Free Web NovelMaeda Shin.
A famous Japanese singer who enjoyed his heyday from the late ’80s through the ’90s.
While the crew prepared for shooting, we could faintly hear the Japanese staff whispering.
“That’s Maeda Shin, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face in person.”
“If it’s Maeda Shin... Ah, my mother used to listen to his songs every day. Amazing.”
Though he’s been less active musically lately, his fame remains high.
The middle-aged singer, shaking a bottle of water beside us, asked the staff,
“This is just plain water. Don’t you have tea or something? Here?”
“One moment, please!”
As they fetched another bottle, we took a moment to glance at the singer seated next to us. When he removed his fedora, his closely-shaved head glinted under the lights—like a monk’s, with a long, distinguished mustache giving him the air of an enlightened hermit.
“...?”
Maeda Shin, wiping sweat from his head, caught our stares and gave us a steady look.
“Well, did you want to say something?” he asked boldly.
“Ah—just that we’re grateful you’re helping with today’s show, sensei,” Viju said kindly, offering a handkerchief.
“Oh, thank you,” the singer said, taking the cloth and dabbing his head, the glare of the lighting easing. He folded the handkerchief neatly and returned it.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cause any trouble while I’m here.”
Watching him, we remembered a call from Baek Sang-gyo, the trot singer we’d grown close to after our special-album remake.
He’d called from the TV station’s bakery, saying our fan club was named “Macaron,” since his store’s macarons reminded him of us.
“Your fan club is Macaron, isn’t it? The bakery’s macarons look so pretty.”
“We’re called Soufflé, sensei...”
“Oh. Aren’t macarons more expensive?”
After joking like that, he’d asked if we needed Japanese guests for the show.
“If you have any, that’d be great...”
“Then wait a moment.”
Ten minutes later, he sent a text: “It’s arranged.” Maeda Shin was the artist he recruited, saying they were close as brothers. He warned us,
“He’s great, but his mouth’s loose—he’ll say anything nasty without thinking.”
“Understood.”
“And never ask about his personal life—he gets testy about family or divorce.”
We all choked on laughter at his line: “I’ve been divorced three times.”
Manager’s translation confirmed the same. He strictly requested no personal questions.
As we mulled this over, Maeda Shin’s eyes met ours again. We smiled brightly and bowed; he flinched, eyes wary—like someone uncertain whether to trust strangers sitting too close on a park bench.
Jiho winked at us and mouthed, “He seems on guard.”
“Why so?” I whispered.
We suspected he was shy around new people, so we put on extra-cheery smiles and called:
“Sensei.”
“...Hm?”
“You don’t have to do anything special—just relax. We’ll make this fun today.”
“...What are you planning?”
“That’s—” I placed a finger by my lips.
“A secret~!”
He looked even more on edge. Then Jiho opened both hands wide and beamed,
“We’ll make it so you never want to leave.”
Maeda Shin paled further.
These kids are insane.
That was Maeda Shin’s first impression of NewBlack.
‘They’re definitely not normal.’
He couldn’t forget their solemn choir-like opening of “Welcome to NewBlack World,” like a five-person cartoon rotating your vision for mind control. He shook his head, trying to banish the sacred BGM echo.
‘I heard young people are scary these days...’
While waiting, he’d watched outtakes: us doing handstands to read the upside-down banner, slamming the plastic table so hard we punched a hole—yet the Korean staff simply smiled quietly.
“They’re keeping it so calm today.”
“That’s right—very serene and nice.”
What serene, he wondered. It felt like a trap—what would they do next? Rock climbing? Reaching into a black box?
Still wary, the countdown began. Leading the intro, Rihyuk tilted his head slightly and whispered,
“Sensei...”
“...!”
“These people all seem bizarre, right?”
“No. That’s not—”
“It’s true. They’re all abnormal.”
Was that true? Rihyuk continued softly,
“So just trust me. I’m the only normal one here.”
He’d been the loudest in the chorus moments ago, yet now claimed to be the only sane person. Maeda Shin thought,
‘I need to watch my back here.’
“Okay, let’s start recording!”
“Fighting!”
Amid raucous applause, the camera rolled.
Suddenly, Wooju’s fingers began dancing across the keyboard—white and black keys moving like patterns of fresh snowfall.
‘An improvised melody.’
Maeda Shin recognized it at once: a catchy tune crafted on the spot, like an earworm jingle yet intricate in detail. ‘Talent must be hereditary.’
He recalled the “Clarity School” founder’s son pulling a violin from nowhere to play a birthday song, and composer Hashimoto Gen re-arranging a song in five minutes to transcend the original.
Then the group began:
“Welcome~
To the long-traveled Maeda Shin
Welcome~ to the NewBlack Café~”
They riffed lyrics and rap lines in turn, like an impromptu welcome song. Even as a guest singer, he caught the same intense musical drive.
‘These kids are crazy talented.’
The simplest greeting revealed layers of musical flair. He felt kinship—to meet another musician, regardless of age. He clapped softly in return.
“Now that the opening’s done, please join me for ‘Kono Bangumi wa...’!”
‘What’s Kono Bangumi wa...?’ he wondered.
A charismatic member produced huge and mini cheering sticks under the table, crossing them like pharaoh’s crook and flail. In solemn tones they intoned, “This broadcast is Wangbong and Dalbong, and me, Junghyun.”
“Viju!”
“Seo Rihyuk—must we do this?”
“Jiho!”
“Wooju.”
Each posed sweetly before the camera, then stared at him with silent pressure. He stammered, “Maeda... Shin?” They clapped in satisfaction.
“Well done, Junghyun.”
“Thank you. I’m pleased.”
“I saw all Japanese shows do this. We wanted to try it.”
He smiled awkwardly, relieved: “They really are strange.”
Wooju clapped and said,
“Welcome to our NewBlack Café!”
“An impressive greeting—thank you.”
“Please greet viewers at home, our fans, and your fans, sensei.”
“Hello, everyone. And to my fans—thanks for all your hard work.”
His candid line set NewBlack howling with laughter. He half-smiled, thinking,
‘Is that funny?’
He noticed Viju, the main dancer, genuinely laughing. Despite himself, he felt his lips twitch.
“Hohohot!” they roared with each quip. The atmosphere lifted.
“But what do we do in a café?” he asked.
“‘NewBlack Café’ invites singers from various countries to discuss music,” Wooju explained.
“Oh.”
“Today’s dessert is coming up!”
A cart rolled in, bearing a strawberry shortcake with gleaming berries studding the snowy cream—a cake clearly worth at least ¥4,000. The members gasped, “Wow!”
“I must win this.”
“Absolutely—not losing this one.”
He was equally captivated—until he realized ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) the odd rule: freēwebnovel.com
“Wait—‘win’ it?”
“Yes—it’s free drinks, but you must earn the dessert through a game.”
“Good heavens. That’s cruel.”
“Sorry—we made the rule.”
“Reasonable enough.”
Laughing, he realized the show’s rhythm was catching.
The six of us divided into three teams for the cake game.
“Guest sensei Maeda—who do you choose as your partner?”
“Wooju,” he said.
“Excellent choice!” Wooju high-fived him.
Team names were called, causing initial confusion among producers, then settled.
“Team 1: Maeda Shin and Wooju.”
“Team 2: Junghyun and Viju.”
“Ah... Team 3: Rihyuk and Jiho.”
The remaining team looked displeased. Bickering ensued before everyone took seats.
“Now, the game!” The host revealed three giant dice and a roulette.
“Roll the dice—highest total wins the cake. Then spin the roulette to set a multiplier: X1 to X100.”
Rihyuk and the others leapt up, protesting.
“That’s cheating! You already declared Wooju the winner!”
“Illegal gift, condemn it!”
While producers looked baffled, Maeda Shin watched the handsome leader next to him, whose mouth twitched in amusement.
‘They’re complaining over a random game—but they’re desperate to beat him.’
Wooju flicked the dice with a casual snap—professionally.
“...What!”
The dice read 6, 6, 6. Maeda Shin and the crew rubbed their eyes.
He spun the roulette—X100.
In an instant, Wooju’s score was unbeatable. Maeda Shin blinked again.
“How... how did you do that?”
Wooju flashed a peace sign.
“This is what we call ‘uyeon’ in Korean—‘coincidence,’ sensei.”
He made a note to look up the nuance later. Though uneasy, he cheered with his team.
While producers murmured, we and Maeda Shin sampled the dessert with forks.
“About that—”
“The dice?”
“Once this airs, will casinos or pachinko parlors ban me?”
“Don’t worry—you’re not going there.”
“Good mindset.”
They moved on to the music talk. We watched his early ’80s videos and commented.
“Wow—you were so handsome then.”
“Like an idol.”
Maeda Shin shrugged modestly.
“Not much has changed since.”
The black frame froze on his shining head. NewBlack members tried to interject, but he passed.
We praised shifts in his style:
“City pop peaked then, but you’re really good—melodies step up so cleanly.”
“Your vocals changed too.”
They caught every nuance—stage manner, vocal technique—like ghosts. He felt exhilarated:
“You really get this. Every change I made was deliberate.
“I was fighting with my label, then went indie.”
“Did it go well?”
“I got scammed and went broke. The world outside isn’t a place to act recklessly.”
He spoke freely about his personal struggle—exactly what we’d been told not to ask. Yet someone had opened the floodgates.
During his ’90s hits, Wooju asked, freewёbnoνel.com
“When genres shifted after city pop, what changes did you feel?”
“It wasn’t me; the era changed.”
He explained Japan’s bubble economy burst in the ’90s.
“Aaaah...”
“Japan’s economy collapsed.”
We choked on our drinks. He resumed with unfiltered candor.
Although discussing personal life was forbidden, Maeda Shin couldn’t help himself.
“I thought starting my own label would work, but got scammed right away.”
“Cough!”
“Everything became worthless overnight.”
He coughed after each line, making it hard to sip.
No wonder Baek Sang-gyo warned us about his loose mouth.
Then, as if seeing junior artists for the first time, he offered advice:
“Don’t let looks define you. Don’t be like Hollywood actors who trash their appearance to say, ‘I want to be judged by my acting.’”
“Yes, sensei.”
“Once your looks go, they’re gone!”
He shouted fiercely, and we couldn’t help laughing.
“And control your drinking.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not good for an artist’s life. And to you watching—remember, drink in moderation.”
He looked serious.
“You’ll get divorced! Definitely!”
Everyone in the studio exploded with laughter.
