The Reincarnated Idol Hard Carries an Indie Band - Chapter 15

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

The Former Idol, Now Carrying an Indie Band
Episode 15
Cha Seo-ha and Kang Min took their seats before the monitor to prepare for recording, while the three newcomers to the studio settled onto the sofa, staring blankly ahead.
Today’s work: instrumental recording for everything except drums.
If time allowed, Cha Seo-ha wanted to recut the vocals as well.
“Alright, Heo Jun-seong first. Into the booth.”
“Hey, why is it always me first?”
“You’ve always stepped up before, haven’t you? Don’t you want to go first?”
Heo Jun-seong glanced back and forth between Lee Do-yeong and Kim Ji-hu.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, even by his own reckoning, it felt right that he should be the one to go first.
“Ah… fine, I’ll do it.”
“Good. Go on in, Jun-seong.”
Heo Jun-seong shuffled into the booth, complaining under his breath.
“Thank goodness Jun-seong’s here. I’d be too nervous—I couldn’t handle going first.”
“You play fine, so why are you so scared?”
“I’m still not as good as you guys.”
“You’ll be the best eventually.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Looks like he’s about to start.”
While Kim Ji-hu and Lee Do-yeong chatted, Cha Seo-ha hit the record button.
Heo Jun-seong nodded along, reading the tempo, and launched into his performance at precisely the right moment.
“Whoa, what the—”
“That’s pretty good.”
“Right? Why is it so good?”
Lee Do-yeong and Kim Ji-hu were visibly startled by Heo Jun-seong’s unexpectedly brilliant performance.
Cha Seo-ha had expected his friends to make mistakes during this recording.
“Okay. Nice work, Jun-seong.”
“This is a breeze. Next!”
Heo Jun-seong pulled off the next section flawlessly as well.
He stumbled a couple of times, but those were the kind of minor mistakes anyone would make.
“Good. Moving on to the solo section.”
“Got it.”
Cha Seo-ha watched Heo Jun-seong execute the recording brilliantly and felt a kind of awe.
No—more like fear.
When he’d first gone to Hyun’s Echo, Heo Jun-seong’s level was somewhere in the school band range.
Sure, an advanced school band, but the idea of competing against professionals simply didn’t apply.
Yet just days later, when they’d all gathered to show what they could do, he’d grown noticeably.
And again at the Banwol Park busking, and again now during this recording.
Heo Jun-seong was improving at an alarming rate.
Growing steadily closer to the Heo Jun-seong that Cha Seo-ha remembered.
‘Why is that?’
In his former life, Heo Jun-seong had always been the intuitive type—someone who didn’t grow much unless he hit a wall.
But now he was advancing at a terrifying pace without facing any apparent obstacle.
‘Could regular performances be helping?’
In his previous life, Oktatop had lacked the drive they had now.
Since they were friends on equal footing, there’d been no leader to push them forward with a vision.
That’s what Cha Seo-ha believed, but he was only half right.
Regular performances and intensive training that transcended the school-band level—though Cha Seo-ha wouldn’t frame it that way—were indeed helping.
But contrary to Cha Seo-ha’s understanding, Heo Jun-seong was constantly bumping against a wall.
The wall of “Cha Seo-ha.”
Watching Cha Seo-ha play, he couldn’t help but think he’d fall behind if he stood still.
Unaware of any of this, Cha Seo-ha simply nodded with satisfaction.
After minor corrections, Heo Jun-seong wrapped up his recording.
“Good work. Sounds great with the rest of it.”
“Yeah!”
Heo Jun-seong emerged from the booth and faced the others.
His expression said, ‘That was nothing,’ with an irritating smirk plastered across his face.
“Annoying.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk to a friend.”
“Seriously so annoying.”
“…Yeah.”
Surprisingly unbothered by the ribbing, Heo Jun-seong’s recording session ended, and now it was Lee Do-yeong’s turn.
“Do-yeong, let’s record.”
“Okay.”
Lee Do-yeong entered the booth, his voice trembling.
“Why is he so cute?”
“Oh, so you’re that type, Kim Ji-hu?”
“…You’re actually asking to die, you know that?”
“Eheheheheh.”
“I’m not speaking figuratively.”
“…!?”
Kim Ji-hu fixed Heo Jun-seong with a gaze cold enough to freeze him, then turned his attention back to the front.
“Do-yeong, you ready?”
“Yeah!”
“Good. We’ll start recording right away. Let’s try the intro first.”
“Got it.”
Lee Do-yeong was quite tense.
Cha Seo-ha hit the record button.
Before long, the moment for Lee Do-yeong to play arrived, but—
Lee Do-yeong missed his cue and couldn’t play.
“Ah! I’m sorry, Seo-ha. Let me try again.”
“It’s fine. Take your time.”
Once, twice.
By the tenth time Cha Seo-ha hit the record button, Lee Do-yeong called out to him.
“Seo-ha… I don’t think I can do this.”
“Is it hard?”
“Yeah. I thought I was playing it right, but my timing’s off and the feel isn’t there, and I don’t know why…”
It was only natural—playing suffered when the environment felt unfamiliar.
We’re not professionals.
And adapting to the environment before you start playing was a necessary step, which Lee Do-yeong hadn’t managed yet.
But it wasn’t impossible.
During those ten recording takes, I’d found a way forward.
“Do-yeong, when you record, you need to focus on your ears first—more than your hands.”
“My ears…”
“I’ll play the track. Listen carefully and just play casually.”
“Okay.”
I started the track, and Lee Do-yeong played the bass.
“Listen to the other instruments, not the bass.”
Lee Do-yeong leaned in, listening to the music and playing casually, almost like practicing.
“That’s how you need to hear the monitor. Usually, when people record for the first time, they focus only on their own playing and miss what they’re hearing.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was doing.”
“Now that you know that, you need to adapt to this environment.”
“The environment…”
The entire atmosphere of playing has to feel comfortable.
When I let go of tension and can even feel the air, that’s when my senses come alive.
And that’s how I can play while still listening well to the music with my ears.
Lee Do-yeong glanced around him for a moment.
I hadn’t meant it literally—just the physical space—but he seemed to be finding his own way.
“Try a more comfortable posture too.”
A little time passed, and Lee Do-yeong spoke up again.
“Seo-ha. Let me try once more.”
“Alright. This time, keep your eyes on me while we record, okay? I’ll direct you like a conductor.”
“Got it.”
“Here we go.”
I hit the record button again and this time stood up from my seat, my eyes fixed on the inside of the booth.
Holding Lee Do-yeong’s gaze.
The timing when the ascending slide was about to begin.
I clenched and unclenched my fist, drawing an upward curve with my right hand.
Then the intro, played long as quarter notes.
I bobbed my head to mark the rhythm.
And with my right hand, I traced out the rhythm of the bass Lee Do-yeong was supposed to play.
At the moments where he needed to rest, I clenched my fist tight, giving a clear signal to stop, and he understood and played accordingly.
“Okay! Good! Keep going!”
Since I hadn’t pressed the talkback button, Lee Do-yeong wouldn’t have heard my words.
But he must have known I was satisfied from my expression.
His face was lit up.
He’d definitely gained confidence in his playing.
He was listening carefully with his ears and playing it right.
A kid who’ll do well once you show him how.
Despite a few minor slip-ups, Lee Do-yeong produced a satisfying result.
“Okay. Do-yeong, that’s a wrap! You can come out now.”
The moment Lee Do-yeong heard the signal to stop, he practically burst out of the booth.
“Seo-ha!”
“What?”
“Recording is seriously so fun!”
“Haha! Really that fun?”
“Yeah! This is actually pretty fun!”
Seeing a beaming Lee Do-yeong, I felt a tangle of different emotions.
Pride and regret.
Those two seemed the strongest.
And here he is, having so much fun…
“Wow, never seen Do-yeong raise his voice like that before.”
“Right? Cute, huh.”
“Oh, so you’re that type, Kim Ji-hu?”
“Want to die?”
“Keheheheheh…”
“I said it’s not a figure of speech.”
“…”
“Alright, enough talking. Kim Ji-hu, your turn. We don’t have much time left.”
Kim Ji-hu had a much shorter section to record compared to the other members.
He only needed to record the piano for the real instrument part; everything else would be filled in with MIDI.
Modern virtual instruments are pretty solid quality these days.
“Sounds like a machine playing.”
“He’s always been like that since he was a kid.”
“Wow, Ji-hu’s really good.”
Kim Ji-hu played like a machine.
There wasn’t a single section where he made a mistake.
“One take and we’re done?”
“With him, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I need to get to that level faster.”
Heo Jun-seong, Kang Min, and Lee Do-yeong all thought Kim Ji-hu’s recording was flawless.
They thought it was probably time to start packing up to leave.
And so Kim Ji-hu finished playing his entire part.
“Kim Ji-hu.”
Cha Seo-ha’s voice turned cold.
“Huh?”
“If you’re going to play like that, there’s no point in recording.”
“…What?”
Kim Ji-hu looked genuinely taken aback.
He had no idea what could possibly be wrong.
The three people sitting on the sofa were equally shocked.
“Wasn’t it perfect?”
“Seo-ha’s voice is scary.”
“Hidoi na…”
“Kang Min, what did you just say?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Cha Seo-ha spoke again.
“This is no different from just programming MIDI.”
“What?”
“There’s a saying in the composition world: the third-rate musician can’t match MIDI, the second-rate matches MIDI, and the first-rate surpasses it. It’s a famous saying in the industry.”
Kim Ji-hu felt a sudden click of recognition.
His playing had been machinelike.
And as Cha Seo-ha said, that kind of flawless performance would be more efficient just run through MIDI without the effort.
Recording a player’s performance isn’t about delivering technically perfect notes.
“Express something only you can. Even if it’s rough. As you embrace that roughness and move forward, you’ll develop something of your own.”
“Rough is okay…”
Kim Ji-hu began tapping the keys absently.
“Rough is okay” obviously didn’t mean play badly.
Countless philharmonics perform the same Beethoven Ninth, yet each sounds different.
Where does that difference come from?
It might come from the performer’s rubato, the conductor’s interpretation, or even one instrument pushing forward.
But whatever it is, there’s a human element in it.
Not a performance without a single deviation, like a machine.
Kim Ji-hu fell into thought.
Piano competitions he’d entered as a child.
That moment where he had to show finesse and precision, while simultaneously capturing the raw energy of live performance.
Once, he’d found that exhausting.
‘That’s why I quit classical…’
Cha Seo-ha’s words brought childhood memories flooding back, and Kim Ji-hu arrived at that realization.
‘Maybe I should bring back some of that feeling from back then.’
Finding it oddly compelling, Kim Ji-hu decided to try again.
“Alright, let me go again.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Cha Seo-ha hit the record button.
Kim Ji-hu listened to the music coming through his headphones and let his imagination take flight.
He pictured himself playing rock music before an audience of renowned judges and elegant patrons.
Precision and finesse.
And at the same time, freedom.
It was an impossible scene, yet somehow it kept unfolding in his mind.
And he poured that scene into his fingertips as he struck the keys.
Brilliantly.
Sometimes with delicate touch.
With intensity or loneliness, longing for someone—in an emotion like that.
He wove countless feelings—all the infinite emotions he could access—into his playing, expressing himself.
“Wow… That’s it!”
“Whoa… Ji-hu, you’re really good.”
“Nothing fancy about the playing, but somehow it turned out amazing.”
The three sitting on the sofa reacted with admiration.
Hearing that exchange, Cha Seo-ha felt a wave of gratitude.
For Kim Ji-hu, who’d taken the direction and run with it so well.
And for the other three, who could notice and appreciate that effort.
“Perfect! Kim Ji-hu, you nailed it.”
“Thanks.”
After Kim Ji-hu finished, the instrumental recording was complete.
* * *
“Boss…”
“Yeah, I see. Keep quiet.”
Jo Hyeon-seop and part-time employee Park Min-ji were monitoring Oktatop’s recording session.
Jo Hyeon-seop was hit with such severe cognitive dissonance that his mind was starting to go blank.

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————