WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Potter

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◈ My Fired Uncle Is a Genius Guitarist? ◈

Chapter 11: Let's Take Another Look

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On Friday at lunch, I was chewing a convenience-store salad and refreshing a used-goods marketplace app when Assistant Manager Kim's voice came flying over the partition.

“Manager, you've been staring at your phone a lot lately. You're trading stocks, aren't you?”

“I told you, I'm not.”

“Then crypto?”

“Assistant Manager Kim.”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking nonsense and take a nap.”

“...Yes, sir.”

Stocks would be better. I was out looking for guitars other people had thrown away.

Desperately, at that.

My search conditions were the same as yesterday: electric guitar, broken, dirt cheap.

The 190,000 won from my first deal had made me industrious. Once I'd calculated that two or three more flips would get me a basic recording setup, there was no reason to stop.

[Urgently selling electric guitar. Has noise. 200,000 won.]

One had just appeared. An electric guitar being sold cheaply because of some noise. I quickly enlarged the photos.

‘This is a find.’

Judging by the condition of the body in the thumbnail, it was a model that could easily fetch 400,000 won with little more than a dusting and a fresh set of strings.

Just as I was about to send a message, gray text appeared before the listing title.

[Reserved]

It had been posted less than ten minutes ago.

‘...That was fast.’

Then again, I couldn't be the only sharp-eyed hyena in this business. Whoever bit the juicy listings first got them. I expanded the range of my alerts by one notch and shoved my phone into my pocket.

#

After work, I hastily filled my stomach with a convenience-store lunchbox and headed to the meeting place. I was there to inspect the listing I'd arranged to see yesterday.

At the entrance to an alley lined with studio apartments, the seller, who looked to be in their thirties, opened the case and spoke confidently.

“It might be old, but it's a real gem.”

Good judgment wasn't only useful for choosing good merchandise. It was far more useful for filtering out garbage.

The moment I held the body and sighted down the fretboard, I knew the estimate. The neck wasn't simply bowed. It had taken on moisture wrong and twisted into an S shape. The kind a hex wrench and the truss rod couldn't fix. On top of that, the frets were worn deeply enough to have grooves in them. Complete junk, where repair costs would eat the entire profit and still not be enough.

In short, it wasn't money. It was baggage.

“I think the neck's twisted.”

“Oh, that? Vintage guitars are all like that. Play it a little and break it in, and the sound will really come alive.”

Vintage, my ass. It was just used firewood that had been left in a corner without maintenance. If breaking it in could bring the sound back, every repair-shop owner in the world would've starved to death by now.

‘It would make a fantastic sound if you used it as firewood.’

I swallowed the truth bombs rising to my lips and politely drew the line.

“I'm sorry, but it's not in the condition I had in mind. I don't think I can make this deal.”

“You said you were going to fix it and use it.”

“Being fixable and being profitable are different things.”

“...Man, you don't know how to judge a guitar. Fine, fine. I'll knock off about 10,000 won.”

“I'm sorry.”

I'm not buying it because I do know how to judge a guitar.

Swallowing the words that had risen to my throat, I left the seller and their sour expression behind and walked out of the alley. I'd wasted an hour on the round trip, but it couldn't be helped. Having an eye for filtering out garbage was just as important as having an eye for good merchandise. Without it, I wouldn't be running a profitable business. I'd just be a junk collector.

Back in my one-room apartment, I flopped onto the bed without even changing clothes. Staring at the stains on the dull ceiling, I let out a long sigh.

‘Printing money was never going to be that easy.’

When Oh Jaedong had handed me 500,000 won in cash, I'd thought things were finally going well. In reality, it was an endless chain of legwork, wasted trips, and jockeying with other buyers.

It was nearly midnight when I finally found a usable listing. An electric guitar that made a crackling sound when its volume knob was adjusted. Nine times out of ten, that meant a bad pot, a part that cost only a few thousand won. The neck looked fine in the enlarged photos, too. This time, I sent a message before anyone else could snatch it.

< Hello. I'd like to buy the guitar. Would an in-person transaction be possible?

Seller> Yes, that's possible. But you know this thing makes a crackling sound, right?

< Yes, that's fine. When are you available?

Seller> How about Sunday evening?

< Sounds good. Then where should we meet...?

Only after setting up the meeting did I put down my phone.

Candidate listing number two secured.

#

Saturday afternoon. When I opened the rehearsal-room door, familiar faces were setting up equipment in the cramped room.

“Oh, Uncle's here.”

Yun Taerin sprang up from the drum stool, pulled a crumpled wad of bills from their pocket, and thrust it toward me.

“Here.”

“What is this?”

“I told you. We'd pay for the rehearsal room this time. We scraped together all our allowance, so quit complaining and take it.”

Bae Somi, holding a bass beside them, gave a small nod. Cha Sion silently continued tuning their guitar. I looked down at the crumpled stacks of ten-thousand- and five-thousand-won bills.

‘Taking kids' allowance money as an adult is a bad look, no matter how you slice it...’

But then I remembered the balance in my overdraft account, yesterday's wasted trip, and the value of the 190,000 won I'd barely earned a few days ago.

“...All right. I'll put it to good use.”

The sorrow of a thirty-six-year-old perpetual manager, who became endlessly shallow in front of money. Right. This was all part of the grand plan to teach these kids independence. Rationalizing it to myself, I tucked the bills into my pocket.

“So, what did we get together to do today?”

“What do you mean, what? We need to practice in case we pass the preliminaries.”

“That's impossible.”

“What is?”

“Passing the preliminaries.”

“Why are you always so negative, Uncle?”

“Almost every high school team gets eliminated in the Plugged Survival preliminaries. That's a fact.”

“You said almost. There's always an exception.”

Yun Taerin spun a drumstick and spoke with confidence. Baseless confidence. At that age, it was the scariest weapon there was.

I was about to respond when I glanced at Cha Sion, who was absentmindedly fiddling with the amp knobs in the corner.

Usually, Sion looked bored by everything, but the moment the camera's red recording light came on, they became a completely different person.

‘Right. If even one of those judges has the eye to recognize them, then maybe... just maybe.’

Perhaps sensing my stare, Cha Sion looked over while holding the microphone and spoke bluntly.

“What are you doing? Aren't we starting?”

That kid was especially motivated today.

“Let's do it. We'll warm up first.”

We lightly ran through one of the preliminary songs together. They had definitely improved. Yun Taerin's fills no longer faltered at the spots we'd cut, and Bae Somi was noticeably less often cutting notes off after they had begun to sound.

Taking a sip of water, I asked, “But if you pass, what are you going to do for the main round? You can't perform this again.”

“Of course not. The main round is live. What would the judges think if we brought the same song?”

“Shouldn't we at least pick some candidates first?”

“An original would be good. Original songs get bonus points.”

An original song.

A drawer in my mind gave a rattle.

A drawer where hundreds of songs lay sleeping. Any one of them could turn this whole scene upside down.

‘Not yet.’

There was no way to bring one out. I had neither the equipment to record it nor the money to refine it. More than anything, if I threw one out there unprepared, I'd only kill the song.

“Originals are out of the question. Let's narrow down some cover-song candidates. Bring up one song each that you want to do.”

“Me first! There's one I've really wanted to do.”

“I-I'll think of one...”

“...Anything. I'll sing whatever you tell me to.”

After that, we tried playing through one song each that everyone wanted to push. We didn't reach a conclusion. There was no reason we needed one yet.

As we packed up to leave, Yun Taerin shouted from behind me.

“Uncle! I'll call you as soon as the results are announced!”

“Sure.”

There was nothing to do but wait for the results. All we could do while waiting was get ourselves ready.

#

In a small meeting room at the corner of the Plugged office, three people had been seated in front of a monitor for two days already.

Three folders were open on one side of the screen: Pass, Hold, and Eliminate. With so many teams participating, they were quickly filtering them on the first pass, then reviewing only the borderline teams later. Countless teams were being sent to the elimination folder without pause.

“Next. Eliminate.”

“They picked the wrong cover song from the start. Eliminate.”

“The vocalist's pitch... Yeah, next.”

“An office-worker band. They can play, but they're boring.”

“Hold. Next.”

“A practical music department team. Put this one through.”

Familiar levels flowed into familiar places. The high school teams were especially quick to finish. They rarely even listened to an entire first song.

The department head stretched and asked, “The passed entries are being released next week, right?”

“Yes. The view counts start then, so we need to filter through a decent number by tomorrow.”

The producer checked the number of remaining files and sighed.

“Next. Black Rabbit.”

“High school students?”

“Three of them.”

“Three?”

“The guitarist didn't list an age.”

“They filled out the application carelessly.”

At that answer, Jeong Sehyuk wearily rolled their neck and leaned back in their chair. None of the three people in the room seemed to expect much. They'd already spent the whole day growing sick of the limits and predictable skill levels of school bands.

With a mouse click, a playback bar appeared on the screen.

The introduction to a standard cover-song favorite began to play in the video. The judges silently watched the monitor with their arms crossed. The producer, whose finger had been hovering over the skip button from the start, immediately fixed their gaze on Cha Sion, standing in the center of the screen with a guitar slung over their shoulder.

“The vocalist knows how to work the camera.”

“True. They'd make a good thumbnail.”

The department head agreed.

“When it goes public, the vocalist will get people talking.”

“Getting people talking is one thing. That won't get them to the main round.”

It was intuitive praise from professionals who knew how to connect content and visuals. But that was all it was. For a school-band vocalist, they stood out fairly well.

Jeong Sehyuk's reaction, however, was different.

Instead of the monitor, Jeong Sehyuk had fully turned toward the speakers on the desk. Their sharp, session-trained ears were breaking down the skeleton of the sound hidden beyond the screen.

“Hold on.”

They grabbed the mouse and dragged the playback bar back.

“Where's the guitar playing lead right now?”

“Lead? The vocalist is holding a guitar.”

“That's second guitar. I mean the one driving the sound up front.”

“...Oh. You're right. Where are they?”

The three pairs of eyes swept through every corner of the screen. The department head pointed at the edge of the image.

“Isn't it this? That red arm?”

“Only the arm is visible.”

“Yes. That's all we can see on screen.”

They played it again. This time, Jeong Sehyuk listened with their eyes nearly closed.

“This team still isn't fully tight.”

“Yes.”

“The drummer's young, and the bassist is holding back.”

“Yes.”

“But why aren't they falling apart?”

After listening for a moment longer, Jeong Sehyuk spoke quietly.

“...The lead is holding them together. That guitar we can't see on screen.”

“Let's listen to the second song too.”

The second video played through to the end without interruption. No one suggested stopping it in the middle. When it was over, Jeong Sehyuk folded their arms.

“It wasn't a coincidence.”

“One song might've been, but if both songs are like this, then no.”

The department head, who had listened quietly until then, spoke up.

“I get the video, but we don't know if they can deliver live.”

“Right. Live performance is another matter.”

Jeong Sehyuk looked at the screen for a moment before speaking.

“Put them on hold for now.”

Black Rabbit's name went into the middle folder.

The judging continued without a break.

“Next. Noise Line. They're a school band too.”

“What's with today?”

Jeong Sehyuk grumbled, rubbing the back of their neck.

Play.

A guitar soaked in noise surged forward like a wall, but the drums and bass inside it did not drift apart by even an inch. When the guitarist at the front gave the count, the other three came in together.

Jeong Sehyuk's body, which had been pressed against the backrest, slowly drew forward. The producer set down their coffee, and the department head completely unfolded their arms and leaned toward the monitor.

For the first time in two days, the atmosphere in the sluggish meeting room went taut.

“...These kids have spent some time onstage.”

No one answered the department head's comment. There was no need to. Jeong Sehyuk checked the playback bar. Not even a minute had passed.

“Put them through.”

“No objections.”

Noise Line's name went straight into the pass folder.

Right after Noise Line passed, a brief silence fell over the judging room.

Just as the producer was about to play the next team's video, Jeong Sehyuk grabbed the producer's arm holding the mouse. They were pointing at the hold folder that had just been closed.

“That high school team from earlier.”

“Black Rabbit?”

“Yes. Let's take another look.”

At Jeong Sehyuk's words, the producer found Black Rabbit's file in the hold folder and double-clicked it.

The video on the monitor began to play again.

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