Free Web NovelThe album’s B-side tracks progressed smoothly.
Truly, at a miraculous pace.
It moved so fast that I wondered if album production could really be this effortless.
“Wow.”
The maknae dropped his jaw.
“It’s my first time working on an album where nobody’s crying, nobody’s suffering, nobody’s cursing at each other.”
“Hold on.”
I paused.
“I feel like something strange slipped in there. Cursing? What do you mean?”
“Huh?”
“......”
“It wasn’t me! I think you misheard, hyung.”
I narrowed my eyes at the maknae’s awkward deflection. Yet, his words weren’t entirely false.
“It really is the easiest production I’ve ever done.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Maybe it’s because we’re working with you, Producer-nim.”
The gentleman with the intellectual air smiled. I found myself calling him “Producer-nim” instead of “sunbaenim,” almost unconsciously. I couldn’t help it—I was in awe.
“When I say something like, ‘Here it feels like deep blue is spreading, but I’d prefer it a bit more white,’ you instantly understand.”
“That means you don’t like the harmony.”
He suggested exactly the right alternative. It felt like discovering a new world.
Tears welled in my eyes before I realized it.
“Thank you so much for coming.”
“Uni?”
“I’m not crying. My heart is just so full.”
I was overjoyed, as if I’d found a musical soulmate. If I were to rate my fondness for the person before me, I’d go way off the scale.
Calming my fluttering heart, I said, “My theory is weak, so explaining things to others has always been so hard.”
“It must have been really hard. You’d talk about colors, and nobody would know what you meant.”
“......”
Starting with Ri-hyuk, my brothers mimicked my expression. Junghyun snapped his fingers sharply.
“Don’t you feel this rhythm is oddly off? Junghyun, stop eating jelly and focus. Hey, focus.”
“In any case, I don’t like it, so we’ll redo it. You guys don’t know why I dislike it?”
“What’s strange? Tell us precisely.”
At our almost theatrical bickering, Ha Seung-ju burst into laughter.
“Usually, groups say their composer’s the scariest person, and you guys are the same, huh?”
“Yes. We all live as Uju-hyung’s puppets.”
“Jiho, puppets?”
I couldn’t help a choked laugh at the absurdity. I raised my hand to stop my brothers from adding more. Ha Seung-ju nodded appreciatively.
“Oh, you really are puppets.”
He laughed cheerfully.
“Just kidding. I said that because your team atmosphere is so relaxed and good.”
“Thank goodness.”
“It’s been a while since I enjoyed an atmosphere like this.”
He seemed genuinely uplifted, as if recalling fond memories of past music activities. Then Viju smiled and said,
“It really is amazing. We’ve lived with Uju-hyung for two years and still don’t fully click on music.”
That was true—we’d adapted to each other’s tastes and styles, but perfect communication was rare.
“But Producer-nim works as if you’ve collaborated forever....”
“Oh, that.”
He scratched his chin with a smile.
“I did album work with Myeong-ju-hyung—Uju’s father—before.”
“Ah.”
“Even if it wasn’t official, they’d call me over, or I’d drop by his house... get phone calls at dawn... he’d say he’d buy me dinner, and it’d turn out to be a hotel restaurant with a piano....”
“Ah, ah...”
“But they were good memories.”
We blinked at his moist eyes. He smiled softly.
“Anyway, my working style was similar with Uju back then.”
“Amazing.”
I’d barely learned anything about music beyond dad playing children’s songs on the piano when I was very young. Yet our production styles matched—and it felt wondrous, as if music were a kind of inheritance.
Though curious, I realized there wasn’t time to delve further, so I refocused.
“All B-sides are done here.”
He swirled the mouse and opened the title-track folder.
“Now I’ll play the track we’ve prepared as the title song.”
“Here we go.”
“Ri-hyuk and I once made a song called ‘Night Sea.’”
“I’ve heard it. The melody was lovely.”
‘Night Sea’ was a duet based on the memory of falling asleep against my grandmother’s lap as a child, filled with gratitude and longing.
“This melody arose alongside ‘Night Sea’ but didn’t fit its theme, so we didn’t use it.”
Hovering over the file, I turned to Ri-hyuk. The main vocalist explained to Ha Seung-ju,
“Our album’s theme is ‘travel’—winter travel.”
We envisioned a snowy train journey. The title song would feel like visiting a small town where snow falls gently.
“Then the mood shifts to reminiscing about things lost or past—like a hometown submerged by a dam, or a vanished place of memories, or a moment in the past you yearn to return to but cannot.” fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
We aimed for a calm build into a chorus that bursts open like a festival. Ha Seung-ju nodded.
“I like the theme.”
“Actually, Ri-hyuk got choked up when he realized he was leaving his teens and jotted it down as an essay idea.”
“...We should’ve told Producer-nim the backstory.”
As Ri-hyuk pretended to stomp on the maknae’s leg, Ha Seung-ju chuckled and continued,
“Considering the B-sides too, the structure’s nice—starting quietly and ending like a celebration.”
“Yes. Like meeting companions on a journey, growing more cheerful...”
We planned the album to close with a Christmas-carol–style song, the most polished track alongside the title song.
“I’ll play it now.”
“Is the title ‘Piraruku Song’? Like an instrument name?”
“It’s a placeholder.”
Ri-hyuk blushed slightly as I played ‘Piraruku Song_ver 6.3-52.’
“...”
The producer closed his eyes, listening. The song began with piano, each note echoing like snow falling in the dark night sky.
Again and again,
It’s snow removal duty again,
my voice echoed like a distant memory.
I told Ha Seung-ju, whose eyes flickered,
“The lyrics are just placeholders to match syllables, so don’t mind them.”
“Right.”
He refocused. The lyrics reminisced about the winter day—a village blanketed in snow, streetlamps and home lights flickering on as evening fell. Footprints in the snow, soon buried, fading—mirrored by the melody’s hazy echoes. Then the chorus:
Calling your name—
Placing my hand on your shoulder, holding you close.
Ri-hyuk’s immense vocal power exploded with emotion. Though the lyrics were “il-il-il—il-il-il-il-il—,” their high, soft tones tickled our ears.
When the song ended, I asked, “What do you think?”
He didn’t answer—just tapped the table, feeling the rhythm. Finally, he spoke:
“...Nothing.”
“Pardon?”
“I was going to give feedback, but there’s nothing. It’s perfect.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Zero notes. If this is version 6.3-52, it must be which version? It’s flawless.”
“Actually, some bits are missing. This is almost the 200th version.”
He nodded.
“...It deserves to be perfect.”
Ha Seung-ju beamed.
“Except for a few minor points, it’s release-ready and pleasure to listen to.”
“Wow...”
“However, let’s rewrite the lyrics soon.”
He laughed, recalling our improvised lyrics on Music Café.
We agreed, smiling. He glanced at my brief notes on a few matters and said,
“One point to flag...”
His eyes gleamed behind his glasses.
“There’s a shaker sound that goes ‘chit-chit’ in the middle.”
“Yes.”
“It sounds off—like it’s hollow inside.”
We gulped.
“Wow...”
“Why?”
“No—you’re too precise.”
He pulled a shaker from the desk drawer: a PET bottle half-filled with rice. I explained,
“We added the shaker only in the latest draft, so it hasn’t been finalized yet.”
“I see.”
“As you can tell from the scant rice—”
He glanced at someone avoiding eye contact and said,
“Junghyun ate it.”
“We never expected him to eat raw rice.”
That explained the one flaw in the producer-praised perfect song. He laughed at our earnest explanation.
The album project officially launched and ran smoothly.
Both A&R and producing teams were astonished by the pace—and the quality. You could almost see the envy dripping from our staff’s eyes as they watched the producer.
But the producer built the overall structure; I handled the details.
“Aigo...”
I approached Baek Sang-gyo, whose eyes looked hollow from exhaustion in the studio chair.
“Sir, you must be tired. Let me massage your shoulders.”
“No need! What shoulders... Ah, bliss! Heaven!”
“Thanks to you, our album’s going to be a hit. I respect you.”
He chuckled, and every time a senior teacher joining to work on B-sides tired, I soothed them with massage skills. Many were older, but their passion for music was immense, and their experience proved invaluable. I marveled each time they pinpointed aspects I’d never considered.
“Sir, my mother sent apple juice.”
“Oh.”
“She peeled apples—would you like some?”
“Ooh...”
“I thought just fruit might be too much, so I got snacks—apple pie.”
“Cough!”
One teacher ate apples until he got sick and went home early, but otherwise, days were peaceful. All departments functioned in harmony, and projections suggested a release by late December or early January.
– TNT, NewBlack confirmed for Hong Kong... ‘2015 KMA’ first lineup announced
– 2015, rising sensation NewBlack—will they take KMA’s top prize?
– TNT, NYX, and other TJ artists to attend KMA... ‘dramatic agreement’
In the music world, the upcoming K-Net Music Awards in Hong Kong was a hot topic. Predictive articles speculated which awards would go to whom. Though we didn’t know the outcomes, rumors said we were strong contenders for Song of the Year. Regardless, we were slated to close Part 2 of the awards, so we practiced intensely.
“I hate dance.”
“Go practice. Piraruku.”
“I hate you.”
“Viju, carry him.”
Screams echoed nonstop in the studio as we prepared a performance packed with intense choreography.
Meanwhile, we planned an event for Soufflé (our fandom) while practicing. November 29 marked the 500th day since the name ‘Soufflé’ was born.
“Ta-da.”
“Everyone, the second Soufflé Week is coming! And guess who’s the egg-ghost at the end? Ri-hyuk.”
We promoted Soufflé Week on live broadcasts via the Y App. Last year, we held a fan meeting, released the fan song “Starlight,” and hosted events throughout the week. This year, large events were hard to schedule, so we planned small surprises via live broadcasts.
“And before Soufflé Week, we’ve prepared something special for you!”
“Please look forward to it!”
On the promised day, a Soufflé descending subway stairs sounded light and brisk.
‘I wonder what the boys have prepared.’
Speculation ran wild on fan cafés and SNS, though most guessed it was an ad campaign.
An excited Soufflé tapped through the turnstiles, scanning the station.
‘Nothing upstairs.’
Walking along the screen-door platform, they heard someone suppress a laugh.
“What’s this?”
At the sight of smiling strangers looking at a poster, the Soufflé approached curiously. The billboard read:
– Soufflé, thank you for 500 days together
Underneath, “Forever and ever,” but the image was the problem. NewBlack wore little chef outfits, arms raised as if in praise. Suspended above them was a floating, rainbow-glowing loaf of bread shaped like a Soufflé emoji.
“Is that... bread?”
“Looks like bread.”
Individually they looked fine, but together, the poster was oddly hilarious. The fan, unable to feign indifference, snapped a commemorative photo once the crowd thinned.
‘Our boys never run ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) a simple ad.’
Soon, various SNS accounts posted photos of NewBlack posing as “Soufflé!” From afar, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted, but the Soufflé resisted the temptation—there was a live broadcast to catch.
Later, the same Soufflé hurried past a subway bakery stall.
In the now-quiet station bakery, we giggled behind our masks.
“Today’s the decisive day, minions.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Let Soufflés taste the true flavor of bread...”
Pastry chef Myeong Se-jin, who watched us, said, “Come here.”
“Yes!”
“Let’s review the checklist.”
Myeong Se-jin, a ‘Pâtissier Korea’ champion who’d helped us run a pop-up café in Taiwan, operated this bakery branch.
“Thank you so much for your help today.”
“No problem. These days nobody remembers ‘Pâtico,’ so it’s great to benefit from NewBlack’s fame.”
“We’ll make sure you gain even more.”
She smiled. “Shall we open for business?”
Our special Soufflé-Week event was selling “Soufflé Bread”—a creation by Viju, refined with our pro pâtissier’s help. Shaped like a Soufflé, easy to make with minimal equipment.
“Come on, recognize us.”
“Please recognize us.”
At first, we sold quietly, hoping curious fans wandering the station would spread the word that NewBlack was working part-time in the subway.
A middle-aged woman paused. “Mmm, the smell made me stop.”
“May I buy one?”
“Of course.”
With ample ingredients to last until afternoon, she left happily with her Soufflé Bread. Two minutes later, a white-collar worker said it reminded him of deli manju—and paid 500 won.
Only 500 won? Wow.
Another passerby said, “My office mates loved it and asked for more.”
Then:
“How much is that bread?”
“Soufflé Bread? Looks delicious.”
“The part-timer is so tall and handsome—give me five, please.”
Customers kept coming—no fans yet. My brothers and I huddled anxiously.
“Why is business so good?”
“We’re missing our fans’ event if we’re making bread non-stop.”
Realizing we’d fail the event, we unveiled ourselves. Approaching customers, we dropped our masks.
“Hello.”
The customers’ eyes widened.
“Oh my!”
“Is that the special-ops group’s son? It is, right?”
“Yes. It is.”
As I smiled to speak more, a woman suddenly lit up.
“Ah!”
“It’s this, then!”
“So you’re launching bread and plastered ads all over the subway!”
“Really?”
A college student next to her nodded in understanding. My brothers and I froze.
“No... that’s not it.”
