Chapter 791: Question (12)

There was definitely an auspicious air about Grandma’s house.

The last time I’d come with Ri Hyuk we wrote “Coin,” and this time, too, we’d inevitably managed to finish a new title track.

“Okay, the skeleton’s done.”

“.......”

“.......”

“Nice work, you guys......”

I looked up from the laptop to find my brothers all passed out.

I covered Jiho, who was sprawled on the living-room carpet drooling, with a blanket.

“Good job, our maknae.”

“Dog......”

“Dog?”

“I like dogs more......”

I laughed watching the maknae mumble in his sleep that he preferred dogs to cats and turned my gaze elsewhere.

Purrrr.

The cheese-colored fluff that had collapsed on top of Junhyun’s back expanded and contracted in a repeated rhythm.

Tongue out, eyes glazed.

Junhyun and I had been playing cat-fishing with a toy rod in the middle of the night, and apparently it had worn the cat out.

After checking the siblings around me, I returned my attention to the laptop.

[Insomnia]

It was the working title of the song.

The track was a bit of a hodgepodge, so I wasn’t sure how to classify the genre.

We’d drawn inspiration from early-2000s skater-boy music and pop-punk strains.

At first I thought about making it soft and soothing to send the Souffle a “sleep well~” message, but that felt too droopy and I crossed it off.

“Insomnia as a theme tends to go very literal.”

Just then Junhyun threw out an idea.

“Instead of just ‘I can’t sleep’ or ‘go to sleep,’ what if we take action? Like, defeat the things that keep us awake.”

“Defeat them. The Communist Party.”

“Ugh, really. Just go to sleep, King Jiho.”

It sounded fun, so I agreed.

Like, smash the things that keep me from sleeping! That’s the feeling we put into it.

Since it didn’t have lyrics yet, the title and final message weren’t fixed.

“Hmm...”

I tapped my fingers as I listened to the roughly sketched track.

Maybe because I was sleep-deprived.

The song wasn’t low quality for having been written through the night, but something felt off. I couldn’t pinpoint it — the track felt a little overdone in some way. It wasn’t the sort of song you’d immediately want to replay.

“.......”

I thought about making some edits, then glanced at the clock.

When you can’t find a solution after banging your head against a problem, it’s better to set it aside for a while.

Besides, my head was incredibly fuzzy.

“I’ll sleep a bit.”

An hour or two would clear my head.

I’d hit my daily quota of work for the day so I felt lighthearted.

Before long I drifted off comfortably.

“Hup.”

Wiping the drool at the corner of my mouth, I blinked awake.

Faces leaned in around me.

“You’re up?”

“Mm...”

But something felt wrong.

This wasn’t Grandma’s sofa where I’d lain down — it was a car seat.

Outside the window, a sign announced that Seoul was coming up; cars raced along the highway.

“Huh?”

Had I had a weird dream?

I checked my phone for the time.

[January 4, 2015]

“...huh?”

As I sat there, wide-eyed, Jiho nodded.

“That’s right, hyung. We’ve come to the past.”

“What?”

“We went back to the past. Right now we’re three years earlier when we were just starting to rise as a popular group... Aaaah!”

“Cut the crap.”

Seeing the managers in the front seats twitch around their mouths, I realized it was a joke.

While Biju burst out laughing, Jiho asked,

“But it was fun, right?”

“Not fun at all.”

How could I possibly do all the hard work again starting from three years ago? The thought made my head spin.

Even knowing it was a lie, there was a dizzying second.

Ri Hyuk snorted.

“You’ve got a naive streak. Even though it was obvious nonsense, he’d believe in stuff like supernatural powers and ghosts.”

Well, there are actually supernatural powers out there, so—

The maknae had reset the prank phone’s time to normal and recounted the chain of events.

“How’d this happen?”

“Junhyun dragged you into the car because you wouldn’t wake up. You were really knocked out.”

“Oh...”

“You didn’t wake up even when Nabi smacked your face.”

No wonder my face felt numb.

“Oh.”

A face came to mind.

“Grandma!”

I bolted upright at the thought I hadn’t hugged her goodbye.

Junhyun handed me a phone.

A video of our Kim Deoksun.

[It’s me.]

Grandma clicked her tongue.

[I told you all not to try to wake me, so don’t go harrassing the kids.]

I never said I would.

[And you need to sleep properly. If you keep running around without sleep, do you think that face will stay intact? It’ll go in a snap. Right now you strut around thinking, “Oh, I’m handsome, teehee,” but that won’t last forever...]

“Junhyun. Can we stop watching this now?”

“Grandma insisted we watch it through.”

For ten solid minutes she lectured — you could title it Everything That Happens When You Don’t Sleep.txt — and my ears rang from the scolding the moment I woke up.

When the video ended, Biju looked at me with worried eyes.

“Seriously, hyung. You have to listen to Grandma.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Why doesn’t your gastritis ever heal? You keep pushing yourself and that makes recovery hard.”

“You guys don’t sleep much either.”

“But not like you.”

Maybe so.

Since I’d slept like I’d been knocked out, my brothers’ words landed with weight.

I nodded to the worried faces.

“I’ll try starting today.”

“.......”

Biju signaled to Ri Hyuk.

A document slid out.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve watched hyung for over four years, so I know you.”

Our second smiled kindly.

“You always only say you’ll do things but don’t follow through.”

“Biju... you’re sharp.”

“So, for our sleep health I drafted a contract.”

A clause-filled page about not looking at phones after certain hours, with the four members’ signatures at the bottom, appeared.

Ri Hyuk handed me a stylus.

“Just sign at the bottom.”

“.......”

I read the sleep rules — infringing on liberties, unfair penalties — and with a tearful face took the pen.

“Is this really right?”

“It’s for your health.”

“Sigh...”

Under Biju’s coercive gaze I couldn’t refuse. I signed.

Thus the third Biju Accord was born.

The first week of 2018, which started with Monday as New Year’s Day, flew by.

While my brothers busied themselves with practice, I carried the song to the producing team.

“There’s a problem but I don’t know the solution.”

“Hmm.”

Team lead Na Sangyun and the other producers listened and agreed something was off.

“The chorus is good, but like Wooju said it feels a little over the top.”

“How should we change it?”

“If it feels excessive, try subtracting a bit.”

“Hmm...”

The problem was how to subtract.

I asked the producers for ideas.

“If anyone has a good suggestion, please tell me.”

“.......”

“.......”

Silence.

When I tilted my head, Team Lead Na said,

“Who’s our best composer in the company?”

“...Are you talking about me?”

“Yes.”

I wondered what that had to do with the song; the producers smiled warmly.

“You don’t know, so how would we? You always come to us when something’s stuck, we think hard, and then you somehow figure it out by yourself.”

“When did I...?”

“Falling Blossoms.”

“.......”

I remembered pouring my heart out to the producers when “Falling Blossoms” had problems.

“It wasn’t deliberate. Over time the solution popped into my head.”

“So wait it out this time too. The solution will appear again. Be patient.”

“All right.”

“So the album theme is insomnia, right?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to strictly limit songs to insomnia.”

On the office whiteboard they wrote words.

Sleep

Insomnia

Dream (not future plans)

They circled keywords and said,

“Gather songs around those three keywords. Pick ones that match the title mood.”

“Understood.”

“We’ll run blind tests, so submit anything you think is worth submitting.”

“Yes!”

That wrapped up the album prep for now.

After small talks with the TF team and the producing group, I also attended a press conference at the Korea Press Center as a host for my father’s concert.

Busy schedules from the start of the year.

And then —

“Finally......”

I crossed off dates on the calendar in the dorm and stared at 2018.1.6.

The first Saturday of the new year.

The day my father’s concert would be revealed at last.

Seoul Arts Center.

Huge trucks rolled into the parking lot of this country’s premier arts venue.

“Hurry, hurry, carry it!”

“Yes!”

PBS trucks unloaded cameras, audio gear, and other equipment to the staff.

‘The decisive day.’

PD Shin Murok, who was sighing and rubbing his hands, was the producer in charge of the special program “Sun Myeongju’s Last Performance.”

‘A truly important opportunity.’

Ever since Sun Wooju had said he wanted his father’s concert broadcast on public television, Shin had had his eye on it.

‘It could be a career-defining moment for me.’

A nationally anticipated event, practically on the scale of the Olympics — any PD would covet the chance to be involved.

Shin Murok approached those getting out of the cars.

“Please take care of things today, Mr. Kim.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.”

Shin shook hands with an older camera director and wore his usual awkward, burdened expression.

He’d brought senior camera directors to secure good camerawork and now felt the pressure.

He entered the Seoul Arts Center with the older staff.

Their destination was the 2,500-seat concert hall.

“Wow. It’s bigger than the photos.”

Because it’s a classical venue, it felt loftier than other halls.

Shin, who had done several site visits, looked around casually while the camera directors checked positions.

He peered down at the stage.

‘There are more stage set pieces than I thought.’

The setup differed from typical classical or jazz concerts.

A large screen hung at the back.

In fact, it was basically set up like a pop concert with extensive stage equipment.

The set design felt unique.

‘Like a jazz bar.’

It looked like a bar where a bartender might listen to people’s troubles.

Visually, everything had been carefully considered.

As Shin thought about checking the acoustics, he walked out onto the stage.

There he found the man he was looking for.

“Wooju!”

“PD! Good to see you.”

I greeted him warmly and also nodded to the Frenchman sipping an espresso and holding a fat macaron.

“A pleasure,” the world-renowned pianist Paul Laurent said.

Shin, trembling, shook his hand.

If you cared about classical music, your heart would race — but I treated him like the neighborhood uncle.

“Paul and I were discussing rehearsal order. How about starting from Part 3? What do you think, PD?”

“Starting from Part 3 is fine.”

I moved props slightly to tweak the acoustics.

“Can you shift it a bit that way? The sound...”

Shin watched me scan the stage, and Paul smiled.

“That kid is exactly like his father.”

Shin nodded.

‘He’s totally the spitting image.’

He’d scoured PBS archives for footage from thirty years ago to prepare for today. The old Sun Myeongju footage and the present Sun Wooju onstage overlapped.

I approached as I was meticulously checking the sound.

“Are you ready to start filming?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll say it’s time to start the rehearsal.”

Although the in-person audience would be about 2,500, the TV broadcast would reach tens or hundreds of thousands. Everyone deferred, but the person most in command was Sun Wooju.

Because it wasn’t just his father’s concert — he was also the most expert person here, having once drawn 60,000 spectators at Sangam Stadium over three days.

Everyone complied without complaint.

“Everyone, please get ready!”

Because the program included many pieces, Sun Myeongju’s concert was split into four parts with different players for each section.

The Part 3 performers finished tuning their instruments.

“Rehearsal will begin now.”

Shin checked the Part 3 cue sheet and stood with the camera directors.

Music began.

“Wow...”

“This sounds different from the tracks we were sent.”

“A genius is a genius.”

Everyone marveled at the jazz musicians’ playing of Sun Myeongju’s pieces.

Even Shin, who’d only listened to reference audio, felt it.

‘Jazz can be this fun.’

It was unlike the background music you might hear in a cafe.

It felt novel and joyful.

The more you listened the more you nodded along to the rhythm.

The set was arranged so that even people unfamiliar with jazz could enjoy the show.

“I’m a pop musician before I’m a pianist.”

“If a layperson can enjoy it, this stage is real.”

You could feel the philosophy the late master espoused in interviews.

stunning music.

entertaining staging.

VCRs with the original creator’s comments.

And musicians pouring themselves into the rehearsal with full force.

“Capture that performer’s expression there.”

“The trombone?”

“He looks so happy. Seeing that makes the audience feel good.”

Shin nodded as he watched the musicians’ faces enjoying what they always wanted to do.

Even at rehearsal, the atmosphere hinted at something big.

The word “hit” seemed to float through the air.

‘It’s not about ratings.’

PD Shin felt this concert would be one of the year’s biggest talking points.

Saturday afternoon.

—Sun Myeongju’s final performance, live on PBS1

—[Today’s TV News] PBS1 Sun Myeongju final concert 14:00

—“His Last Vow” His final ascension begins!

Online buzzed about the live broadcast of Sun Myeongju’s concert.

Crowds gathered in front of the Seoul Arts Center to see the 90s national star.

[His Last Vow | Sun Myeongju Final Concert]

2018-01-06 (Sat) 14:00

Seoul Arts Center Concert Hall

People holding tickets swallowed.

“I put my whole luck into this.”

“I should’ve put this on a lottery ticket...”

They said that, but their faces were all grins.

They’d been basking for over a week in the envy of their circles after winning tickets.

Even now messages nagged them to post reviews after the show.

“Unbelievable.”

And among the audience would be Sun Wooju, NewBlack, and other famous figures.

“They say so many famous musicians are playing. Camila Baker is supposed to be huge.”

“Everyone is a big name.”

Netizens had devoured articles titled “Things to Know Before You Go to Tonight’s Performance.”

“Can’t wait.”

Hearts thumped as lines stretched outside the Concert Hall.

Soon they began letting people in.

“Please enter!”

Audience members queued up, palpitating.

What wonders awaited them inside?

As they entered with excited minds recalling the documentary footage of Sun Myeongju’s performances,

“Huh?”

The moment the audience stepped into the concert hall and saw the scene unfolding inside, they widened their eyes.