Little Pink Starfish

Live finals have long been a staple of audition programs, but that tradition was also born out of necessity.

If a final is pre-recorded, the winner gets leaked immediately after the shoot.

And nothing is more anticlimactic than watching a finale when you already know the result.

So the general format for audition shows is as follows:

Finish the semifinals as early as possible, then prepare for the finals.

If a normal stage takes about a week to prepare, the finals usually take two to three weeks.

That’s because live performances are difficult—there’s no editing magic to rely on.

But Show Me made an odd choice.

They prepared the semifinals almost like a live show.

It wasn’t completely live, but the broadcast aired just two days after filming the semifinals.

And the final stage would air only one week after that.

Of course, they didn’t just throw this together last minute—they had told each finalist in advance to prepare their final tracks ahead of time.

They also reassured the Top 4 contestants who would be eliminated that their songs would still be promoted by Channel Motion, so not to worry.

They even gave a generous amount of prep time between the Top 8 and Top 4.

“Is this really okay?”

“The finals have never been boring, no matter how they’re prepared…”

Naturally, there were murmurs among the production team.

Show Me Season 7 had broken all-time viewership records.

Of course, the producers wanted to end on a high note.

After all, this was going on their résumés.

So there were those who weren’t happy about rushing through the semifinals and finals like frying beans on a lightning bolt.

The low-level staff didn’t care much, of course.

But even from the staff, word got around about why PD Yoon Jeongseop made this choice.

“Apparently, it’s because Saoi’s going to take off the mask.”

The longer the gap between the semifinal filming and the actual broadcast, the more likely his identity would be leaked through the audience.

So PD Yoon wanted to minimize that gap.

“Wait, is he really that famous?”

“Maybe it’s the opposite? If he turns out to be a nobody, the tension will vanish. So they want to reveal it before that happens.”

“Ohh, good point.”

“What did writer Oh Sohee say?”

“She’s always whispering with the PD.”

“Was her shocked reaction on camera fake?”

“PD Yoon placed the cameras himself, but her actual reaction was real.”

“So he’s unmasking in the Top 4…”

“I’m curious now.”

The production team felt it was strange that even they didn’t know the contestant’s identity.

Usually, by this point in a show, someone would’ve figured it out through some channel.

Time passed, and finally the recording day for the semifinal arrived.

Audience members began entering the venue, and the stage was set.

For the broadcast, there’d be slick editing, pre-stage VCRs, and dramatic cuts.

But on-site? None of that.

Each of the four performances was spaced far apart, with long and boring waits in between.

Which meant the audience reactions were brutally honest.

I didn’t stand for hours just to see this crap.

Or:

Wow, this kind of stage is worth the wait.

Sure, the show would later splice in shots of the crowd cheering—but in reality, that was how things were.

And in that sense, the semifinal stage this time was legendary—in a good way.

“Whoa, what the hell.”

“So good.”

First to perform was Blus (formerly Bluescreen—he eventually changed that awful rap name), the star of a Cinderella story, and his performance was phenomenal.

Second was Breed, who proved exactly why he was called a top contender from the moment he joined.

Third was Saviour—whose presence on Show Me was still a mystery—and his performance was flawless.

Blus–Breed–Saviour.

Three performances that thoroughly satisfied the audience.

And then, finally—

“Oh, it’s starting.”

“It’s Saoi.”

Saoi stepped onto the stage.

---

To be honest, I don’t particularly love rap.

There’s no such thing as “low-level” music, but as a purist indie kid, rap often sounded like it lacked depth to me.

So I was pretty late to try it.

What round was it…?

At least past the 20th regression.

Probably even past the 30th.

It was after I’d already tried nearly everything I could in America.

I remember I had to choose between gospel or rap—and I picked rap.

But once I began living through a regression where I took rap seriously, I realized it was more fun than I expected.

Rap is the one musical form where you can be completely honest.

Ironically, that’s why it’s okay to lie.

You can scream at the top of your lungs that you’re the coolest person on the planet.

It’s a lie, but no one questions it.

So in rap, the boundary between truth and lies blurs—and what matters is how people interpret it.

If someone thinks, “Damn, he’s actually cool,” they accept the lie as truth.

If they think, “He’s cringey as hell,” they dismiss it as fake bravado.

So when I rap, I often speak “truth disguised as lies.”

I once rapped about meeting the Devil at the Crossroads, being stuck in an infinite regression, and begging people to buy my album so I could escape.

The song was called <The Devil Blues>.

Yeah, that’s right.

It was an homage to Robert Johnson, the father of rock, who introduced the world to the “Devil at the Crossroads.”

Every line I wrote in that song was the truth.

And it hit No. 1 on Billboard.

It felt like I had finally stepped into a bamboo forest where I could scream the truth.

I’d never been so honest with myself in music.

But people just took it as cool storytelling.

On Genius, the popular lyrics analysis site in the English-speaking world, they interpreted it as layered symbolism.

Tons of theories poured in.

<Zion deliberately references Robert Johnson’s song to depict the ‘Devil at the Crossroads’ seducing not just Johnson, but himself.

However, upon closer analysis, this song is written from the Devil’s point of view.

In other words, Zion is calling himself the Devil at the Crossroads. This metaphor…>

Some of the interpretations were so clever and perfect that even I was surprised.

People accepted those interpretations as canon, and the meaning of the song was cemented.

Isn’t that funny?

I didn’t write it with that meaning, but the meaning changed just because that’s how people saw it.

It’s the same with the life of a regressionist.

Ever since the infinite regressions began, I haven’t had a life of my own.

What mattered was how people perceived me.

That’s why I sometimes act like an edgy genius, and other times like a relaxed gentleman.

But lately… something feels off.

I used to only feel a sense of “realness” on stage.

Now, I feel it in other places too.

Impulse.

How others see me used to be the only thing that mattered.

Now, it’s different.

I want to express my impulses.

And so…

The performance began.

---

The bass is a sexy instrument.

It doesn’t reveal much of itself—but when it does, it’s irresistible.

Some musicians even open their songs with a bass-forward intro.

Saoi’s track tonight was one of those.

The screen for the live audience displayed the title: <Reality>.

A thick, groovy bass played in a smooth rhythm that made people’s shoulders bounce.

In the TV broadcast, they’d probably show Saoi playing the bass himself—but in the venue, the audience couldn’t see that.

Still, it didn’t matter.

They could imagine it.

After around 10 seconds of that sexy bass solo, people instinctively anticipated the drums.

This is the moment. The drums come in, the other instruments stack, Saoi’s voice kicks in—and it’ll be a perfect feast.

But Saoi didn’t do that.

When I was Zero

A voice dropped in with rhythm.

One of the judges, producer Kyo, once said what he liked about Saoi’s music was its clarity.

Most musicians just do what they want, or what they can.

But Saoi always has a clear intention.

You can feel the blueprint—the vision to entertain.

So what’s the vision of this song?

When I was Zero

He repeated the same phrase again.

But it wasn’t the same rhythm.

The pitch of the syllables was different. The spacing between words had changed.

It was almost… guitar-like.

When I was Zero

Again, different.

There were no sibilants in “When I was Zero,” yet somehow there was the feeling of one.

What kind of trick was this?

When I was Zero

Saoi said the same phrase four times over the bass line.

But each time, it felt different.

So the emotional color of the bass felt different too.

Only then did people begin to think about what the lyrics meant.

“When I was zero”?

What does zero mean?

Before birth?

A spiritual concept of emptiness?

But no.

The 0th regression.

Not that anyone would know that.

Eventually, as the timing and tempo settled, the phrase “When I was Zero” faded into the rhythm.

People who had been nodding along looked up at Saoi in curiosity.

And that’s when his rap pierced through their guard in perfect syncopation.

When I was Zero
When I was myself
When I commuted with a guitar
To a 2-pyeong practice room

At that moment, drums, piano, and guitar exploded over the bassline.

The soundscape unfolded in a flash, and people’s jaws dropped.

But something felt… off.

They’d never heard this composition before.

Yet it sounded familiar.

And once Saoi’s rap ended, the instruments vanished again.

Only the bass remained, gently plucking along.

When I was Zero
When music was fun
When I laughed like a fool
Over maze-like sheet music

Same pattern.

When Saoi’s voice came in, the instruments surged.

When his voice stopped, they disappeared.

When I was Zero
With my first concert pay
I bought 600g of beef
For the family table—well done

And then it hit the audience.

The drum, piano, and guitar loops were the exact same sounds from the intro.

The one where Saoi said “When I was Zero” four times.

What it meant, nobody could say for sure.

All music has intent, but most listeners never catch it.

What mattered was—it sounded good.

The harmony that bloomed when Saoi rapped.

The lone bass when the rap paused.

The looping melody, reinterpreted freely through Saoi’s rap.

And lyrics so vivid, you could see them.

All of it pulled the audience in like a vortex.

A simple stage, with just a spotlight and a tall stand mic—like a standing-room concert.

Yet it felt alive.