Chapter 34
Leaving the applause and cheers pouring down behind them, Myeongjeon and the others came off the stage. When they reached the backstage waiting room, the next band glared at Myeongjeon anxiously, while one of its members sighed and climbed onto the stage.
“Why are they glaring at us?”
“Would you want to perform after us?”
At Iseo’s whisper, asking about something so obvious, Myeongjeon whispered back. Iseo suddenly jerked backward with an “Eek!” Was she having some kind of reaction to something she’d eaten?
Myeongjeon tilted his head slightly, then sat down in the waiting room as calmly as ever. Faint applause and cheers could still be heard.
It was the next team’s turn to perform, but… everyone there realized one thing.
The audience’s reaction was unmistakably different from before… and unmistakably different from the reactions to the first and second bands as well.
‘I do feel a little sorry.’
That was what Myeongjeon thought. The band after them would probably be judged somewhat less favorably because of the performance he had shown.
Thinking about it, he did feel a little sorry. Showing his true seriousness at a place where kids were just playing around—what a disgrace…
* * *
Ayoon sat on a subway seat on her way home, clutching her pounding heart.
‘The performance was so, so good.’
At first, she had liked their effort to recreate the original. Then she had liked it because the playing itself was quite good. And after that, she had liked the nerdy knowledge and devotion that let them recreate the original so perfectly.
But then? The bottleneck playing from the original. And the solo that had suddenly begun without even finishing the song?
The soul-stirring guitar solo was clearly unrelated to the original song… a sound she had never heard before. But the moment she heard it, she was overcome by an indescribable emotion.
And after that performance, honestly, she couldn’t feel anything. It was music she normally would have cheered for and enjoyed, but for some reason, all she felt was a stifling dryness, like she was eating a dry, crumbly snack.
Even so, an unknown emotion continued to rage through Ayoon’s heart. How was she supposed to express this feeling? Was it being a fan? That didn’t seem right; it was very different from anything she had felt before.
It went beyond simply being a fan. She wanted to know everything, from the band’s upcoming performance schedule and the trail they had left behind to their every move… and she even wanted to promote those kids of her own accord.
The identity of that emotion was…
‘I’m completely overinvested.’
She exhaled heavily, then opened social media. And she began making a post, in order to walk the lonely, solitary path of a pioneer…
* * *
“You all did a great job today! I really didn’t expect us to sell out through door sales.”
After the performance, all the bands and staff gathered together. The overall planner said that. Myeongjeon had thought there seemed to be quite a few people, but a sellout? It looked like there were more than 200 seats, at least… He figured the organizers had made a decent amount of money.
“So our representative told us to settle up immediately based on the estimated sales amount to commemorate the sellout. That’s why we’ve decided to pay you all in cash today!”
“Wow!”
“We love you, boss!”
“Thank you!”
The reaction to those words wasn’t exactly ecstatic, but it was fairly enthusiastic. Even Seoha gave a small round of applause, while only three people showed no reaction at all.
‘An expedited settlement to celebrate a sellout… Why not just declare it a national holiday while you’re at it?’
Myeongjeon sneered at the idea,
“Huh? Settlement? Now?”
while the other two, who had no idea what was going on, simply stared blankly. While the three of them stood there like that, the planner called out to them. Myeongjeon strode over and accepted a paper envelope.
“Good work today! Those of you who decided to attend the after-party, our team will drive you, so come with us! Get home safely!”
“Good work, everyone~”
“Take care~”
“You’re coming with us today, right? You need to have a drink.”
“I’m on a diet…”
At the planner’s closing remarks, everyone scattered. The other four bands chatted among themselves as they followed the planner, but Myeongjeon had no intention of going with them.
“Shouldn’t we join them over there too?”
“It’s an after-party. Besides, we’re minors.”
“Uh, but didn’t you drink once in the past, Suyeon…”
“Do you want to go drinking?”
Leading Iseo and the others, who were vigorously shaking their heads, Myeongjeon headed for a café inside the building. After ordering coffee, he opened the envelope. Six 50,000-won bills.
“…300,000 won? Aren’t there four of us?”
“That’s quite a bit. I guess it’s because we sold out.”
“Huh, is this calculation right…”
There were all sorts of reactions: one person couldn’t believe the amount, one was quite satisfied with it, and one was confused despite clearly having heard the explanation.
Myeongjeon put the cash in his pocket first, then transferred the money to the others’ accounts. 75,000 won per person.
“No, Suyeon, shouldn’t you get more? You practically directed all our practice, and you’re the leader too.”
The other two nodded at Iseo’s words. But Myeongjeon shook his head. Money matters in a band had to be kept clean. There was no need to create issues over who got more.
For that reason, he ignored Hyeona’s suggestion as well. “How about keeping 100,000 won as band funds?” A band kitty could cause management problems later too. They could simply split the cost whenever they needed money.
After settling the money matters, Myeongjeon thought quietly. With 300,000 won, let’s see…
“If 300,000 won came to us, the organizers must have made over two million. Seeing them sell merchandise earlier, maybe they made around three million.”
“Probably.”
Having finished the calculation, Myeongjeon said that.
Out of the total gross, ticket vendors usually take somewhere between 5 and 20 percent. If you simply include taxes as well, call it 20 percent. Of the remaining 80 percent, the revenue-sharing ratio is usually 6:4. The artists generally split their share among themselves too.
So their band gets 8 percent—one-fifth of that 40 percent.
‘If you work backward… the net ticket proceeds distributed to the bands came to 1.5 million won. That means the organizers’ share was 2.25 million won. Add in the merchandise sales and whatever they might have quietly failed to include in the settlement… It’s fair to say they took in around three million.’
He could have gone over the full breakdown of the performance and argued with them, but Myeongjeon decided not to bother. It wasn’t a particularly large amount of money.
“Isn’t that too little…? Even though we sold out.”
Hyeona’s complaint slipped out before she realized it.
“Well, that’s why everyone wants to succeed as a band. If we rented out a venue that size ourselves and sold it out with a solo show, how much do you think we’d make?”
The others began calculating at that. Myeongjeon decided to calculate it for them instead.
“It comes to about five million won. After ticket taxes, the rental fee, outsourced services, and all that, we’d lose about two million—and as much as three million if they took a lot. That leaves two million for us. Two hours of performing in a day for 500,000 won each.”
“Two hours and 500,000 won?!”
Hyeona’s happy-fantasy engine began running wild. Myeongjeon started egging her on even more.
“Say we sell out a thousand-seat venue at 30,000 won a ticket. That’s 30 million won. After platform fees, taxes, the rental, hiring contractors, and all that, say 15 million is gone. That leaves 15 million… We’d have more than three million won just like that from a one-day, thousand-seat show…!”
“Hwaaaagh!”
“The problem is, success like that isn’t easy.”
Seoha doused them with cold water. Well, if everyone could succeed like that, the golden age of bands would have arrived already.
“There are even live clubs where you can perform for a day and make nothing, or where the whole band gets paid 70,000 won.”
“Th-that makes sense?”
“Most live clubs use headcount-based pay as the standard.”
At Iseo’s incredulous question, Myeongjeon answered instead. It was a bitter subject, and he felt a sudden urge to put a cigarette between his lips, but the hand he unconsciously rummaged through his pocket came out empty-handed—not even a cigarette.
“Let’s say you have a 100-seat venue with a 20,000-won ticket. If about 50 people come, that’s one million won. But there are labor costs and operating expenses, and most tickets include one free drink, so some of that money goes there too.”
“If we assume the club’s operating expenses, fixed costs, drink costs, and everything else take 400,000 won, that leaves 600,000. The club takes 400,000, and the performers get 200,000… If there are four bands, that leaves about 50,000 won each.”
“But you can’t put on a show for 50,000 won. So at the entrance, they ask, ‘Who did you come to see~?’ and divide up the money. If no one came to see this person, they just pay them nothing.”
“How does that make sense? You performed and got zero?”
“Well, the club can’t run a business by digging money out of the ground.”
Iseo was aghast as the detailed explanation continued. But Myeongjeon somewhat sympathized with the club’s position.
“From the perspective of the scene as a whole, it’s sad when a band disappears, but it’s something that can happen. They can always go do something else. But if a single club disappears, the entire scene starts to wobble.”
“Even just going from five live clubs to four… all the places where bands can perform disappear, and… well, a lot of things happen. From the band’s perspective, it may be a little shitty, but keeping the club alive is the right thing.”
“How does that make sense? If you work, you should receive compensation. You’re just dumping the club’s losses on the band.”
“That is one view…”
It was a long-standing, unresolved issue in the Korean rock scene, so Myeongjeon had no intention of arguing about it. Besides, that was a matter concerning indie bands, after all.
That was far from the path they were going to take.
Everyone in the band had agreed to apply for the grant program and audition for whatever lay beyond it. Since they were going to do this anyway, shouldn’t they go as far as possible?
…Of course, all of this was only possible if the kids who had been victimized by the former ‘Ha Suyeon’ accepted an apology from him. A heartfelt apology was the only answer, but…
“Anyway…”
Myeongjeon cleared his throat once, then continued.
“As for the grant program, I’ve already made one song. The next one should come soon too, and I’d like Iseo to handle the lyrics for both. They need arrangements, so the whole band should get together and think that part through.”
Myeongjeon opened his phone and brought up a screen. When he had been living as ‘Seo Myeongjeon,’ these were places he had had no reason to visit anymore, but…
Now he had to go there. Because Ha Suyeon, not Seo Myeongjeon, was only just setting foot in this scene.
“Next… we’re planning to perform at live clubs like these.”
The screen showed a list of indie live clubs around Hongdae. There were acoustic venues, modern-rock venues, and ordinary rock clubs.
“There are about three months left until the full-scale grant program begins, so we’ll make the songs this month and, in the meantime, practice a couple more cover songs we could perform at clubs.”
“Then, once the next song comes out, we’ll practice four songs including it, go audition at clubs like these, and get some real-world experience… That’s our next schedule.”