The Reincarnated Idol Hard Carries an Indie Band - Chapter 7

Chapter 7: My tears cut off the song before it could properly end.

Reincarnated Idol Carries the Indie Band: Episode 7

Reincarnated Idol Carries the Indie Band

Episode 7

My tears cut off the song before it could properly end.

Still, we showed them everything we had, so it’s fine…

…Bullshit.

Damn it, I’m so embarrassed.

Why did I cry?

I was so deeply immersed in the performance that I couldn’t even recall exactly what I was thinking.

But one thing was certain: my thoughts were in the past,

…which was now becoming the present.

“Hey, Seoha, are you okay?”

Lee Doyoung looked a little surprised by my tears and offered words of comfort.

What a joke.

He doesn’t even know why I cried.

“Damn, if I sang as well as Cha Seoha, I’d probably cry in front of the mirror too.”

Heo Junseong nodded in agreement.

It sounds like a joke, but he probably means it.

What a bigger joke.

“Do you often cry on stage?”

Kim Jihu asked with concern, but I knew it wasn’t really about me. He was worried I’d ruin the stage if I cried too often.

What a ridiculous guy.

Anyway, I needed to get out of this situation quickly.

“I’m not crying. I’ll never cry again. A man cries three times in his life, and today is the third time.”

“…Are you a little crazy?”

“Enough about that. How was the song?”

“I want to join the band. I want to add my performance to your songs.”

Kim Jihu said, looking me straight in the eye, without a hint of hesitation.

As expected of Kim Jihu, who could be utterly honest when he wanted to be.

“Me too, me too, I thought of that.”

“Uh, um, I did too, a little?”

Lee Doyoung and Heo Junseong chimed in, not wanting to be left out.

My heart felt lighter.

We really are destined to make music together.

After that day, we equipped the school practice room with the instruments we each needed and began practicing in earnest.

The first thing we needed to do was assess each other’s skills.

“Who goes first?”

“The youngest should go first.”

“The youngest?”

“Hey, Confucianism is strict. The one who joined last is the youngest, right?”

Heo Junseong’s argument led to a heated debate with Kim Jihu, who insisted on ranking us by our mock exam scores.

For the record, I was on Heo Junseong’s side. If we ranked by scores, I’d be the youngest.

To my astonishment, Lee Doyoung sided with Kim Jihu.

Damn it, smart kids just lack empathy.

Couldn’t he at least empathize with my scores?

After a long argument, Heo Junseong, as the “senior,” decided to take the initiative and picked up his guitar.

“Watch closely.”

He gave me a particularly intense look as he said this, then began tuning his guitar.

Huh, this tone…?

That was the guitar tone of “Helsinki Child.”

The exact same song he’d performed as a demonstration during the “Resonance of Strings” event last time.

Of course, many songs share that guitar tone, but Heo Junseong’s expression clearly indicated he was about to play that specific song.

As expected, the familiar guitar riff that emerged was “Helsinki Child.”

I’d thought he’d choose something more flashy and stimulating, so this was a surprise.

This kid was trying to show me not his current skill level, but the extent of his short-term growth—the sheer amount of effort he’d put in.

Only a few days had passed, but he was definitely better than last time.

His movements were more relaxed, and instead of playing from memory, he seemed to be letting his entire body surrender to the rhythm.

Yeah, this is what a real performance looks like.

I’d hoped for a more technical performance, but this wasn’t bad either.

I could imagine how hard Heo Junseong must have practiced, gritting his teeth for days, and I felt a strange sense of pride.

“Alright, better than before.”

“That’s it?”

“What else? Should I pat your butt or something?”

“…Will you?”

“…Get lost.”

“Just kidding, don’t get so serious.”

As expected, Heo Junseong had a great personality.

He felt like the aggressive, hot-headed protagonist of a shonen manga.

While band harmony is crucial, the guitarist should be allowed to stand out a bit.

His only real flaw was his tendency to get easily excited.

I’d have to work on that slowly.

We had no intention of remaining just a neighborhood band.

After that, I turned my attention to Lee Doyoung.

“Doyoung, you should show us your performance too.”

“Yeah, but I’m nowhere near as good as you guys.”

“What matters now is potential, not current skill. Look at Heo Junseong—he was a mess just a few days ago.”

“Hey, it wasn’t that bad.”

Heo Junseong retorted, but Lee Doyoung nodded, seeming to regain a bit of confidence.

“Then I’ll give it a try.”

Lee Doyoung chose Mice’s for his song. It wasn’t a surprising choice.

Among bassists, there was probably no one who hadn’t tried playing this song.

The bass intro to this song consists of 16th notes mixed with open strings, making it tricky to synchronize your left and right hands.

As a result, Lee Doyoung had to painstakingly grind through the performance.

Though he couldn’t match the original song’s speed, Lee Doyoung focused on every note, striving for accuracy. His meticulous performance concluded quickly.

“Hmm, a bit disappointing, Doyoung. You need more practice,” Heo Junseong commented, his assessment being “disappointing.”

“No, I don’t think it’s disappointing,” Kim Jihu countered, seemingly pleased with Doyoung’s performance.

And what about me?

“Absolutely brilliant.”

That’s Doyoung for you.

“Really? The tempo’s a bit lacking,” Heo Junseong argued. His point wasn’t wrong; in an ensemble, maintaining the right tempo is crucial.

But Doyoung was still an incomplete member. A musician who prioritizes fundamentals over speed is far more promising than one who sacrifices detail for pace. And once they reach a certain point, they grow at a terrifying rate.

Heo Junseong evaluated Lee Doyoung based on his current performance, but Kim Jihu and I saw his potential.

“Playing with such delicate precision will pay off in the long run. Heo Junseong, didn’t you practice like this when you were younger?”

“Hmm, now that I think about it, you’re right.”

“Anyway, you did great, Lee Doyoung. I’m really looking forward to what you’ll do next.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Lee Doyoung scratched his head, seeming disappointed with himself, but that was just how he was now. He was an artist I genuinely looked forward to seeing grow.

Ah, but we can’t just end with praise.

“But Doyoung, there’s a serious issue.”

“Huh? What is it?”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Huh?”

“Your height and weight.”

“I’m 174 cm tall… and 69 kg.”

“To be perfect, you need to get down to 64 kg. And your body fat percentage needs to be below 15%. That means reducing fat while increasing muscle mass.”

“…Does that really matter?”

“It’s crucial.”

“Why?”

“The first hurdle to becoming an awesome bassist is getting your body fat percentage below 15%.”

“……?”

Kim Jihu chimed in. “You lost your sanity in exchange for your singing skills, didn’t you?”

“I won’t respond to baseless tabloid rumors and negative attacks.”

“……?”

“Alright, next. Kim Jihu, it’s your turn.”

The gazes of the three of us, including mine, turned to Kim Jihu.

“What should I show you? Guitar? Keyboard?”

“How about the keyboard?”

Kim Jihu would later become our band’s keyboardist, but he was skilled at multiple instruments, making him highly versatile. Since the keyboard was his main instrument, we needed to assess his skills now.

Kim Jihu stepped up to the synthesizer. He casually pressed the keys, experimenting with sounds, and when he found something he liked, he relaxed his fingers.

Soon, a performance began—an unidentifiable piece of music.

Kim Jihu began improvising on the synthesizer, weaving through mysterious chords as if exploring uncharted territory. He then began to unravel these chord clusters, setting them in motion.

A cascade of arpeggios and tensions instantly filled the practice room, adorning the space with their intricate patterns. Soon, Kim Jihu began to organize the progression, seamlessly transitioning into a song we all knew well:

The End of the Death by Something Doomed.

It was an extraordinary performance.

This song, often called the textbook of melodic speed metal, is not something an average musician could play.

What followed was the pinnacle of technical brilliance.

Kim Jihu even played the subsequent guitar solo part on the synthesizer.

“Wow, he’s amazing…”

Lee Doyoung covered his mouth with both hands, utterly captivated by the performance.

Heo Junseong, however, knowing Kim Jihu’s skills well, simply nodded in approval.

As expected, he’s still got it.

“Is this good enough?”

“Yeah, I saw it. That was a flawless performance.”

There was nothing to critique about Kim Jihu’s performance itself.

I expected we’d have trouble harmonizing because of their strong independent and cool-headed natures.

We’d figure that out during the ensemble practice.

With our four distinct personalities now clearly defined, we gathered in a circle in the middle of the studio.

“Now that we’ve assessed each other’s skills, we have something to do.”

“What is it?”

“A performance.”

“Huh?”

“I’m the kind of person who can’t give my all without a goal. Let’s have a performance exactly ten days from now, on Saturday.”

“Where?”

“Busking at Banwol Park.”

“What’s the goal?”

“What’s the target?”

I chuckled at Lee Doyoung’s and Kim Jihu’s questions.

These bookworms might lack empathy, but they sure know how to achieve their goals.

“Social media.”

“Huh? You mean film a video and upload it to social media?”

“No, the goal is to get someone to see our performance and mention it on social media.”

“Uh…”

“It’s okay, but it’s pretty difficult, isn’t it?”

It was likely to be a challenging goal.

Seeing street buskers is common.

But for a busking performance to stick with someone and make them mention it on their social media is never easy.

“What do you think?”

“I like it.”

“It sounds fun.”

“I think we can do it.”

Satisfied answers poured out, and I opened my mouth.

“Let’s each bring a list of two or three songs we want to perform. We’ve seen each other’s skills, so we have a sense of what kind of variations we can do, right?”

Everyone nodded.

Mandela Effect’s “Fireman.”
SUN’s “Clime On.”
Mice’s “London Syndrome.”

There were a few other songs, but these three were the ones we ultimately chose.

“Fireman” was Heo Junseong’s selection, “Clime On” was Lee Doyoung’s, and “London Syndrome” was Kim Jihu’s.

To be honest, this was no easy challenge for us, a newly formed band.

Ensemble isn’t just about everyone following the sheet music well.

That’s the absolute basic, the kind of thing you’d call a “performance” rather than an “ensemble.”

Ensemble is about creating a new world.

If you give 100 musicians the cliché phrase “warm melody,” you’ll get 100 different interpretations.

Some might call the intense heat that warms the body “warm,” while others might embrace the lukewarm feeling amidst the coolness as “warm.”

Bridging the gap between these interpretations and perceptions, and building one grand house.

The sound born from vibrations.

The rhythm that takes shape as time accumulates.

A piece completed by adding space.

The sublime act of creating a world through music that arises from these elements.

That was the essence of an ensemble.

In that sense, this selection of pieces offered some quite interesting points.

First, each piece brought by a member clearly reflected their owner’s taste.

Yet, it contained elements that proved challenging for the other members to master.

“Clime On” was technically within Heo Junseong’s skill level, but it was a challenging piece to express. Heo Junseong, the unpolished, fiery guy, tended to go wild when he played, and this song required him to completely abandon that tendency to truly capture its essence.

Lee Doyoung was a bassist who strictly preferred to play a supporting role, but “Fireman” demanded that all instruments take bold stances.

So far, so good.

If we just closed our eyes and practiced, we could probably manage it.

The problem was “London Syndrome.”

“Can we really pull this off?”

“I think it’ll be fun, but will it be too difficult?”

This was a song that only truly came alive when played with absolute perfection.

Should I call it a typical Kim Jihu choice?

As an amateur band, we were bound to make mistakes.

Would Kim Jihu, upon seeing Heo Junseong and Lee Doyoung’s errors, shout “Wrong!” and charge ahead alone?

Or would we create something imperfect together?

I wasn’t sure.

It was something I had to watch and see.

A mix of anticipation and worry made me curious.

Anyway, in that sense, I chose a song the members brought, but something felt off.

“Why are you following me so readily?”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re just going along with my choice without complaint.”

“So what? I wanted to play that song too.”

Ignoring Heo Junseong’s grumbling, I looked at Lee Doyoung, but surprisingly, the answer came from Kim Jihu.