Chapter 23. The Greatness of Hangul
“Yes. From now on, you can contact me on this phone.”
— Uh. So then… should I make a card and send it to you or something?
“No. That would just give them a handle on me. For now, I’ll just make do with whatever is under my name.”
— Okay. If you ever need anything, tell me.
Chunggi looked out the window.
He could see Seojun, happily washing the car since earlier.
“By the way… that car I used to ride around in…”
— Are they keeping it registered under the company?
“Yeah. Right now it’s been put up as collateral to some little kid.”
Smiling brightly, Chunggi waved at the new owner of the Rolls-Royce.
— Thank you. Really.
The voice of Woohee, with whom he had just been on the phone.
Jangha leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes.
Judging from her voice, she must have acted tough again, even though it didn’t really suit her.
She had probably just gone head-to-head with the chairman.
Some emotion he had thought he had completely erased stirred faintly.
He quickly shook his head.
They lived in different worlds, and he was no longer young enough to ram himself against something whose conclusion was already decided.
There are things in this world that simply cannot be helped.
Letting out a hollow laugh, Jangha jumped to his feet.
Let’s just do what I can and have fun.
If you ride Line 6 out from Hapjeong Station, there is a neighborhood you come across.
Redevelopment had been underway for quite some time, and the scenery of that place had changed greatly over the past few years.
The modest buildings had shot up into tall mixed-use apartment complexes, the roads had been widened, and the stream had been refurbished.
Among those high-rise apartments, there was one slightly out-of-place neighborhood that still retained its old appearance.
For people who did music in Hongdae, there was a building that was like a “holy ground,” and in the basement of that building, there was a single practice room.
A shabby commercial building.
The basement space was larger than you might think, but at a glance, there was nothing particularly special about it.
Still, from the soundproofing installed along the walls, you could easily guess that this was a place meant for music.
However, the reason this place had become a holy ground was because of the identities of the musicians who had passed through it.
First, Korea’s representative rock band, Im Doyu Band, had started out there, and afterward, some of the most formidable indie bands had also passed through.
Speaking of recent times, though they were now under a major label and could no longer be called indie, the band that was like the very symbol of a successful indie band, “Nabi Valley,” had created countless hit songs in this practice room.
After that, a major hip-hop star named “Roy” had passed through, and “Seong Hyeonji,” who had leapt into top-star status overnight on the strength of a single drama OST, was also from this practice room.
And just a short while ago, Park Jaegyeong of “Park Jaegyeong Band” had released a solo album with “SJ Entertainment,” and with the band’s dissolution, the room had become vacant.
That album had already hit number one.
“If you make music in this practice room, you become a major star.”
Regardless of genre, musicians who were active in Hongdae were, even today, conveying their intentions through a real estate agent to claim this now-vacant practice room.
“Boss. How were the kids we listened to today?”
Choi Gwangyeop, the head of “Changjo Certified Real Estate” office, who had been entrusted with full authority by the owner of this building, addressed the elderly men who were playing janggi.
Before handing the tracks over to the building owner, he had already listened to the songs himself.
Two teams that played rock music.
One fairly famous singer-songwriter who had appeared on a TV program not long ago and had created mellow songs with nothing but an acoustic guitar.
A duo that supposedly dominated the hip-hop clubs of Hongdae these days.
The conditions for moving into this “holy ground” practice room were a bit unusual: first, they had to send in their tracks.
The building owner listened to those tracks and decided whether he wanted to meet them in person.
With evaluation criteria that no one else knew, known only to the building owner himself, the teams that would be granted an interview were selected, and finally, after having an in-person interview in that practice room, they had to show off their skills.
Despite this ridiculous “move-in audition,” already twenty teams had applied.
Among them, not a single one had received a definitive answer.
Given such a stubborn building owner, you would expect someone to complain, but no one dared to voice any dissatisfaction.
Naturally so, because this was the heart of the building owner, who was said to stand even above the Creator.
“Mm… none of them really grabbed me.”
“Ah. It’s already been two months of vacancy. You could just pick one roughly and at least get some rent…”
As he spoke, Choi Gwangyeop shook his head.
He had almost forgotten the biggest merit of this basement space.
If you paid the initial deposit to move into this “holy ground,” then as long as you continued your music activities, the rent—excluding maintenance fees—was free.
Rent for a basement of nearly fifty pyeong (165 m² ≈ 1,780 ft²), free.
For poor musicians, even aside from it being a “holy ground,” it was a place they desperately wanted to get into somehow.
“Be quiet for a bit. I’m in a fateful showdown with Old Man Gong right now. If you’re done with your business, just get going.”
“Heh heh. If someone heard that, they’d think we’d all gathered here because of that little real estate brat.”
Old Man Gong, sitting across from the building owner, curled one corner of his mouth.
Choi Gwangyeop, who had been watching the two old men’s frustrating janggi game with a sigh since earlier, let out a low breath.
It looked like the teams he had played for them today were going to be a bust as well.
Still, he couldn’t just give up.
The terms of the lease were ridiculous, but once a deal was made, he received, in addition to the basic brokerage fee, a hefty gratuity.
Just then, the building owner smiled a triumphant smile.
“Check, you little punk!”
Folding his arms, he twitched his white eyebrows and leisurely watched Old Man Gong’s troubled expression.
Real estate agent Choi Gwangyeop had accumulated quite a bit of resentment against this building owner, who was a true masterpiece among difficult clients.
He stealthily pointed with his finger at one section of the janggi board, then darted toward the doorway.
Old Man Gong’s face lit up.
“Counter!”
“Why, you—!”
The building owner, Ju Seongdol, flipped the janggi board.
Standing just outside the doorway, Choi Gwangyeop poked his head back in, and looked with satisfaction at the huffing Ju Seongdol.
“Hey! You little bastard!”
His head snapped back inside.
“This punk is flipping the board and throwing a fit.”
“It doesn’t count! That brat gave me advice.”
“What advice, I already saw that move myself!”
“Enough! Set it up again.”
“Damn it! Just hurry up and order some chicken!”
“Ugh, damn!”
The two old men growled at each other with the overturned janggi board between them.
— Oppa, I’m sorry. Father said I absolutely must not tell anyone.
“Uh… Then… just give me a tiny hint. Okay? This is seriously causing a huge stir, you know.”
— Oppa. You know I’m a devout Catholic, right?
“Of course I know. Because of you, even I, a non-believer, sometimes go inside and attend Mass.”
— Father told me to swear. So I swore. On that faith…
“Ah…”
Suchan had no choice but to give up here.
Even when she had gone to the club without telling him,
‘Can you swear to God?’
just that one question had made her shake her head.
For her, a vow held absolute power.
— Oppa, I’m sorry. You know how I feel, right?
“Ha… I’m really curious though…”
— Hey, I love you! Okay?
“Swear it?”
— Uh… do I really have to swear for something like that?
“You… you… what?”
— Heeheehee. I swear. Happy now?
Suchan shook his head.
It had been the easiest route, but if she took it this far, there was nothing he could do.
He went back to the church YouTube channel, but the video had already been taken down.
He couldn’t understand why they were keeping it this secret, but probably it was because they didn’t know just how amazing “Box43” was.
Janis himself was directly provoking them and looking for them, and yet the people in question had completely gone into hiding.
“For now I’ll give up on their identity. But you have to make sure to show that video to Father. Got it?”
— Okay. Got it.
If they found out about the existence of this video, they wouldn’t be able to keep hiding like now.
The corners of Suchan’s mouth lifted.
Only then did the “national pride” that should have been enough to make even a non-musician swell with excitement start to surge wildly.
Box43 was singing in Korean!
And in the city of the Beatles, Liverpool, at that!
The band Janis, from a challenger’s position, had pointed out as his opponent was here in Korea!
Just sharing the same nationality was enough to make his shoulders puff up.
Suchan hurriedly opened his laptop.
His English was clumsy, but he had to go express this swelling, chest-thumping Korean pride to the people who revered Box43 like gods.
“The real god is actually in Korea, you know?”
With his heart swelling, he logged on—
only to find that the message board was already plastered with Hangul.
As expected, they were truly an IT powerhouse.
“Kim! Translate this.”
“Uh… ‘This is Korea, where the person you’re looking for is. Come if you dare.’ It says something like that.”
“Hmm. And this one? It sounds like it’s talking about the lyrics.”
“Ah. This is something I mentioned before when I was translating. In Korean, there are quite a lot of homonyms. The phrase ‘ireona’ can be ‘wake up,’ or it can be ‘stand up,’ or ‘get up.’ But in Korean, that single word ‘ireona’ contains all those meanings.”
Janis nodded seriously.
“So that’s why you kept bugging me back then.”
“When you asked me to make sure I did it properly so it wouldn’t sound like it had a different meaning.”
“Mm. So that was the reason. Sorry.”
“Anyway, this is them nitpicking about that.”
“Nitpicking? At this perfect music? That bastard dares!”
Janis glared at the Hangul that covered the message board.
Soon he pulled the laptop close and began pounding on the keyboard.
The place he had grown up in was one of the countries that took the most pride in English, the universal language.
He had never once done music using another country’s language.
Even for this album, hadn’t he personally adapted the religious phrases of other countries?
Well, they were songs that were on the verge of being scrapped anyway.
He had only recently come to understand this, but the Korean language really was fascinating.
Even with this song, if it had been him, he would have said,
“Let us get up together with me.”
But that man had said,
“Let us get up together.”
Was it the difference between East and West?
The word “I” never appeared in that song.
From beginning to end, there was only “we.”
The subjects were omitted here and there in the lyrics, but the meaning was clearly conveyed.
For Janis himself, that part resonated with something inside him.
He had always lived focusing on the essence of things and on himself, but after encountering this music, he had begun to see the whole, based on relationships.
When you thought about the transmission of emotion that language brings, this song really ought to be sung in Korean.
As those thoughts mixed in, after typing on the keyboard for a long while, he suddenly slammed it and glared at the black-haired man.
“Kim! Lessons start today.”
“Huh?”
“From today, all our members are going to learn Korean.”
“I also have album work to do…”
“Our members will play the session for you.”
“Oh! Really?”
Looking around, he saw the stunned faces of the Box43 members staring at him.
They soon shook their heads, and for a moment, Kim Jongtak—the prince of Korean trot music—who was unsure whether that was a yes or a no, smiled.
He had already agreed to do a featuring with Janis.
Whatever happened, it was going to be huge.
It was the moment when Kim Jongtak, born and raised in Busan, signed a Korean-lesson contract with the world-famous band Box43.
Though no one could deny that the band currently rewriting the history of Korean music was Im Doyu Band, for the younger generation, “Nabi Valley” was far more familiar.
Members with delicate good looks, all in their twenties.
The vocal and lead guitarist “J,” whose tone was a perfectly pure high voice, was often said to not suit rock, but the deep voice of the bassist “Lee Chan” supported things here and there, making their music perfect.
They had just finished activities for their latest album and were taking a bit of a break.
The other members had gone down to their hometowns.
J and Lee Chan were loafing around in the practice room.
“Hey, Jangbok. Are you the one on the Box43 board?”
“I’m in the middle of a keyboard battle with the Westerners right now, so don’t talk to me.”
“I knew it! It was you!”
“Shut up. Why is it always me?”
“You’re the one on the Westerners’ board praising Hangul. That’s you, isn’t it?”
Nabi Valley’s leader, “J” Yang Jangbok, was a Hangul evangelist.
He loved Hangul so much, but even that love could not overcome how his given name sounded.
So his stage name was “J.”
Perhaps out of guilt for betraying his name like that?
There was never any English mixed into the lyrics on Nabi Valley’s albums.
“These guys just don’t get the greatness of Hangul. I’m going to use this opportunity to teach them.”
He had been writing long comments in Hangul since earlier, saying,
“Curious, are you? If you’re so curious, why don’t you study Korean?” mocking them like that.
“Hey. Wrap that up and let’s order something.”
“Ha. This punk thinks he’s Janis or something.”
“Stop playing with some idiot like that and let’s eat!”
“That faker got scared and ran off.”
“You really pour passion into the strangest things, don’t you, Mr. Yang Jangbok!”
“It’s in celebration of victory. Fried chicken, yes?”
“Yes!”
As Lee Chan hurriedly tapped at his phone, he hesitated.
“The chicken from that neighborhood place was so good though…”
“Ah, that neighborhood. I wonder if the old man is doing well.”
“I heard they’re doing another audition this time.”
“Oh. That audition we got turned down from twice!”
“We’re bored anyway. Want to go watch that day?”
The corners of Jangbok’s mouth curled slightly.
He remembered the building-owner grandpa who used to scold them through the window whenever they practiced.
He had been surprised, because the old man’s words had actually been right on the mark.
The parts the old man pointed out, when they listened again, always turned out to be spots where the sound was hollow.
He was an amazing grandpa in many ways.
People said they considered that place a “holy ground.”
But what had made that basement practice room into a “holy ground” wasn’t the successful musicians like themselves.
If it hadn’t been for that grandpa, they wouldn’t be who they were today.
He had no idea how he’d learned, but the old man’s sense for music was sharper than anyone’s.
Surely some formidable teams would be taking part.
He was looking forward to that “audition.”
Jinhyeok stared at the completed sheet music.
The miraculous melody that had resounded through the obstetrics ward.
Reproducing it exactly as it was was not the problem.
The question was whether this music could bring about such a miracle again.
No matter how much he turned it over in his head, something was missing.
Even if they recorded it exactly like this, could they reproduce that resonance?
Just then, his phone chimed with a notification.
On the screen, there was a YouTube link that Jangha had sent.
It seemed to be a performance by an overseas musician.
“It’s in Korean.”
And then, through his own music, he could see the miracle they had created.
The arrangement was good, and their performance skills were top-notch.
And their voice carried an energy that was almost untouchable.
Above all, the desperate emotion he exuded was real.
That crude performance from that day had been reborn as proper music.
“Wow. He’s good.”
The procession following his performance.
It was on a completely different level from the miracle at Yeongdeungpo Station.
“Ah.”
He felt like he understood something.
“Emotion that has actually been experienced.”
The crowd following behind him sang along.
He could feel the massive wave created by those emotions gathering and gathering.
That power was truly great.
Only then did Jinhyeok understand what his own piece had been lacking.
To fill that in, what this music needed to contain was… not his own voice.
He needed beings who could understand this emotion more precisely than anyone.
He took out the business cards he had brought from the obstetrics department.
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