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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Monthly Evaluation (3)
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UA’s monthly evaluations proceed in order of who scored highest in the previous one.
Since I had no evaluation record, I was assigned the very last spot.
It was my first time participating, but I knew who had placed first in the last monthly evaluation.
“Alright, shall we start with Juwoo?”
It was Park Juwoo, Spark’s future main vocalist.
From his debut, Park Juwoo had a rather peculiar persona.
≫ He can sing, he can dance, he has a kind face, and a great personality. Seriously, what can’t this man do?
└ If you dropped him in the middle of the COEX Starfield Library, he probably couldn’t find his way home.
└ Isn’t that a bit harsh on our sweet dummy?ㅠㅠ
└ Why don’t you try saying that after you take your hand off your mouth?
└ (Smile)
The atmosphere he created, with his cool energy and languid impression, was something rarely seen in a nineteen-year-old boy.
Among the stubborn members of Spark, who had to say what was on their minds even if it killed them, Park Juwoo’s position was to watch over them with an impassive expression.
In the idol world, no matter how diligently you reacted, you were bound to get flak if you came across as passive.
For the first year after their debut, it seemed Park Juwoo wouldn't be able to escape this controversy either.
That is, if his singing had only been mediocre.
*It was a night when everyone brought out the liquor they’d been saving…*
Park Juwoo began to sing along to a famous band song that any student who had ever picked up a band instrument would have inevitably heard.
Even amidst the powerful band sound, Park Juwoo’s voice shone.
What’s so special about technique? Not missing a single note—*that* is technique.
For reference, his English pronunciation was also perfect. This was, after all, his favorite song.
He was astounding even during practice, but Park Juwoo’s song, delivered with his full effort, was nothing short of breathtaking.
As Park Juwoo finished his song cleanly and bowed, the instructors lavished him with praise. The face of the CEO, sitting in the center, was also filled with satisfaction.
Of course. If I were his mentor, my tears would have already soaked through three squares of tissue.
“Juwoo, you’re truly exceptional. I think you’ve improved even more than last time. You feel it too, right?”
“…Thank you.”
“He has a talent for picking songs that suit his vocal color. Song selection is a skill in itself, and he has a natural sense for it.”
The evaluation of Park Juwoo continued in this vein, a stream of compliments.
But the ending wasn’t quite as warm.
“However, from now on, I’d like you to practice more conceptual songs. Like we talked about last time. Got it?”
“…Yes.”
“Good work. Next is Jeho, right?”
A hint of bitterness crossed Park Juwoo’s face as he switched places with Choi Jeho.
‘A matter of taste, I suppose.’
Park Juwoo, who looked like a ball of cotton, had a taste in music that was quite different from his appearance.
That kid was a die-hard rock band fan with a rock-and-roll soul.
However, the only time Park Juwoo was seen performing rock music during his career was in cover content. And that was only after Spark was in their second year.
The reason he had set aside the rock music he loved so dearly for a time was revealed during a live broadcast one day.
‘Juwoo, please cover a RoseD song…? I like RoseD too, but I’d have to practice to cover them. I can’t seem to get that old feel anymore… I think it’s because I changed my singing style.’
Park Juwoo concluded the story by saying he would practice hard.
And sure enough, a few months later, he uploaded a video of himself covering that band’s masterpiece.
But the day never came when Park Juwoo sang the songs he loved on stage or in front of people.
Considering the myriad of concepts Spark had taken on in the past, the reason was not hard to guess.
‘It didn’t fit the idol image that UA was pursuing.’
Unlike when he was preparing to be a solo artist, Park Juwoo’s choice of songs would have been far more restricted once he shifted his path to that of an idol trainee.
Moreover, Park Juwoo was the member who could hit the highest notes in the team. The company would surely not have easily permitted him to sing things like rock music, which was extremely taxing on the vocal cords.
I glanced at Park Juwoo, who was sitting next to me with a face as wilted as blanched spinach.
Even to me, who had strained to hear his faint voice and painstakingly written subtitles for fan videos, his expression looked a little pitiful.
While Choi Jeho prepared his music file, I spoke quietly enough for only Park Juwoo to hear.
“I like that song too.”
“…?”
“You sang it really well. I enjoyed listening.”
Park Juwoo, who had looked utterly bewildered, suddenly had a spark in his eyes at my words. Though, that was only by the standard of his usual dim gaze.
‘Hasn’t he heard that he’s a good singer a million times?’
Mulling over his unexpected reaction, I soon found the answer.
Among the Spark members, none of them shared Park Juwoo’s taste in music.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that it must be quite lonely to have a job singing every day, yet have no colleagues who share your taste.
The performances that followed from Choi Jeho, Jeong Seongbin, and Lee Cheonghyun were all excellent.
In a way, UA was incredible for having delayed the debut of members of this caliber for another two years.
“Next, Giyeon.”
When Kang Giyeon’s name was called, Lee Cheonghyun mouthed “Fighting!”
Out of loyalty to my student, I also gave him a small, encouraging fist pump.
“Hoo.”
Kang Giyeon took a small, deep breath.
In short, Kang Giyeon’s performance was good.
However, it fell far short of what he had shown in the practice room. And that was even considering that he couldn't show off his specialty, dancing, because he had to rest for a few days due to an ankle injury.
If a non-expert like me could tell, it must have been even more obvious to the professionals.
And it seemed Kang Giyeon himself knew that fact better than anyone.
“Giyeon.”
“Yes.”
“We all know what you’re good at.”
Kang Giyeon’s shoulders flinched slightly. He probably anticipated what was coming next.
“But you have to do well during the test for it to be considered your real skill.”
It wasn’t wrong, which made the feedback hit Kang Giyeon even harder. It was also the kind of comment that would stick most deeply in the mind of a perfectionist like him.
“You can relax. There are very few guys your age who can sing while dancing as well as you do.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Good work. Let’s do even better next time.”
I could see every warm word being etched into Kang Giyeon’s bones.
Lee Cheonghyun earnestly ruffled the hair of Kang Giyeon, who sat down with a stiffly frozen expression.
As far as I knew, Kang Giyeon’s habit of getting nervous in important situations was set to last for quite a while. After all, a ‘What’s in My Bag’ video of his had revealed four different kinds of herbal calming pills.
But this was no time to be worrying about Kang Giyeon.
“Now, Iwol, shall we see what you’ve prepared?”
I had my own skin to save.
If I didn’t want to be fired from UA today, I was the one who needed to get my act together.
“This is your first evaluation. Was it difficult to prepare?”
Perhaps in consideration of me being a new hire, there was a bit of ice-breaking, unlike with the other members.
It had been a while since I was on the receiving end of such consideration, rather than being the one trying to ease the tension.
“Everyone helped me out a lot. Thanks to them, I’ve gained a little confidence.”
“You don’t seem to be trembling for someone with only a little confidence.”
“I’m very nervous on the inside.”
The instructors laughed, perhaps taking my words as a joke.
I’m being serious here. If I get fired, I’ve resolved to wander every major intersection in the country and sleep on the streets until my sister shows up.
I had prepared as much as I could. All I had to do was show what I’d built up so far. That would be me doing my best.
And until now, I had never made a mistake in a situation like this. Because I worked hard precisely to avoid making mistakes.
“I’ve prepared ‘Sitting by the Window’.”
The three instructors sitting in a row before me looked surprised. Only the CEO seemed to recognize the song with a pleased expression.
It was understandable. “Sitting by the Window” was a ballad with some years on it, so it wasn’t a song many people my age listened to.
The prospective Spark members, with the exception of Jeong Seongbin, also looked like they were hearing it for the first time.
“Having a wide spectrum is a good thing. Let’s hear the song.”
At a signal from Oh Eun, the vocal instructor, the instrumental track began to play.
As the lyrical music flowed out, I steadied my breathing and focused on the song.
*I thought for a long, long time.*
“Sitting by the Window,” sung by a male artist in his late thirties, was a song about the poignant regret for time one has unknowingly let slip away.
Thanks to the gentle progression typical of a ballad, singing this song required neither Korean-style high notes nor incredible vocal techniques.
It was a song that seemed to paint simplicity with notes, a song with a clear and structured progression.
To give the impression that I had sung a song like this ‘properly,’ my diction and vocalization had to be solid.
The very basics I had learned in vocal lessons over the past three weeks.
I was confident in my ability to thoroughly internalize what I’d learned.
Thanks to my sensitive ears, which could discern Department Head Nam’s condition just from the sound of his voice, I was able to hit each and every note as if squeezing them out, checking them against a keyboard in real-time as they left my mouth.
The same went for strategizing for the evaluation.
I had set grading criteria to death at Hanpyeong Industries. After three years as the HR team’s dog, you could recite performance review criteria in your sleep.
Applying this, it was also possible to reverse-engineer the algorithm they would use to set the evaluation criteria.
All I had to do was pull keywords from the assignments given in class, group them by category, and create a scorecard. It was a method I often used during exam periods in my school days.
I would bet my brick phone that the margin of error between my predicted scorecard and the actual one was less than 5%.
Once I had figured out the problem, I focused on tackling the items on the grading criteria. My strategy was to at least avoid deductions, even if I couldn’t get bonus points.
Of course, there were difficult parts. A prime example was the task of creating a calm emotional line that matched the sentimental lyrics.
Even without looking in a mirror, I could feel the dissonance that would arise between my lost hands, my barely-twenty-year-old appearance, and the song’s atmosphere.
So, after incorporating feedback, I dedicated the most time to understanding the song.
I deeply contemplated what it was that I truly regretted.
My most poignant regret in life was joining Hanpyeong Industries. But if I sang with that in mind, it would surely turn into a wail of social criticism and satire.
Instead, I recalled a time in the past when the open recruitment process I had spent two weeks of all-nighters and overtime perfecting was shot down by Department Head Nam with a single, “I don’t get it.”
The work hours I’d spent were all wasted, and related tasks remained like dregs.
The moment when, with the deadline looming, the progress on my work had reset to 0%.
*It’s disappearing, leaving me behind. Everything is—.*
I poured the raw feelings of a man on the verge of success, suddenly struck by a sense of futility and emptiness, into the song.
I confess. I almost cried while singing.
*—The wind is dying down.*
And so, the nearly four-minute song came to an end.
Without a single mistake.
