Little Pink Starfish

Producing offers are nothing new to me.

I’ve received so many throughout my long life that I can’t even count them anymore.

There was a time when I was seen as a defibrillator among Billboard agencies.

It wasn’t rare for me to take fading old musicians and get their names on the Billboard 200.

And not even in the lower ranks—top tier.

If you show that kind of result for a few years, agencies start showing up with suitcases of money.

Begging me to save their old musicians who still have a long time left on their contracts.

Our Jesus, Buddha, Allah, Zion, blah blah.

But there’s a bit of a misunderstanding here.

Yes, I’m good at music—but that doesn’t mean I can create results with just anyone.

If that were the case, I wouldn’t be so selective when choosing team members.

The people I produce for are those who’ve already shown excellence in countless rounds.

Those who couldn’t make it on TV shows but kept singing on small stages.

Those who, though not famous, lived disciplined lives where training was a habit.

It was those kinds of people I brought success to.

And in that sense, Joo Sunghan is a pretty decent prospect.

First of all, this person’s vocal skills are real.

He might be slightly overrated because of his naturally gifted tone and vocalization, but skill-wise alone, he’s definitely in Korea’s top ten.

Or maybe not.

Now that Sedalbaekil is active in Korea, maybe he’s no longer in the top ten?

Of course, if we’re talking absolute standards, Joo Sunghan is more skilled than the Sedalbaekil members.

Ah, except me, obviously.

But when it comes to “songs made by Han Sion,” the ones who sing them best are Sedalbaekil.

Singers are judged not by skill, but by the stage.

Since I write the best songs in Korea, isn’t singing my songs well the most important thing?

Anyway.

On the other hand, Kwon Chansle—a semifinalist eliminated from Stage Number Zero (still not sure if he was 3rd or 4th), and someone I once met as a busker—is a musician I don’t really remember.

Back then in Hongdae, he was singing while throwing away all his strengths and leaning only on his weaknesses, so I helped him once, just casually.

Thanks to that, I know he became quite a competent singer.

I noticed while monitoring SNUMZ because of Choi Jaesung.

So, whether it’s Joo Sunghan or Kwon Chansle, they’re not bad as singers.

But I’m not interested.

When I produce an album, I have to be sure it’ll sell at least five million copies.

Because the demon counts produced albums in fractions.

Not exactly sure, but I think it’s 0.2 or 0.3 or something like that.

Maybe if it were Billboard, but in Korea, I don’t feel much appeal.

If that’s the case, it’s better to make solo albums for the members.

When I produce albums for the same team members, the demon counts the whole thing properly.

If Onsaemiro’s solo album sells a million copies, that’s a million for me, too.

That’s why I was happy when the unit album sold like hotcakes.

But that’s not the only issue.

When I produce someone else’s album, I need to have full control.

Just working on one or two tracks doesn’t count for the demon.

I need to take full responsibility for the entire making of the album.

The Sedalbaekil members trust me completely because of our long history.

They’ll even do things like cracking their voice mid-note just because I say it’ll help the recording, without any doubt.

Saying it like this makes it sound like I brainwashed them, but it’s not that.

I only ask for things that will positively affect the final result.

But would Joo Sunghan or Kwon Chansle follow my direction like that?

Maybe Kwon Chansle would, but not Joo Sunghan.

He’s already recognized as one of Korea’s top 3 vocalists.

And there’s quite an age gap between us, too.

So even before I properly heard them out, my internal answer was No.

I just didn’t show it on the surface.

But Kwon Chansle and Joo Sunghan were pretty desperate.

Let’s talk about Kwon Chansle first…

“Our company is shutting down.”

“Shutting down? Why?”

I don’t know which agency he’s with, but it must have had some money.

Only financially strong companies can afford to sign the Top 10 from broadcast audition shows.

They require a lot of sponsorships.

“To be more precise, it’s a complete collapse.”

What followed was both laughable and all too common.

Because of an embargo, it hadn’t hit the press yet, but apparently, the CEO is about to be arrested for embezzlement.

He used a massive amount of the parent company’s money, so the parent decided to completely pull out of the entertainment business.

In that chaotic situation, Kwon Chansle was abandoned, and even the agency staff were aware.

So they agreed to release him as long as he returns the signing bonus.

That’s actually pretty decent of them.

Unless, of course, they’re just trying to clear the deck before the CEO’s arrest leads to artists voicing their discontent in the media.

“So I thought… maybe joining SBI Entertainment wouldn’t be such a bad idea…”

Hmm.

I get Kwon Chansle’s situation.

But I don’t feel sorry for him, nor do I feel the urge to help.

The only things that matter to me are Sedalbaekil and the contract with the demon.

While I was thinking that, I suddenly remembered a comment I saw online a few days ago.

• lolol what exactly is the image of Han Sion you guys have in your heads
• kinda seems like a warm-hearted sociopath, but only to his team lolol

That’s not true.

It’s just the demon wearing away my humanity.

I’m innocent.

Anyway, whether I sign Kwon Chansle or help with his album—what’s in it for me?

While thinking that, a new thought occurred.

I don’t know if it benefits me, but it might benefit Sedalbaekil, minus me.

And it’s something Titi might like.

“Wanna sing something for me?”

“What should I sing?”

“Hmm… have you heard the Masked Bandit unit album?”

“You mean Side A? Of course! I’ve listened to it tons of times.”

“Pick any track from it and sing.”

Even with the sudden request, Kwon Chansle sang without hesitation.

He chose <STAGE> from Side A.

His singing was exactly what I expected.

Some parts were worse than I thought, some better—but overall, it matched my expectations.

“Can you sing one more?”

“From Side A?”

“Yeah.”

He sang again.

“Now sing something else—any Korean song that’s not by Sedalbaekil.”

He sang again.

“Now a foreign song.”

“Can I sing a Nod song?”

“Go ahead.”

He sang again.

After a few songs, I nodded.

“I’ll give you an answer within three days.”

“…That’s it?”

“Yeah. Got more questions?”

“I wanted to really emphasize how badly I want to join SBI Entertainment—even if I have to give up a lot of contract terms…”

“We can talk about that later. Nothing’s been decided yet.”

That wrapped up the conversation with Kwon Chansle.

But Joo Sunghan was more complicated.

He explained in detail why he came to see me.

Joo Sunghan had been in the industry for a long time, and he was like an elder to most people in the field.

He even had his own one-man agency.

So his problem was that people around him stopped giving feedback.

“These days, everyone just tells me to choose.”

Joo Sunghan knew he was terrible at selecting music.

When he was young, he did whatever the company CEO or producers told him to do, so it wasn’t an issue…

But now, he’s no longer in a position to be directed by someone, and that’s when his career tanked.

Then he met Goo Taehwan—and lost.

At first, he was frustrated and sad, but then he got curious.

He felt a refined sensibility in Goo Taehwan’s singing and arrangement.

And through conversations with Goo Taehwan, he learned that all of it was thanks to my producing.

That’s why he came to see me.

“It’s embarrassing to say this to a junior, but I’m desperate. I feel like I’ll be forgotten in a few more years.”

“Just curious—did you try asking others for advice before coming to me?”

“I did. I asked young session players what sounded best to them, and even commissioned some hit-producing younger producers.”

“And?”

“None of the songs made it to release.”

“Why not?”

“My wife jokes that it’s the curse of knowledge.”

“Curse of knowledge?”

As I listened, it made sense.

Joo Sunghan had tried to overcome his poor song-selection ability by studying.

He studied music intensely, digging deep into the theory.

That led him to teaching, too.

For reference, he’s not a typical adjunct instructor—he’s a full professor.

But the problem is that it didn’t help him improve his listening talent.

All it did was raise his awareness of musical standards.

“When I hear a song, I don’t just sense if it’s good or bad—I first notice the technical level. And if it’s lacking, I can’t get into it.”

I get it.

I went through that phase too.

When you bury yourself in musical knowledge, there comes a point when knowledge overrides taste.

Before you can judge whether a melody is good or not, you’re already analyzing the harmony.

It happens when your knowledge is still half-baked.

But when you truly master it, you understand why “low-level but catchy” songs sound good.

Getting there is tough.

I only made it after repeating life countless times—and more precisely, after diving into classical music.

The way the world’s top musicians think is very different from ordinary people.

If I hadn’t learned from them, I might’ve remained stuck at that halfway stage.

“But your music is different. There’s never a moment where I don’t understand why it sounds good. More like—it’s obvious this is supposed to be good.”

Then I might really be the best producer for him.

I have vastly more knowledge and experience than he does.

“So what exactly do you want from me? A full album? Just the title track?”

“Either is fine. I just want to work on something where you hold the reins. But I’m curious about one thing too.”

“Go ahead.”

“Can I hear an unreleased song?”

I wasn’t offended.

It’s a reasonable suspicion.

If I saw a kid spitting out songs of that quality, I’d be suspicious too.

Whether he’s a regressor or not.

Instead of playing him an unreleased track, I took Joo Sunghan to the studio.

We had a brief conversation, and I made two songs.

Didn’t take long—about four hours?

To me, they were B+ level songs.

I wouldn’t use them myself.

But Joo Sunghan carefully packed them up and took them with him.

After wrapping up the meetings with Joo Sunghan and Kwon Chansle, I did some thinking.

I also reviewed various variety show proposals that had come into the company.

While monitoring the comments from Masked Singer, I realized something: Sedalbaekil is still trapped in a certain prejudice.

I believe that, as of now, I’m the best musician on this planet.

There are people who play guitar better than me, and people who sing better.

But if you combine all musical abilities and total them up, I’m number one.

No question about it.

An absurdly long time proves it.

But people still don’t see my skills for what they are.

Sure, many praise me—but only like I’m the top idol.

Same for Sedalbaekil.

They’re no longer those awkward singers who used to make me sigh.

When Sedalbaekil members are speculated as the identity of The Real Original, the netizens always say no way—and that bothers me.

Lastly…

I think it’s time we dropped a teaser for the fans who’ve been waiting endlessly for us.

No—actually, we’re late.

After releasing our 2nd album and with Choi Jaesung’s injury, we haven’t been active much.

Taking all that into account, I called PD Kang Seokwoo.

-Hey, Sion.

“PD-nim, would you be interested in producing a variety show?”

-What kind of show?

“Sedalbaekil’s Music Classroom.”