Chapter 86: The Hidden Master’s Hideout
Velvet Tone.
Now it was treated as nothing more than a shabby recording studio run by Cha Yongjin, the son who had inherited it, but it once held its own history and tradition.
Starting with Cheongseong.
All the heavyweight bands had passed through here.
A hidden restaurant… no, more like a hidden master’s hideout.
Just because a studio rented space in a flashy, expensive building, did that make it successful?
No. Velvet Tone was famous for another reason.
Because it had “Cha Yongjin,” who could make anyone look like they knew how to give proper vocal direction.
Long years of career didn’t prove skill.
Real na: Cha Yongjin. Stage na: Velcha.
Whether in major or minor albums—
His na scattered across countless band album credits was proof enough.
Cha Yongjin pushed Taeyoon forward as he spoke.
“The basics, the basics are the most important!”
Normally, he wouldn’t bother saying things like this…
But right now, Taeyoon looked like he needed fundantals.
Showing off quick fingers pressing the talkback button, manipulating equipnt like a pro—none of that made soone a good producer.
Handling equipnt?
That was the engineer’s job.
Just because you moved the gear smoothly didn’t an the singer’s vocal range got higher, emotions deeper, or new skills magically appeared.
Of course, such tricks could make people exclaim, “Oh? He’s kind of good?” at first glance.
But it wouldn’t even take five minutes for the cracks to show.
One bar of recording, and it was obvious.
The core of producing, especially vocal recording, ultimately lay in “how you handled the singer.”
Drawing out as much of the singer’s color as possible.
Just being able to do that ant half the vocal directing was complete.
“There are things you can only see once you sing it yourself.”
“Ah…? Actually, I…”
“You’ve already done a demo recording, right? But that was just you singing however you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Nod.
“You’ll see right away how it feels for the singer inside the booth, and what kind of directing actually hits ho. I’ll make you feel it.”
And that was how Taeyoon ended up, against his will, showing off his singing skills in the recording booth.
Heavy air.
Walls lined with sound absorbers.
The booth beyond the glass.
All of it felt both familiar and strange to Taeyoon.
Different.
Definitely different from when he ca in for demo guide recordings.
Back then, he was in the composer’s position.
Recording the song himself to play for the singer.
Nothing more, nothing less.
But now—
[You nervous?]
“A little?”
[How does it feel?]
“It feels smaller in here than I thought. With everyone watching , all I can think is that I’d better do well.”
[Oh, good. That’s exactly it.]
His position had shifted.
He really felt like a singer.
So this was what it felt like.
He hadn’t known. Nervous, yet thrilled.
The producer’s voice coming through the speaker felt like a compass.
Only two things to trust here.
His own voice, and the producer’s direction. Nothing else.
Seeing Taeyoon in the booth, Bang Gicheol turned to Cha Yongjin.
“Wow… I didn’t know, but Taeyoon fits in there really well, doesn’t he?”
Cha Yongjin nodded enthusiastically.
“Feels like when I record idols. Just looking at his face makes him seem reliable.”
“What do you think?”
“I think he might actually sing pretty well?”
“No, not that.”
Bang Gicheol crossed his arms and continued.
“I an the picture.”
“…Sorry?”
“It’s a waste for him to only compose. That’s why I brought him here.”
“Ah, I see?”
Only then did Cha Yongjin nod in understanding.
“Telling him a hundred tis won’t work. He needs to feel it himself.”
“Or maybe he’ll get even more into producing. Isn’t that possible?”
“Sure. And if that happens, that’s great in its own way. Rember that one kid back then? You two had great chemistry. Sha about that.”
“Ah, co on. Why’d you have to bring that up? I was feeling good. Because of him, I still won’t touch lunchboxes.”
Inside the booth, Taeyoon stared blankly at the two n.
They looked like a silent film.
Mouths moving, no sound.
He couldn’t even guess what they were saying.
Not like he could lip-read.
Suddenly, Taeyoon rembered the day he recorded Han Yujin’s song.
‘…….’
Tomorrow Entertainnt’s producer, Nam Seonghyun.
– PD, you keep pressing the talkback button.
– Did I?
– Yes. Every ti you spoke, your hand went right for the button.
Even for small things, he always pressed the talkback button.
Back then, Taeyoon had only focused on “a producer who cared for the singer.”
Now he understood why.
You really couldn’t know unless you experienced it.
Being in the singer’s position, he felt it in a new way.
It was sothing he’d already believed in, but—
With renewed determination, he jotted a note in his notebook.
[ Don’t make the singer inside the booth feel uneasy. ]
At last—
Cha Yongjin’s voice flowed through the headset.
[Ready?]
“Yes.”
[Now, I’ll tell you the first rule of recording.]
“The first…”
[Vocals are ultimately just another sound. You need to think about how they’ll blend with the track. That’s the producer’s job.]
Taeyoon nodded.
A singer was an instrunt… It was true.
The problem was that this instrunt was more sensitive than most.
[Second rule. That instrunt has emotions. You need to handle it delicately.]
Cha Yongjin’s voice grew firm.
Naturally, he had shifted into senior mode.
Almost before the words finished—
The intro of began.
Taeyoon focused on the music.
Over the familiar accompanint, Cha Yongjin’s voice, deeper than before, overlapped.
[Ready? Go!]
With the beeping trono, the track rolled in.
Taeyoon made up his mind.
Well, since it ca to this—
He’d pretend he was a real singer.
So, with confidence, he opened his mouth—
“The gaze on you, to drop, drop, drop—”
Cut.
The music stopped.
The sound of Cha Yongjin’s voice ca through, as if he was holding back laughter.
[Not bad. But are you sure you’re going for that clingy emotional style? The directing guide says sothing different.]
“Doesn’t it sound… more like a fluttering kind of emotion?”
[Nope. More like you just got dumped and you’re wallowing in it.]
“Huhhh?”
[Let’s go again. Loosen up the emotion a little.]
“Got it.”
Taeyoon cleared his throat.
This ti, he tried it with a slightly coy tone.
Cut.
The music stopped again.
[Ah, too cold. Feels like Siberia in here.]
“Wasn’t that just plain?”
[No, this ti it’s more like… you’re sharpening a knife behind soone’s back for revenge. I’d like it a bit softer.]
Taeyoon let out a small chuckle.
It was nothing like the vocal directing he had seen on YouTube.
Instead of just repeating “Again” or “Not good,” Cha Yongjin gave concrete examples, making it easy to understand.
Okay, mo.
After the track cut off several more tis—
Taeyoon finally finished the whole song and escaped from the booth.
His steps were light.
“How was it?”
“I think I understand how the person recording feels now.”
“Specifically?”
“Hmm… When you say, ‘Put more emotion into it, make it calr than before’—that kind of talk feels really… hollow as advice?”
“Exactly!”
Cha Yongjin snapped his fingers.
Sharp kid.
He’d only been told step one, and already he had figured out step ten.
Bang Gicheol jumped in as well.
“Now I can clearly tell what you’re trying to express with this song.”
“Really? That’s a relief if so.”
“You sing well. I just sat there listening, completely drawn in.”
“That’s all thanks to the vocal directing being so good. I was surprised myself. So this is the power of producing.”
Taeyoon looked back.
The recording booth where he had just been alone.
He gazed at it for a mont, then slowly continued.
“There are things you can only see once you’re in there. Detailed directing. It was vague before, but now it feels firmly set.”
Cha Yongjin smiled with satisfaction and cut in.
“Alright, alright. Ti for the real lecture. The final rule: the mic never lies!”
Then he pointed at the monitor.
The vocal waveforms were laid out honestly.
The spots where too much strength went in, the shaky vibrato.
Cha Yongjin explained, and Taeyoon listened.
It was an excellent lecture—easy to grasp, straight to the point.
“When the power drops, when it trembles, even a little sigh. All those tiny mistakes, they’re audible. But the singer won’t notice.”
“Looking at it like this, I can see them.”
Taeyoon’s eyes sparkled.
Turning hearing into visuals—it was unbelievably fascinating.
“That’s why we need to catch it first.”
Taeyoon’s eyes stayed fixed on the monitor.
It looked like a simple graph, but inside it, every emotion, tremor, and mistake was clearly laid bare.
“That’s the producer’s role. How to make the singer comfortable, where to focus during the recording. Directing all those little details.”
“Hmm… So it’s about gently guiding while giving them reassurance.”
Taeyoon kept writing notes.
‘What’s he scribbling so seriously?’
Bang Gicheol and Cha Yongjin peeked at Taeyoon’s notebook.
His handwriting was so bad, they couldn’t read a single word.
“And one more thing…”
Cha Yongjin prepared to say his last point.
He hesitated.
It was the kind of remark that could easily be misunderstood.
But judging by what he had seen today—
“Yes, sir! If you say it, I’ll write it down!”
If it was Taeyoon, he would surely get the aning right.
Cha Yongjin grinned and went on.
“If it turns out well, it’s thanks to the singer. If it fails, it’s the producer’s fault.”
“Huhhh?”
“If you wrote the song and produced it yourself, then no matter the result, the responsibility lies with the producer. Drawing out the singer’s potential—that’s part of the producer’s job.”
Taeyoon looked straight at Cha Yongjin.
“Does that an a producer has to be perfect?”
“How could a person ever be perfect? But the singer has to be able to trust and rely on you. Music is ultimately teamwork. Don’t forget that.”
Only then did Taeyoon fully grasp what Cha Yongjin ant.
Simply nagging “Sing better” wasn’t the answer.
Creating an environnt where good results could co out—that was the producer’s role.
…That was the conclusion he reached.
In that mont, the studio felt different.
Sohow, the atmosphere seed a bit more familiar.
Taeyoon opened his notebook again.
He scribbled down a summary of today’s lessons.
[ Let go of the burden of having to do well. ]
[ Instead, create the conditions to do well. ]
Still, it looked like an indecipherable code only he could read.
Finally, the recording day arrived.
As Taeyoon appeared, the Signum mbers chattered endlessly.
“Hyung, what’s our concept?”
“Concept? One take?”
“What? One take?”
“But isn’t it a universal rule that recording takes forever?”
“Doing the whole recording in one take—you can count on one hand the people worldwide who do that.”
As the mbers all reacted with dismay, Taeyoon folded his arms and chuckled.
“Rules are ant to be broken.”
Then Lee Yehwan spoke up.
“Hyung, but we’re not the ‘skilled performance’ concept group.”
“Huh? Then what?”
“Visual concept?”
“…Wow.”
Taeyoon looked like a rabbit surrounded by chicks.
He pressed his hand to his forehead and glanced at the Signum mbers one by one.
They weren’t wrong, after all.
“An hour left. Hyung, aren’t you hungry? Want a lunchbox?”
“Hm? What kind of lunchbox? Ugh, I really hate salmon salad.”
“Ah, oh no.”
So they sat around at the company café, loosening up. Signum and Taeyoon, chatting casually.
But from afar, soone was watching them and whispering.
It was Busan Goblin and an A&R staff mber.
“Hey. Who’s that guy over there?”
“Huh? Oh, them. That’s Signum.”
“No, no. The one with black hair.”
“…Huh? Oh, that’s Stay. He’s with the idols, but he blends in pretty well…”
Busan Goblin stared at Taeyoon with wide, shining eyes as he asked:
“When will they finish?”
“Not sure. They booked two sessions.”
“Call when it’s over. I’ll be at the PC café out front, playing gas.”
“…Why?”
“What do you an, why? I’ve got to wait for Stay.”
The A&R staff couldn’t believe his ears.
“Wait… Stay? At a PC café? You’re going to wait for him?”
Busan Goblin, who normally bolted straight back to his studio the mont work ended?
Had he really heard that right?
The staff looked up at Busan Goblin with a bewildered expression.
Whether he noticed that gaze or not—
Busan Goblin fiddled with his hoodie strings, his eyes locked only on Taeyoon.
“Stay looks even more interesting this way.”
The corners of his mouth curled up in an unmistakable smirk.
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