In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

“Ahahaha!”

“Oh, stop laughing. It’s embarrassing.”

“Ahahaha!”

“Seriously, cut it out!”

At the main vocalist’s sharp rebuke, we all stopped laughing, then locked eyes—and burst out laughing again, patting each other on the shoulder.

Managers doubled over in laughter at the sight, and Ri-hyuk muttered a curse.

“May you trip and fall flat on your face.”

“Like this?”

He mimed falling over. Ri-hyuk, thoroughly annoyed, let out a gleeful, villainous laugh. Passersby clapped and laughed as they walked by.

Straightening his posture, Ri-hyuk tried to stroll ahead—but we called him back.

“Ri-hyuk.”

“Uh, what?”

“Do you think you were the only one embarrassed? We were just as flustered....”

We really had been. He explained:

“I was dozing off, then woke up to some random American guy yelling, ‘Your friend ran away!’”

“Right. I should’ve been embarrassed, but he was more panicked, shouting, ‘Your friend’s fleeing!’”

We laughed again at how absurd it sounded in Times Square—phone out, offering a ten-dollar reward for my capture.

Jiho warmly chuckled.

“Good thing he didn’t have the stamina to actually run far—he’d have collapsed if he sprinted.”

“Ri-hyuk pro tip: battery drains fast.”

Ri-hyuk fumed silently, and we laughed once more. In any case, we wrapped up well at the theater: took a selfie and signed autographs for Fred, who’d introduced himself as a K-pop fan.

Jung-hyun looked around the street.

“Man, the world really is small. I never expected to meet a fan here.”

“Right? We need to watch our behavior.”

In LA, we expected to meet Koreans, but Americans recognizing us in New York came as a surprise. We paced Broadway thoughtfully.

“Who knows—someone here might be watching us.”

“Hmmm... you’ve got way too much time on your hands.”

“But can’t hurt to be careful, right?”

As we walked seriously, the managers snickered.

“You guys are so out of place.”

“Why? We’re being earnest.”

“It’s like kindergarteners walking seriously to their school play.”

Once again, Wonseok-hyung’s metaphor hit home. We smiled warmly and nodded at his advice to just relax.

“Kya-ha!”

And so we joyfully strolled through New York’s nightscape. Broadway glowed like a city of lights—everything sparkled, even the Starbucks sign.

“Where do all these people come from...?”

We felt swept along by the throngs chatting and laughing. The energy was intoxicating. Gazing at the bright musical marquees, I felt oddly moved.

“By the end of this year or next, there’ll be a ‘Nostalgia’ marquee here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Weird feeling....”

Since we only had one number in the show, we hadn’t given it much thought. Now imagining a “Nostalgia” sign drawing crowds here felt surreal. Ri-hyuk gave a wry smile.

“Why do the people who were sleeping in the musical just now suddenly look so emotional?”

“No more honesty from you, Seo Ri-hyuk.”

“Sigh. You killed my vibe again. If there were a PhD in vibe-killing, you’d have it.”

As Biju fed Ri-hyuk snacks to console his deflated ego, the rest of us enjoyed Manhattan’s night.

“Hey, I smell peanuts.”

We marveled at Jung-hyun’s ability to detect street-vendor peanuts from meters away.

“Wow, someone’s singing.”

“It’s dancing.”

We watched people in sweatpants breakdancing and munched peanuts. It was such a good time. Maybe the rest helped, but our little trip felt wonderful. In Korea, someone recognizes us every few steps; here, hidden in the crowd, we could truly enjoy the big city.

Of course, not everyone in New York was oblivious. A middle-aged Korean couple approached.

“You’re NewBlack. What brings you here?”

“We’re here for # Nоvеlight # a concert.”

“Oh my, what trouble you went through to come all the way here. You could’ve stayed comfortable in Korea.”

Their tone implied, “Why come to America?” When I mentioned the joint concert would host over 10,000 people—

“Here, take this.”

The father handed me a few dollars.

“Use it for a meal.”

“No, sir, we earn plenty.”

“Keep it. You’re far from home, you deserve it.”

“Thank you, but we appreciate the thought.”

“Well then, have a good trip.”

“Go NewBlack!”

The mother pumped her tiny fist as they walked away, and we bowed. That was genuine Korean warmth. And from there, we began spotting more Koreans.

“Oh? What are you doing here?”

“You’ll have to guess why we’re here—got ten seconds!”

“Uh... flash-mob chase-content? New York night market special?”

“Bzzzt! Time’s up.”

At first, I thought they were just trolling us, but they truly believed any Korean face they saw must be NewBlack. Mingi-hyung remarked,

“I’d heard ‘national idol’ in the media, but I never thought I’d feel it in New York.”

“Aaah!”

“Why are you cringing?”

“Every time I hear that, I die inside. Try calling someone ‘national Lisa Choi.’”

“There’s a nicer term—‘manager.’ Sun Woo-ju, stand over here.”

That day ended—just as an onlooker predicted—with a chase-content special in New York.

After our free day, the next morning we visited the studio bright and early.

“Hey—long time no see!”

A portly Asian-American man pumped my hand. Frank Chow, producer of the musical adaptation of Nostalgia and world-renowned composer—it was our second meeting.

His raisin-like eyes studied me.

“Your friend didn’t come this time, haha!”

He’d dueled with Director Jo over the Thousand Dreams contract—and lost. He laughed.

“Bitter memories, huh? The world is so big... I never imagined another devil like you.”

“I’ll tell him that exactly.”

“I’m hurt! I thought we were friends!”

He joked about meeting me next in court, and I laughed. Our rapport had grown via back-and-forth emails, like pen pals.

“Pen pals, huh... do people still do that?”

“I did once as a kid—sent pictures, then lost contact.”

“Why?”

“They asked me to marry them—and promised a hefty dowry. Too much pressure.”

“How’s Tanya doing?” he’d asked in that first letter. His rueful smile made Frank burst out laughing. My brothers whispered,

“If only they’d been the richest person in that country... oil under their land.”

“Such a wasted opportunity—they could’ve shipped me off years ago.”

A glance from me silenced them. We followed Frank through the hallway lined with plaques and posters of his famous Broadway shows—classics any non-theater person would recognize. Our youngest, dreaming of acting, stared wide-eyed at the musical producer.

“New appreciation?” Frank asked.

“Not at all.”

Caught—but his bright eyes made me proud, and he guffawed.

“This way.”

At last, the recording room appeared—and we all gasped.

“Whoa—!”

It wasn’t a mere recording “room.” It was a recording “palace”—easy to call it “House of Recording” or “NewBlack’s Recording Hall.” Through the broad glass window, an orchestra was reading sheet music in a large room—at least 1,000 square feet—and beyond that, more glass booths marked “Vocal 1,” “Vocal 2.”

Frank explained, “As you know, our musicals use live music. That’s why the studio is huge.”

I nodded, having researched that English-language musicals deploy live orchestras. The cast album recordings match the performance scale—exactly as onstage.

“Wow....”

My brothers and I gawked as Frank beckoned.

“Come here. Let me introduce you. This is Frank Wheeler—same name as me—music director for this show.”

A white-haired gentleman beamed and waved. We greeted him with “Hello,” and he nodded back. Next, Frank highlighted the engineers—seven or eight staff in the control room.

“And over there, the orchestra.”

He pressed the talkback button to call out:

“Hey, folks! The original creators of ‘Thousand Dreams’ are here!”

Through their headphones, the musicians and conductor cheered and waved. Their exultant shout felt like attending a vibrant parade—infectious excitement.

Then Frank pointed to the five actors in the vocal booth and pressed the red talkback button.

“These are the actors playing the ‘foreign-language books.’ Introducing Holly, Elle....”

A diverse lineup from middle-aged to child actors in casual clothing greeted us playfully. Holly, the middle-aged Black woman who said her name was Holly, let out a shriek at Ri-hyuk’s pale face:

“Oh my god...!”

Ri-hyuk turned whiter at the compliment, and Holly placed her hands on her cheeks.

“You’re too cute—just like my little boy from head to toe!”

“Wow...!”

It seemed impossible, but saying otherwise risked deportation, so Ri-hyuk replied politely.

“Thank you, Ms. Campbell.”

“Call me Holly, sweetie! Not Campbell at all.”

She teased him as “my little John,” and we all laughed. Ri-hyuk’s cheeks turned crimson.

As laughter echoed in the control room, Frank turned to a trio setting up cameras.

“And these are the documentary crew.”

“Hi, I’m Rachel Brown.”

She flashed a cheerful smile and shook our hands—she was the host of the music documentary series, each 40 minutes. Our episode would explore the original musical, the film’s songs, and feature Nostalgia—exciting exposure.

“Alright!”

The composer said with a grin. “All introductions done—shall we rehearse a bit before we start?”

“Sounds good.”

When we were shown to our stations, I let out an involuntary, ecstatic shriek.

“Wh—what is this?! This is—this is—!”

“Hyung, that was Korean.”

“Isn’t this where I lie down?”

“Um?”

He switched the joke. “If there’s a heaven, it’s right here.”

“Haha, after a few hours sitting you might change your mind.”

“Can I just touch those precious knobs? Not adjust—just finger them?”

“Well... go ahead.”

As I trembled with excitement tracing the console’s surface, my brothers face-palmed at my geeky glee.

“One selfie, please.”

If not for the musical, I could’ve spent hours whispering sweet nothings to this equipment. My eyes went dreamy at every new device.

“Sir, focus. This is a documentary shoot.”

“...”

“And stop changing expressions so abruptly. It looks weird.”

As I shifted to a more serious pose, laughter rippled around me. Frank chuckled at my antics.

“You’re quite the eccentric.”

“I’m just a composer excited by the tech. Anyone would get butterflies.”

“Of course.”

He smiled and gestured—they’d finished their hospitality and could begin recording. I nodded.

“Then let’s start.”

At once, the orchestra’s playful atmosphere turned focused—as if that laughter had been mere play. Their faces still held smiles, but they began to perform with intent.

“Right!”

Frank, waving his score, rose and moved to the music. Engineers and crew sprang to their tasks; actors belted out their parts; musicians beamed as they played. My brothers and I exchanged looks—this was electric.

“Feels great.”

“Yeah, it does.”

We were witnessing the best possible vibe: consummate professionals, thoroughly prepared, recording as joyfully as a live show. Live music and actors’ voices blended beautifully, reminding me why Broadway is world-famous.

After our rehearsal, Frank pressed us.

“How was that?”

“I’m still adjusting, but I’ll get the feel soon.”

“If you have suggestions, speak up. No matter how talented the composer, the original writer knows best.”

I nodded and listened through a few more takes until I felt comfortable. My brothers bobbed their heads to the rhythm—seemed they’d caught the groove too.

When the final rehearsal ended, Frank asked warmly,

“Any notes before we start recording?”

“Yes.”

On the live-music front, I had little to suggest—they’d arranged the orchestral parts expertly.

“Turn up the drums.”

“The drums?”

“For this rebooted ‘Nostalgia,’ we’re aiming for a ‘Hamilton’-style trendy pop vibe. We need the electric guitar and drums a notch louder.”

Frank signaled the engineer.

“Okay. What else?”

“At the transition from verse one to two, the ‘thread’ breaks.”

“The thread?”

“If we treat the three-and-a-half-minute song as one continuous thread, there’s a spot where it snaps. Specifically, the strings don’t connect smoothly between verses one and two.”

“I felt the same.”

“This song shouldn’t have that break—it’s one long message.”

“Creators’ feedback is always spot-on, especially here.”

Frank sprang into action. I felt the gaze of the control-room staff—engineer Sam grinned and said, “Wow.”

“You said you were still adapting? Adapting twice would be dangerous.”

A burst of laughter filled the studio. Though I felt shy, everyone looked at me with warm respect—a different vibe than when we first met. They’d gone from skepticism to seeing me as one of the team.

As my brothers preened beside me, Frank clapped my back jovially.

“All set then—before we hit record, say a few words as the original composer.”

The Nostalgia company paused to watch me through the glass. I took a breath—my teenage-looking face felt sudden pressure, but through my headset, I spoke clearly:

“I never imagined my song would become a musical—thank you all for making this kind of magic a reality.”

They cheered enthusiastically. I smiled and added,

“As the original composer, I have one request: please play this even more powerfully than the rehearsal. Though it seems gentle, this song is bursting with energy.”

“Absolutely!”

“There’s that expression about sweat and tears....”

At that moment, I felt a sharp twinge—blood trickled from my mouth. I must have bit my tongue hard. As my four brothers panicked, I calmly waved them down with a serene, Tibetan-monk calm, and the cast gaped.

“...I really did draw blood while talking.”

I dabbed the corner of my mouth with a tissue and smiled brightly. It looked painful—but I felt nothing.

Emerging from the panic, I closed with a grin,

“This is K-spirit for you. Please give us your passionate, sweat-and-blood performance.”

They nodded resolutely. The ensuing recording was so fervent even Frank applauded in awe.

“Biju.”

“Yes?”

Having laughed heartily just moments ago, I now bowed my head, wincing.

“What’s wrong, hyung?”

“It hurts so much.”

“I knew! You should’ve said something sooner.”

“Oh ha ha—too embarrassed, I missed my chance.”

“Oh dear—come here, hyung.”

“Please, not on camera, right?”

At the sight of my moist eyes and whimpering like a little kid, Biju couldn’t help but laugh.