie.
A band that performs at a ten-band joint gig and can’t even pull ten audience members (excluding friends)? Also indie.

If you didn’t show your face on mass media, you were just lumped in as an “indie musician.”

That’s why you’d sometimes hear silly terms like “under of the underground” or “indie of the indie.”

And tonight’s performance at Brown Basic, a small venue in Hapjeong at 6 p.m., was exactly that.

A joint concert of indie musicians—drawn from the indies of the indie scene.

Six host teams split the rental fee. Each brought in one guest team via personal connections.

Not that “guest” meant anything grand.

The “special guest” was Zero Sugar, a band with mild recognition in the Hongdae scene.

So the event’s poster simply read:

<Special Guest: ??>

If Zero Sugar had been actually famous, their name would’ve been printed in bold at the top.

It would’ve been a “PLEASE come see our concert because THIS group is coming!!” type of desperate marketing.

But when a guest isn’t that well-known, hosts usually go with a blind-box strategy:

We’re not telling you who’s coming, but we have a special guest. If you’re curious, maybe come check it out.

This kind of vague intrigue sometimes got tickets sold.
And it also helped ensure the crowd stuck around till the end, even if the earlier acts weren’t great—just to find out who the guest was.

So a situation like this could happen:

“Hyung, you’re not coming today?”

—“Ah, sorry. But someone way more famous than us is doing the guest spot. They’ll take the same time slot.”

“Who?”

—“They asked me to keep it a secret. They want it to be a surprise.”

Yoo Chang-seop, who had pulled in Zero Sugar through a high school band connection, curled his lips.

Not from amusement—but from disbelief.

If you’re going for a surprise reveal, the audience either needs to recognize the face immediately, or realize it upon hearing the voice.

But what kind of big name would be a last-minute replacement for Zero Sugar, without pay?

‘Whatever, man.’

Still, Chang-seop asked the main vocalist of Zero Sugar one last thing.

“They’re really more famous than you guys?”

—“Without question. If they’re not, I’ll give you ten million won.”

“Come on, where would you even get ten mil?”

—“Exactly. I won’t need to.”

So Chang-seop nodded.
Whoever they were—if they were more famous than Zero Sugar, that was good enough.

That’s all a “special guest” needed to be.

“What’s their team name?”

—“Secret.”

“Seriously? What about rehearsal?”

—“They said they’re skipping it. Oh, and they’re not a band—no instrument setup needed. They’ll hand over the MR via USB on-site.”

At the mention of “not a band,” an image of rappers or a dance crew popped into Chang-seop’s mind.

In 2017, the indie band scene was fading—but the underground hip-hop scene was booming.
Thanks to Show Me What You Got.

Plus, there were dance crews gaining popularity through YouTube performance clips.

‘Ah, probably not dancers.’

Brown Basic’s stage was pretty cramped.

If they cleared the band speakers, maybe 2–3 people could dance—but on the current stage, even one person wouldn’t have enough room to move.

So yeah, probably a rapper.

—“How many tickets did we sell today?”

“Eighteen.”

—“Excluding friends? That’s way more than usual.”

“Some high school juniors of someone came. Like five or six of them.”

—“So about thirty people total, counting friends?”

“Yeah, roughly.”

—“Damn. Lucky kids. They hit the jackpot.”

Zero Sugar’s vocalist talked a big game, but Chang-seop just gave vague responses and hung up.
He was busy. The show was about to start.

At exactly 6 p.m., the concert began.

The setlist was simple:

• Total time: 120 minutes.
• Six host teams each had 15 minutes, totaling 90 minutes.
• Delays were expected—so around 100 minutes total.
• The remaining 20–30 minutes would go to the special guest.

Chang-seop’s band was fifth in the lineup.

“Thank you!”

“Thanks so much!”

Their performance wasn’t bad.

It had been a long time since they played for more than 30 people, and the crowd response was decent.

The final host team was Evening Promise, the main driver of ticket sales.

They were placed last because they had brought a bunch of high school juniors.
If they’d gone earlier, the audience might’ve left right after.

‘Weren’t those guys idol stans?’

Evening Promise had covered a popular idol group’s song not long ago and uploaded it online.
It got a surprising number of views and gave them some recognition—but it was laughable.

Indie band wannabes covering idol songs?

Still, as Evening Promise began to play, Chang-seop grew a little sheepish.

‘…They’re actually good.’

Their performance was solid.

Midway through, as he was getting into the performance, a belated thought crossed Chang-seop’s mind.

‘What about the special guest? Did they hand over their MR?’

Brown Basic was small but had a rare feature: an artist waiting room.
The owner, once semi-famous, now managed sound and sat at the mixer near the room.

Chang-seop debated whether to go ask if the guest had arrived.

He glanced toward the waiting room—but from the audience, it was impossible to see.

Worried, he got up to check—but just then, Evening Promise finished.

“Thank you! We were Evening Promise!”

Big cheers erupted from the crowd, mostly their friends.

As they left the stage, an MR immediately began to play over the speakers.

Chang-seop finally relaxed.

If the MR was rolling, it meant the special guest had arrived.

But…

Something about the MR felt familiar.

He’d heard this song a lot somewhere.

‘Ah… Under the Streetlight?’

He didn’t usually listen to Korean music, but there was no way not to know this one.
It was all over the streets.

Evening Promise had covered it too—he remembered now.

There was the original, a remake… he didn’t know all the details.

But why this MR?

Was the guest covering this?

So not a rapper?

At that moment, a man walked on stage, cap pulled low over his face.

The stage was dark, his face hidden—only his jawline and silhouette visible.

But… he seemed handsome.

Just gave off that vibe.
Tall, too.

Then the man grabbed the mic and began to sing:

At the end of this grey alleyway…
Under the orange streetlight…

His voice was incredible.

Too good.

Even just from the intro, you could tell—he wasn’t an amateur.

He was a pro.

Suddenly, a shriek broke out from the audience.

People turned toward the sound—a high school girl had her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.

The shadow, faintly tinted… Why, is it orange…

Audience murmurs began to rise.

‘Wait, is this a famous singer?’

Then the man on stage raised a finger to his lips—Shhh.

Focus on the music.

The song continued.

And Chang-seop realized why the crowd was buzzing.

Whoever this was… they were mimicking the original.

It sounded that close.
The audience probably thought it was the original singer.

But Chang-seop shook his head.

‘Come on. Why would an idol come here?’

Even if they did, they wouldn’t be this good live.

Under the Streetlight was a good song, but clearly had a ton of post-production.

No way an idol could sing like this in person.

Must be a YouTuber who impersonates singers.

He didn’t watch that kind of content, so he wouldn’t recognize them—even if they took the cap off.

But others would.
That’s probably what Zero Sugar meant.

The song approached the chorus.

If I just walk a little further… To the place where you and I stayed… That place, that place—right there—

And then it hit.

The chorus exploded.

You and I— Under the streetlight—!

A massive sound burst forth.

But even louder was—

“KYAAAAAA!!”

Screams from the high school girls Evening Promise had brought.

Because the man on stage had removed his cap.

A pale face with a sharp, cool aura was revealed.

He was belting the high note—but his eyes were smiling.

It was striking.

Chang-seop had no idea who he was.

But the crowd’s reaction left no doubt.

“IT’S HAN SI-ON!!”

Someone screamed.

And then—just as the chorus repeated—everyone fell silent.

As if trying to soak in the magic.

When the song ended, Han Si-on cleared his throat and looked at the crowd.

He hadn’t even said anything, but people were already screaming again.

‘Damn… I’m jealous.’

Good-looking, famous, sings like a beast.

Can’t even criticize his vocals—they were flawless.

But something about it just rubbed him the wrong way.

He knew it was the twisted bitterness of a struggling indie musician.
But he couldn’t help it.

Then Han Si-on spoke:

“Hello. I’m Han Si-on from Sedalbaekil.”

The cheers exploded—far louder than thirty people should’ve been capable of.

“We were supposed to sing this as a duet, but my friend chickened out and made me do the opening alone. Terrible, right?”

“NOT AT ALL! WE LOVED IT!”

“Do you guys like Sedalbaekil?”

“YES!”

At small indie gigs, it wasn’t unusual to do a little audience banter—you were close enough to see their expressions.

It was a charm of indie culture, something idols rarely got to experience.

But Han Si-on? He handled it like a seasoned pro.

He tamed the screaming high schoolers and got them to promise to shout his name no matter what song came next.

Then the lights dimmed and the next MR began to play.

This time, even Chang-seop recognized it.

Slow Down by the Billboard-charting R\&B artist, Lazy Boy.

And at that moment, two guys burst out from the artist waiting room and grabbed mics.

One had a cheeky, playful vibe.

The other—

‘Jesus. That FACE.’

Ridiculously good-looking.

It was Koo Tae-hwan and Lee Ion.