Chapter 115 : Operation Success
Chapter 115: Operation Success
Years ago, the word “Easy Listening” began to take over the K-POP market.
Music that, as the name suggests, was easy to listen to.
No complex composition, no high notes.
The melody stayed low and neat, the lyrics light and straightforward.
Both underperforming veteran groups and fresh rookies— at least once, they all dressed themselves in this genre and broke through the charts.
As if it were a rite of passage everyone had to go through at least once.
If you weren’t that interested in music, you might think it was a new coinage,
but this term had a long-standing tradition.
It dated all the way back to the 1940s.
Its original meaning was clear— music that flowed like background sound without anything unpleasant to the ear.
Usually, string-based classical tunes or calm bluesy jazz pieces.
But these days, it was a bit different.
As long as it was quiet and unpretentious, it was called easy listening.
Music that made you stop thinking. Music that didn’t tire you out.
So right now, easy listening wasn’t just a genre— it was the trend itself.
And at the center of that stood Tomorrow Entertainment.
Pure, refreshing, clear, graceful...
There was a girl group that embodied every beautiful adjective there was.
They led the current scene with a softly filtered song.
The result? A massive success.
After that, everyone—without exception—claimed to do easy listening.
But then—
‘……What is he trying to say?’
Taeyoon brought up the term easy singing.
At first, I couldn’t quite grasp what that meant.
‘He’s trying to turn the trend upside down?’
If the easy listening of the past had been the art of simplicity, then now it was being used as an excuse for carelessness.
Was that what he meant?
If so, then—
Was it a warning against trends? Or a rebuttal?
And using Taeshi’s voice, of all people?
How was I supposed to take this?
At that time, Tae Junggi thought just that.
Silence filled the room.
No one spoke.
This was exactly the kind of moment you had to stay sharp.
This was a gambit.
If I couldn’t express my thoughts properly, I’d look like a pretentious fool drunk on some sloppy philosophy.
I glanced at Tae Junggi.
His expression seemed to say, “Go on, let’s hear it.”
Leaning lazily in his chair, he stared straight at me.
Now was the time.
Without hesitation, I began to speak clearly and firmly.
“Nowadays, easy-to-listen music dominates the scene.”
A stillness fell.
They surely understood what I meant.
Easy listening didn’t blame the listener for being complacent.
But easy singing blurred the responsibility of the creator.
I looked around the conference room.
Taeshi had her head lowered deeply, while Executive Director Han Ji-hyuk and CEO Tae Junggi were both fixed on my lips.
I continued slowly.
“First, we need to reconsider what easy listening really means to us.”
At my words, Han Ji-hyuk stepped in as if he’d been waiting for the cue.
“A melody that sounds fine no matter who sings it, a tone that’s fine even without too much emotion, an arrangement where even mistakes aren’t very noticeable. A song that doesn’t tire either the singer or the listener—right?”
I smiled lightly and nodded.
“People these days call that ‘sophisticated.’”
CEO Tae Junggi still didn’t speak.
Only his eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.
He wanted to see what else I would say.
That was enough.
“But I don’t think so.”
I pressed the words out deliberately, with weight.
This wasn’t about taste.
It was about conviction.
I’d often wondered—
Why do people define easy however they want?
Whether it was a frantic beat, a singer belting impossibly high notes, or lyrics made dense with story—
If the listener feels comfortable, isn’t that what makes it easy listening?
Simply put—
It felt forced.
To me, the kind of music that feels pleasant to listen to is the kind where the synth theme, the drums, the guitar, and most importantly, the vocalist all work hard to show their charm in their own places.
Overly flat music…
Should I say—it gets boring quickly?
“Maybe that’s music that doesn’t place any expectations on the singer. Music that fails to make the voice its weapon. The singer should be both the centerpiece and the weapon of the song. I think… that kind of music dulls its edge.”
As soon as I finished, Taeshi suddenly lifted her head.
When our eyes met—
Her eyes were brimming with tears.
Hmm… I didn’t think what I said was that moving, though.
Well, I suppose it meant she understood and empathized with it deeply.
Now it was time to say the most important part.
“So, I use the term ‘Easy Singing’ for that kind of music. Because it’s a song that’s easy for the singer to sing.”
“Hm…”
The air in the conference room stirred slightly.
When I turned my head, Tae Junggi’s gaze pierced straight through me.
His face was expressionless, as always.
Was he displeased? It was possible.
After all, he was the one who had created and defined that easy something in the first place.
What I’d just said was, essentially, that I wanted to break the mold he had built.
He didn’t show emotion, but he was definitely shaken.
Still, I couldn’t stop speaking.
Because this was what I truly wanted to say.
“Rather than someone who sings easy songs, I think a real artist is someone who can handle the difficult ones.”
I shifted my gaze toward Tae Junggi.
“Everyone here already knows. What Taeshi showed us wasn’t just passion. It was a performance that proved her potential—her appeal. I merely opened the door a little beside her.”
CEO Tae Junggi’s expression remained dry.
But something had changed.
His face was still calm, but there was emotion glistening around his eyes.
He didn’t cut in with words or stop me with actions.
Whatever he was feeling—
I was ready to say everything I’d prepared and leave my seat.
It wasn’t running away.
The final decision wasn’t mine to make, anyway.
“Maybe true Easy Listening is the ability to make a difficult song sound smooth and effortless.”
Without hesitation,
I drove the final nail into today’s conversation.
“And I… believe Taeshi has that ability.”
A cold silence continued to flow in the conference room.
No one objected— did that mean they agreed?
Or that they hadn’t finished forming an opinion yet?
Either way, it didn’t matter.
Even if my words had been a little rambling—
I’d conveyed exactly what I meant to.
And with that, I wrapped up the meeting with a lightened heart.
The conference room door closed.
Executive Director Han Ji-hyuk, Taeshi, and Stay had all left.
Only silence remained, but Tae Junggi was still sitting in his seat.
The meeting was over, but his contemplation had just begun.
Tap. Tap.
His fingertips lazily drummed on the table.
‘Easy Singing… interesting.’
He thought little of it at first.
Probably just some self-styled philosophy, he figured.
Newcomers who’d had a few hits always did that—mistaking creation for philosophy.
They made noise challenging something, burned hot with conviction, and in the end, smoothed it all over with some lukewarm sentimentality.
Wasn’t that the way of the youth these days?
But Taeyoon was different.
He had struck precisely at the spot Tae Junggi had kept hidden.
He slowly retraced the words he had just heard.
— Rather than choosing songs that are easy to listen to, choose ones that are easy to sing.
— The real ownership of music should belong to the singer.
— True Easy Listening is the ability to make a difficult song sound easy.
“Haa…”
A deep sigh escaped him.
The past meeting notes replayed quickly in his mind.
Mood over emotion.
Focus on tonal unity.
Relaxed arrangement.
Atmosphere over melody.
Conclusion: Easy Listening.
When you think about it, that wasn’t a genre—it was a shield.
When the artist’s skill hit its limit, they were given songs that were easy to sing, then wrapped up and sold as emotional.
And that, in turn, was labeled a trend.
No one questioned it.
Not the critics, not the listeners—
not even the internal team.
But Taeyoon—
with just one new phrase, “Easy Singing,”—
flung the curtain wide open.
A song that’s easy to sing.
That phrase kept echoing in his ears.
He didn’t know where or how Taeyoon had learned it, but those words were the precise language of a planner.
He’d aimed straight at the blind spot—
and hit the bull’s-eye.
I only opened the door a little.
Ironically, that was the real planning.
He had opened too many doors for them. Too often, too soon.
And because of that,
he had raised kids who didn’t even know how to open the door themselves.
‘Stay, you’re interesting.’
Until now, no one—
no one had ever spoken their mind like this in front of him.
No, this wasn’t simply speaking one’s mind.
It was a provocation. Yes, maybe even a challenge.
It would be a lie to say it didn’t annoy him.
But as Taeyoon’s words piled up, they began to poke at something deeper—
beyond intent, right at the core.
Firmly, yet without disrespect.
If that’s really what he thinks… that’s remarkable.
He was right—he’d struck home.
Everything Tomorrow Entertainment had released under the Easy Listening label so far was the result of meticulously calculated marketing.
Why?
Because the idols under Tomorrow Entertainment couldn’t really sing.
They’d been so focused on visuals that they’d let the most important thing slip away.
They succeeded as Easy Listening-concept idols, but as singers, they showed no real growth.
Easy Listening becoming Easy Singing… he’s not wrong.
At first, Tae Junggi had thought it was just strategy.
But as it became familiar, it only served to hide and disguise their lacking abilities.
And all of it was wrapped up neatly under the word Easy Listening.
Tae Junggi had been the one who designed it all.
Music for the listener?
In the end, it was just an excuse.
Now what should I do…
Tae Junggi rubbed his forehead lightly.
He’d long since thrown sentimentality out the window.
He was cold, calculating, and a seasoned professional who measured everything by timing and gain.
And yet—
because of a single line from Taeyoon,
he found himself dismantling the very framework he had built alone.
Music has lost its protagonist.
That was how he, of his own accord, summed up today’s discussion.
Then Tae Junggi thought back to Taeshi’s performance earlier.
It had bared the full texture of emotion.
That overwhelming high note.
And layered upon it… lyrics only she could truly understand.
Just like Taeyoon had said—
She made a hard song sound easy.
It was easy to listen to.
The songs Taeshi had performed so far had remained within the realm of hip-hop,
but according to Tomorrow Entertainment’s formula, they had always carried an Easy Listening banner.
Warm and gentle-toned lo-fi hip-hop.
Or mellow rap, spoken like a conversation.
They defined it as “Soft Flow” and pushed it as Tomorrow Entertainment’s signature style.
A sound that flowed with no friction, filled you without stress,
topped with Taeshi’s calm rap delivery.
And the result?
No one cared—astonishingly so.
No matter how much money they poured into marketing, the results were… well.
Until now, they’d just thought it was because Taeshi’s name value was weak.
But then—
…That was actually Hard Listening, Hard Singing.
After hearing Taeyoon’s words, it felt like a jolt to the back of his head.
And then—
he couldn’t help but wonder what went on inside Taeyoon’s mind, that face so beautiful yet words so sharp.
Just as Tae Junggi was about to pick up his phone to make a call—
“Wait a second, haha.”
A sudden laugh burst out.
Easy Listening.
He realized the critical point had shifted, tangled up in that powerful phrase.
Did he really plan this so deliberately?
With a single comment, Taeyoon had changed the focus of the discussion— from “Should we accept Taeshi’s concept change?” to “Is Taeshi’s concept Easy Listening or not?”
As if he had predicted the outcome all along,
Taeyoon had changed the flow entirely in his own way.
Barely suppressing a smile,
Tae Junggi finally made the call he’d paused earlier and gave a brief order.
“Director Han, tell Si-hyun to meet me tonight. Yeah, the usual place.”
Along with a faint relief that he had caught onto Taeyoon’s intention early—
came a strange wave of unease.
Taeyoon and Taeshi.
The two of them were trying to divert the very course he had worked so hard to shape.
Which meant—
this next conversation wouldn’t be an order.
It had to be a negotiation.