Little Pink Starfish

The WWDC broadcast ended smoothly.

The online streaming platform hit the viewership numbers they had expected and earned the profits they had projected.

Of course, the company may have quietly hoped for a breakout success—but that didn’t happen.

The interesting thing was that just as many viewers were hardcore Apple fans as there were core fans of Sedalbaekil.

-The song was nice.

-Yeah, it had that signature Apple vibe.

-So is this gonna show up in the TV ads too?

-Dunno. Just because it was the WWDC theme song doesn’t mean it’ll be used in ads.

-Yeah, I think they decide based on the response? And this one’s doing well.

-(Overseas reactions)

-(Overseas reactions)

-Give us the link already; don’t just write “overseas reactions” in parentheses.

-lol these maniacs

In fact, the response overseas was even better.

Which led to some trickle-down effects.

Koreans, having watched Self Made, already knew Han Shion’s music would be featured at WWDC.

But international fans didn’t.

Casual buyers who liked <TFD> and hipsters who liked <STAGE> had no idea that the person behind both albums also made Apple’s music.

So their surprise came a little later—and it quickly turned into debate.

-Now that I’ve heard the new song, it’s obvious. Zion fits TFD-style music better.

-What are you talking about? It’s closer to QG’s STAGE style.

-Can we stop judging based on surface sound? Look at the essence inside.

–STAGE is the better album.

-Take a look at the Billboard album charts, maybe?

-It’s just a language difference. TFD was made in the native language of Billboard consumers. STAGE wasn’t.

To Korean fans, this culture might seem unfamiliar—but debate is a core part of English-speaking fandoms.

There’s a reason they say the most intense fans are Western fans.

In that sense, both The First Day and STAGE were albums that catered perfectly to them.

The First Day brought in countless Billboard legends, reinterpreted through Han Shion’s emotional lens.

The sound was reworked by HR Corporation into a classic “white culture” group sound—but the influence of those legends remained strong.

And Han Shion’s direction brought that influence into a cohesive album.

There was so much to say about it.

STAGE was no less ambitious.

It was created with a bold concept: combining three unit albums into one full-length album.

Cheap shock value is just gimmicky—but high-level boldness becomes avant-garde.

For U.S. hipsters, STAGE being in Korean was actually a plus. The fact that K-pop idols sang it? They loved that too.

In some ways, the fanbase for STAGE was even closer to being fans of Sedalbaekil itself.

The typical white-culture consumers who liked The First Day were less likely to enjoy Sedalbaekil’s third album.

What they admired wasn’t Sedalbaekil’s music—it was the essence of the legends and Han Shion’s skill in controlling it.

But STAGE fans? They’d definitely listen to Sedalbaekil’s third album when it came out.

Because they already liked the music that Sedalbaekil members created under QG’s direction.

But no matter what side you were on, both HR Corporation and Colors Media were seeing solid returns.

Andrew Bryant, who understood the whole situation, spoke.

“Isn’t it strange?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s 2018 right now… but it kind of feels like 1964.”

Anyone in the U.S. music industry knew the significance of the year 1964.

The British Invasion.

The year The Beatles entered the U.S. market.

And to be clear—the Beatles didn’t come to the U.S. to become famous.

They came because they were already too famous.

When they decided to fly to America, TV networks tracked the plane’s location live.

So when they landed at JFK Airport on February 7, 1964, 73 million people tuned in to watch their first show.

That was 60% of the U.S. population.

CBS even said that day marked the beginning of the latter half of the 20th century.

Of course, Andrew Bryant wasn’t trying to compare Sedalbaekil to The Beatles.

That kind of comparison was impossible—and the times didn’t match either.

But the vibe was similar.

“In some ways, Han Shion is pursuing music really purely.”

Han Shion acted like he was using “non-musical methods” aggressively.

And that wasn’t wrong.

He had used all sorts of tactics to defeat corrupt Korean CEOs and gain popularity.

But everyone does that.

Han Shion was just better at it—and he did it without any company backing.

So in Andrew Bryant’s eyes, Han Shion’s Sedalbaekil activities were pure.

He could’ve chosen to be the winner of the show—but picked the underdogs instead.

Then he went independent and made music, succeeding without any major promotion.

He filmed his own self-produced videos.

Then he made good music, got chosen by Colors Media, appeared on their color show, and dropped his first album.

The debut album was a smash hit, and he got picked up by HR Corporation.

The second album was also a hit, and again he was chosen by Colors Media.

And then Han Shion returned to Korea.

The reason—”a member was injured and sick”—sounded like an excuse to Andrew Bryant.

There were tons of bands with injured or unwell members.

Not just physical injuries—mental ones too.

Most groups just ditch the weak and race toward success.

But Han Shion didn’t do that.

He went back to Korea, and started making their music again.

To Andrew Bryant, it felt… strange.

Han Shion was obsessed with success and physical album sales.

But his top priority was pure music—and the people he made it with.

At first, Andrew thought Han Shion had some big commercial plan.

But after talking to him, he realized that wasn’t the case.

It’s just that…

‘He doesn’t realize it himself.’

Han Shion didn’t know yet.

He was a musician with an unusually strong defense mechanism—and it even applied to himself.

He didn’t seem to know what he was feeling.

Whether he was happy, or sad, or fulfilled.

So Andrew Bryant was curious.

What would happen when Han Shion finally understood his own emotions?

What kind of music would he create?

Most musicians burn their feelings and souls into their work.

But Han Shion created albums with nothing but talent—never touching his feelings or soul.

That probably wasn’t his best.

He could do more.

Maybe Sedalbaekil’s third album… would capture that.

That’s why Andrew Bryant was being generous—out of curiosity and anticipation.

In truth, Sedalbaekil had violated their promotional contract with HR Corporation.

Marketing only with the legends who participated in The First Day would’ve been more profitable.

Traditional mainstream consumers who worshipped classic sounds wouldn’t welcome Sedalbaekil’s appearance.

But that wasn’t enough reason to keep Sedalbaekil out of the U.S.

They could’ve just done promotions in Koreatown or Chinatown.

So this was kindness. It was an investment.

HR Corporation would be distributing the third album, after all.

By then, maybe people would start calling it the K-pop Invasion.

Thinking that, Andrew Bryant played the video Han Shion had sent.

He said he was filming a variety show—and asked if they were interested in investing.

Honestly, the concept didn’t impress him.

He didn’t see much appeal in Korean actors’ appearances or behavior.

“So… how famous are these people, if we consider all of Asia, not just Korea?”

A subordinate explained, and Andrew Bryant fell into thought.

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Show Me the Money Season 7 was a runaway train.

So much so that netizens were saying things like this:

-After screwing up Season 6, they probably signed a pledge: “If we mess up Season 7, we’ll return all the money we got.”

-lol the chaotic, over-the-top plotlines are so good, it’s addictive.

-lol if it weren’t for Saoi, Season 7 would’ve flopped.

The reason was simple.

You couldn’t predict a thing.

Usually, you can watch and guess: this guy survives, these two battle, that one gets eliminated.

Maybe one or two dark horses pop up unexpectedly—but overall, the trajectory is clear.

Not this time.

By Episode 7, the show was a total mess.

A strong favorite for the win got shockingly eliminated, and some unknown no-name rapper started killing it.

And the one who awakened that no-name was none other than Saoi.

The chaos began with the “rank matching.”

With 30 contestants left, it was time for team battles.

Rank 1 teamed with 30, Rank 2 with 29, Rank 3 with 28, and so on…

Teams were formed based on current rankings, and each pair performed together.

Saoi was ranked 4th.

Technically, there were four people tied for 1st, but debut order was used to break the tie, so Saoi ended up 4th.

That led to some new info about Saoi being revealed.

[What counts as a debut?]

[First royalty payment. But if it was under 1 million won, we don’t count it.]

They excluded payments under 1 million won because some underground artists got paid only in hundreds of won.

After all, anyone can release a digital single, but if just a few people listened, it couldn’t really count.

Saoi said their career was “under 5 years.”

People wanted more detail—but that was all they got.

The other 3 top-ranked contestants had careers over 5 years, so Saoi was placed 4th.

And Saoi’s partner? Rank 27: Bluescreen.

Bluescreen had appeared only once on screen—and even then, not positively.

A contestant once answered “Bluescreen” when asked who they wanted to face, and that brief clip was all there was.

The rap name was awful, they had no screen time, and left no impression.

Basically, they looked like a sacrificial lamb.

Out of the 15 teams formed by rank matching, the top 5 teams would have both members advance.

The bottom 10 teams would see one member eliminated.

In other words, 10 from the top 5 teams, and 10 more from the bottom 10 teams—making a Top 20.

That’s why viewers saw Bluescreen as the fall guy.

Even if Saoi bombed the stage, they’d still be better than Bluescreen.

-Doesn’t Saoi’s style seem ill-suited for team battles?

-Yeah, they’ve got a strong personal vibe. Not a bad thing, but definitely a solo type.

If Saoi had seen those comments, they probably would’ve laughed.

Because in 2017, the best-selling team was led by Saoi.

And so, the rank-matching team stage began…

And a legendary performance was born.