Home > K-pop Confidential(4)

K-pop Confidential(4)
Author: Stephan Lee

At first, I thought this audition was just for S.A.Y. Entertainment’s first-ever girl group, but according to the signs everywhere, they’re also looking for male singers for their upcoming boy group, which they’re calling “SLK 2.0.” The line stretches from the movie theater lobby out the door into the parking lot, snaking around the building.

I’m shook. I didn’t know there were this many K-pop fans on the whole East Coast, let alone in New Jersey. It’s mostly Asians, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see there’s pretty much every kind of human in the crowd. There’s a local news team filming people doing the “Unicorn” dance—it’s basically where you make a horn against your forehead with your finger while doing a complicated gallop. It’s sort of like PSY’s “Gangnam Style” dance, except when the SLK guys do it, it’s cool and kind of sexy.

I gaze up at the giant posters of SLK plastered all over the multiplex. There are five members: ChangWoo, the leader and “dad” of the group; YooChin, the swaggy main rapper; Joodah, the one with the really adventurous fashion sense; Wookie, the funny one who almost looks like a regular dude; and, of course One.J, the Center, Visual, Face, and Maknae of the group.

In some posters, the five of them look icy and a little scary, like vampires from Twilight, their skin shining white, their lips glistening bloodred, their eyes glowing a fiery gold. In others, they look sunny and teenage-dreamy, like the ideal, puka-shell-wearing boyfriend you fantasize about meeting at summer camp but never actually do.

For a second, I get lost in One.J’s gaze in one of the scary-sexy posters. His smoldering stare. His perfect, slightly parted lips.

I shake myself out of my trance—Imani and Ethan do, too—when we finally get to the sign-in desk after waiting in line for more than two hours. The girl at the desk, who’s wearing an SLK T-shirt, asks snippily, “Are all three of you here to audition?”

“No, just this K-pop idol right here,” says Imani.

The girl glances at me skeptically and hands me a sign-in sheet. “Next,” she drones.

We move along to the holding area outside the auditorium where the auditions are going on. I sit on the floor and start filling out my sign-in sheet, which is in both English and Korean.

 

Imani peers over my shoulder. I expect her to tell me to take my answers more seriously, but she just says, “Cute. You’re showing personality. Oh, and your picks for fave K-pop groups are super solid. You learn quickly, my young Padawan.”

I turn my sheet in to the can’t-be-bothered sign-in girl, who gives me a number to pin to my clothes: 824. I take this as a good sign—my birthday is August 24.

Ethan takes out his phone to film me. “How does it feel knowing you’re about to be chosen for the girl version of SLK?”

I hold up a peace sign and flash the cutesiest, most squishy-faced smile I can, my imitation of the perfect K-pop idol.

“None of that’s gonna happen,” I say through my exaggerated grin. “I’m going to sing my song, get rejected, and pretend I was never here.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” says Ethan, putting down his phone.

I look around. The movie theater, closed to the general public for the day, is full of kids who look like they belong at an anime cosplay convention: tons of heavy eyeliner, neon hair, chokers, pale gothic makeup. Others are more hip-hop, all baggy jeans and chains. Everyone’s practicing their break dancing or doing vocal warmups, putting their whole bodies into singing a cappella versions of K-pop hits like “Loser” by Big Bang or “Love Whisper” by GFriend. I’ve never felt so out of place. I’m skipping SAT tutoring to be here.

Sensing how nervous I am, Imani says, “Let’s do Diversity Hands for good luck.”

Diversity Hands is one of our inside jokes, spoofing a photo in this brochure our school guidance counselor Mr. Torrence has in his office about Celebrating Diversity. We put our hands together and admire the differences: Imani’s deep brown hand; Ethan’s pale, sorta hairy hand; and mine. I don’t know why people say Asian skin is yellow, because it’s not, but it’s definitely different from the other two.

“Well, would you look at that,” says Ethan in his Lame Dad voice.

When my name is finally called, Ethan helps me strap my pink guitar around my shoulder. Me and two other auditioners file into the auditorium, where we stand on a mini stage in front of the IMAX movie screen. After my eyes adjust to the spotlight shining on me, I make out three people in the audience: a cameraman filming us, a dude in hip glasses and a sweater vest, and a fierce-looking woman in a business suit with a neutral smile frozen on her face. The woman, I can tell, is the one I really need to impress.

“On behalf of S.A.Y. Entertainment, Manager Kong thanks you for coming out to audition,” says Glasses McSweatervest. Manager Kong must be the fierce-looking woman. “I’m Brandon Choi, and I’ll be your translator today. You’ll have up to one minute to sing, dance, or perform a monologue, based on your chosen skill. When we stop you, it means we’ve seen enough—please do not continue. First, we have number 822, Ricky Townshend, who will be singing … ‘Jebal.’ Is that right?”

An African American boy with pink hair steps forward. After doing a silent little prayer, Ricky starts singing an insanely sad ballad in perfect Korean. Even with my basic understanding of the Korean language, I know jebal means please—or more intense than please; it’s more like, For the love of God, please!!! (Umma often yells at me, “Jebal, practice your viola!”) From the very first note, Ricky kills it. Not only is his Korean better than mine, but he brings aching emotions to the lyrics. When he’s done, I have chills and can’t help but start clapping until Brandon the translator shoots me a sharp look.

Next up is a Korean American dude with cornrows who decides to perform a rap he wrote himself. His calls himself ANTIKDOTE, and his skills are about as good as his name. Miss Kong and Brandon the translator stop him after ten seconds.

I’m up third and last in the group. I step forward.

“I will be singing an acoustic cover of ‘Bad Guy’ by Billie Eilish,” I say with a nod of my head. I can’t do a deep, proper Korean bow because of my guitar.

I can hardly see Miss Kong or the translator, just their silhouettes. I hold my breath and strum the first chord.

When I start singing, I hear myself rushing a little bit, but I can’t help it—I suddenly feel self-conscious about my song choice. My voice sounds thin to me, probably because I haven’t sung above a whisper in years. I probably look like a twelve-year-old with my pink guitar. No one would believe me claiming to be the “make your mama sad type.” I should have chosen a Carly Rae Jepsen song or something.

I only expected to sing the first verse and chorus, but I don’t hear anyone stop me. Or maybe they’re yelling at me to stop, but I haven’t heard them because it’s like I’m outside my body—my brain’s turned off and my fingers are moving by muscle memory. For the instrumental break during the song, I actually stop singing and just whistle while slapping my guitar for the beat.

At the end of the song, I stop kind of abruptly, and my brain registers once again that I’m standing in an empty movie theater auditioning for a K-pop group. I bow once more. It’s completely silent, and I step back to my spot next to Ricky and ANTIKDOTE.

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