Chanmin
16
0The Tempo of Conflict
Chan had always considered the studio his sanctuary—a messy, chaotic den of creativity fueled by caffeine and pure, unadulterated musical feeling. That sanctuary was now permanently tainted by the presence of Kim Seungmin.
Seungmin, the label’s golden-voiced darling, was technically perfect but, in Chan's opinion, emotionally sterilized. He moved through the studio like a forensic scientist, noting misplaced cables and demanding perfectly dry acoustic conditions. They were forced together to collaborate on the main title track for the year-end project, and it was a disaster.
“That take was flawless, Chan-hyung,” Seungmin said, his voice clipped and polite through the intercom, holding the microphone at exactly the prescribed angle.
“Flawless, maybe, but dead,” Chan retorted, rubbing his temples. He flipped a switch and addressed the control room. “Seungmin, the line is about frustration, about wanting to break free. It sounds like you’re singing the ingredients list for a shampoo bottle.”
Seungmin’s eyes narrowed, a cold glint appearing in them that Chan privately nicknamed the ‘Rude Awakeness.’ “My articulation is precise, and the breath control is impeccable. Your track is so muddy with unnecessary layering and compression, it wouldn't matter if I sang it covered in actual mud.”
The rivalry was exhausting, built on a foundation of mutual professional disdain. Chan found Seungmin’s pursuit of technical perfection stifling; Seungmin found Chan’s raw, immediate style reckless and unrefined. They spent the next three days in a stalemate, with their track languishing in an incomplete state.
On the fourth night, after Seungmin had stormed out following an argument about the appropriate reverb decay time, Chan found him not far from the building, sitting alone on a low concrete wall. Seungmin looked tired, the meticulous neatness of his hair slightly ruffled by the damp night air.
(YOUR SEUNGMIN)
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