In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

Davis readily agreed to a joint performance.

“More people only make it better.”

The old man, beard thick like a sage’s, plucked his guitar and laughed cheerfully.

From the muscles showing through his T-shirt sleeves, he hadn’t been playing for just a day or two.

I asked:

“Are you a singer, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Your guitar sound felt familiar somehow.”

“I used to play in a band ages ago with some friends. Maybe that’s why you thought so.”

So that was it.

Under his fedora, Davis winked and asked:

“So, youngster—what song do you want to do together?”

“Hmm....”

What would go over well in Australia?

People on nearby benches ate sandwiches or, in sunglasses, stared out at the sea.

It was summer, and a nice cool breeze. I searched my head for a song that would fit the mood of this park.

“How about ‘My Sunshine’?”

A famous 2015 single by Australia’s singer-songwriter Ailo, it had sat at No. 1 on Billboard for ages.

A song about the pony he’d raised as a kid—Sunshine.

The sound pops like shooting stars with summer’s breezy brightness.

In colors, it would be a bouncy blue and pink.

“Could we do ‘My Sunshine,’ sir?”

“‘My Sunshine,’ huh... hmm....”

I hummed the melody; Davis went “ah,” then snapped his fingers.

A gentle string sound rippled out in pink.

“This one?”

“Yes. Keep repeating that just like that. Then I’ll...”

When I took a ukulele from my bag, Davis—mid-sip—coughed.

The old man flicked whiskey from his beard and asked:

“You carry that in your bag?”

“Yes.”

“An unusual youngster.”

When Junghyun pulled castanets from his bag too, Davis burst out laughing.

His eyes twinkled with amusement.

“What did you say your names were?”

“I’m Wooju, this is Junghyun. We’re a music group from Korea called NewBlack.”

“NewBlack.”

Nodding like he’d remember, the old man played guitar; I layered harmonies with the ukulele.

“Oh?”

Delight flickered in his eyes.

Junghyun, solemn as a judge, clicked the castanets and bounced to the beat, and a rhythmic intro began.

Smiling, Davis asked:

“You must’ve studied ukulele a long time. Ten years?”

“About three, on and off.”

“......”

A trace of irritation slid into the guitar line; I couldn’t help but laugh.

Grinning, Junghyun and I asked:

“Shall we start?”

“Let’s.”

To lock in, we looped the intro.

Junghyun clicked the castanets and thumped his palms on his jeans for extra rhythm.

Davis carried the lower melody on guitar.

I took the upper melody on ukulele—our trio spread a crisp sound across the park.

“......?”

As the melody diffused like a faint woody scent, I felt eyes gathering.

I met the gaze of a couple on the lawn.

“Come on over.”

I took off my hat, smiled, and waved them in.

They approached us a bit dazed; Junghyun and I smiled and beckoned.

One by one, people joined the real-time busking.

Dancing a cuddly bear groove and grinning, Junghyun shot me a look.

“Client acquisition complete, sir.”

“Good work, Mr. Sweet Potato.”

“Potato.”

Then, glancing at Davis nodding along on guitar, I smiled at the gathering crowd.

It was a beloved Australian song; heads were already bobbing.

I cleared my throat, hummed lightly, and sang.

“Today I buried my pony,

my Sunshine, Sunshine—”

To make the lyrics land better, I kept my tone a touch higher than usual.

I flicked the ukulele playfully; the crowd chuckled, and so did we.

At first we started thinking, maybe we can earn a bit of travel money—but once I began, I was the one having the most fun.

“Before the memory fades to sepia,

I climbed the hill—”

I cued the claps as I sang on; some in the audience clapped along, responding.

A promising start.

At the same time.

Jett Miller and Wang Jiho were roaming the park snapping photos when the main PD’s phone rang.

“Hm...?”

It was the assistant director’s team, who’d been with our side.

“Hello.”

“Yes! PD! I think you should come here!”

“What?”

Cheering and music bled through; it was hard to make out the words.

The AD shouted again:

“You really need to come here right now! There’s a pretty big crowd. We’re rolling, but we need two more cameras—the angles won’t cover it with one....”

“What are you talking about? Hey, wait. Slow down.”

“Wooju and Junghyun are busking!”

“......?”

The PD pulled the phone away for a beat; the head writer asked:

“What’s wrong? What is it?”

“They say Wooju is busking.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Exactly.”

The main PD made the call:

“Looks like Wooju’s performing. Let’s move there. Everyone shift.”

“......Okay?”

The rest of the crew reacted the same way.

Jiho blinked at Jett.

“Did you say busking?”

“Yeah.”

“...What?”

Trotting, Jiho’s group soon linked up with Ri Hyuk and Biju.

“You heard?”

“Heard what?”

“You didn’t?”

“Nope.”

Biju answered:

“Director suddenly said we had to move, so we were just heading out. Did something bad happen?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Just as the youngest was about to explain—

From somewhere drifted a guitar, soft cheers, and a voice singing.

A clear tenor threading English lyrics.

“Oh...?”

Ri Hyuk’s eyes lit with interest.

“Street performance, looks like. That’s why he called us.”

“Uh....”

“Whose voice is that? Holding that high range steady is tough. He’s really good.”

Smiling at the praise, Ri Hyuk said:

“That voice is exactly my—”

He froze.

The vista opened, and in the plaza they saw a handsome young man singing.

Maybe because he was a step higher than usual, a bright tone flowed as he picked the ukulele—beautiful.

“.......”

Seo Ri Hyuk closed his eyes.

“Oh, come on....”

He suddenly wanted to hit pause on his own tongue that had just said “my type.”

Thinking back, the voice was unmistakable—but he hadn’t expected it to be Sun Wooju over there.

“So that’s how it is.”

The youngest and Biju beamed in chorus:

“So Ri Hyuk’s voice type is Sun Wooju.”

“Shut up.”

“So that’s how it is.”

“Hey, shut it!”

Maybe he’d raised his voice; an Australian granny, sitting in the back row enjoying the song, turned and lifted a finger to her lips.

“Sorry....”

Noticing the ruckus, Sun Wooju—singing with the old guitarist—waved to them.

Dozens of heads turned in unison.

“They’re my friends. Give them a hand.”

The crowd cheered.

“Waaaaaa!”

“What a lovely afternoon, right?”

“Yes!”

How had he trained them?

Every time their leader spoke, the crowd reacted like they were spellbound.

“It’s the face.”

“The face....”

A face that made anything seem plausible; they allowed themselves a moment of pride.

As Wooju wrapped the song with gentle grace, applause rolled in.

“As I mentioned, we’re singers visiting from Korea—and my friends over there are my members.”

All eyes slid to Jett Miller and NewBlack; their shoulders rose a notch.

Strumming a “Welcome to NewBlack World~” jingle on the ukulele, Wooju said:

“So, we’d love to share one of our songs too—what do you say? If you’d like that, answer with a round of applause.”

“Waaaaaa!”

“Great. Then we’d like to sing a song called ‘Night Sea.’ Mr. Fish, want to come out?”

At “a friend who resembles the Amazon’s pirarucu,” people pulled out their phones to search.

Ri Hyuk, always scheming to crash a local Wi-Fi zone, flushed.

“Uh....”

“Hyung, up you go.”

“Singing outside a stage is a little embarrassing.”

“When else will you busk like this? If we busk in Korea, it turns into a concert.”

“Uh....”

With the foreignness of being abroad added on, Ri Hyuk hesitated—

[jingle!]

“......?”

A magical sound tickled his ear.

[jingle!]

[jing-ga-ling!]

[jing-a-ling-ling!]

[jingle!]

As the song ended, Australians fished coins from their wallets and dropped them into the old man’s hat.

NewBlack blinked. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

“So that’s how you get paid busking...?”

“What even.”

“I want to get stranded on a deserted island with Wooju.”

Spreading his arms, Wooju beamed.

“We’re traveling with empty pockets right now. Every coin you toss becomes a memory for us. Viva Australia!”

With eyes sparkling and a soft voice, he kept talking, and the donations lined up.

Good thing he’d channeled it well—on the wrong path, this guy would’ve been “twenty-something cult leader Mr. Sun” on the evening news.

Meanwhile the dollars piled thick.

The blush drained from Ri Hyuk’s face; a golden capitalist shine rose in its place.

“......Be right back!”

The main vocalist took off toward the “stage,” and cast and crew burst out laughing.

[NewBlack’s Travel Diary Season 2: The Busking Episode]

When the main and lead vocal took their places, the onlookers cheered.

The singers grinned.

Under a cloudless sky, the old man in a fedora strummed; then Wooju and Ri Hyuk filled the frame in close-up.

Like larks chirping at dawn, a ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) soft humming floated out.

A music-show caption rolled underneath:

[Wooju & Ri Hyuk — “Foreign Sea” (Australia Ver.)]

The lyrics of “Night Sea” followed, braided from a silky “pirarucu” register and a clear “Neua” timbre.

Cutaways caught the old Australian’s face nodding with his lips slightly pursed,

couples whispering to each other—overall, very warm reactions.

-......

They also showed the main PD and writers staring, blank.

Smiling gently at each other, Wooju and Ri Hyuk traded lines as “Night Sea” unfolded.

“-Wow. It’s even better now.”

Jiho whispered to Biju.

“-Doesn’t it feel richer somehow? Deeper than when they sang ‘Night Sea’ before.”

“-Yeah. It’s good every time......”

“-I want to sing too. Hyung, should we do something?”

As they chatted, the show contrasted debut-era Wooju & Ri Hyuk singing “Night Sea” with their present selves.

The duet’s voices had deepened and ripened.

Where once they’d pushed hard, now they played dynamics, drawing eyes in.

“This star is your scent,

that star is your touch—”

Pointing up at the sky, Wooju winked at someone in the crowd; she smiled.

On the line about “that night’s sea,” the main vocalist closed his eyes.

A breeze lifted and feathered his dark hair, and the song put down a period.

“Waaaaaa!”

Australians clapped and cheered.

Wooju gave a little bow, finishing the last ukulele phrase with a smile.

A caption slid in:

[You may have forgotten by now, so allow us to remind you..]

[Our show is a travel reality.. — The Production Team]

The cameras caught the crew’s flustered faces as the vibe weirdly morphed into a performance program.

“-I mean.”

With a black bar over his eyes, the caption read “Main PD Mr. Kim,” voice modulated.

“-We prepared games, you know?”

“-So many games.”

“-But then Wooju just performed and made it all pointless. Money is, like, showering down! And the games we prepared are now pointless!”

“-We pulled an all-nighter!”

Their altered voices cawed and sobbed—and then the next song rolled.

The impromptu show ended in triumph.

We wrapped by singing our latest, “Goblin,” with a dance. The goofy moves landed well with the locals.

“Photos? Of course!”

After, we took pictures with anyone who asked.

Plenty seemed to be filming too; it’ll probably hit MeTube later.

And then—

[jingle!]

“Eheh... kyak!”

[jing-ga-la-ling!]

[jingle!]

“Kyarrrk!”

[jingle! jingle!]

We grinned at the money pouring into Davis’s hat.

“I— I can’t believe this much came in....”

Davis’ white teeth flashed with joy. He gathered the bills and held them all out to us.

“Take it.”

“Sorry?”

“I had a blast thanks to you. I’ve no use for that money anyway.”

“S-still....”

“What a poor musician needs most is money. Take it.”

Even when we offered—as promised—to split it half and half, he adamantly refused and handed it all over.

He dusted the hat and set it back on his head.

“Thanks for the fun. Enjoy your trip.”

“Uh....”

The old man slung the guitar and started off whistling; I called after him:

“Do you have fare for the ride home?”

“Walking’s my hobby.”

“I didn’t even get your full name yet....”

“Glen.”

He hitched his guitar and winked.

“Name’s Glen.”

We stared, blank, as he sauntered off—leisurely, yet fast.

“Uh, what do we do. Can we really keep all of this? It feels wrong....”

“We’re not poor musicians.”

While Biju and Junghyun watched the old man’s back with worried faces—

The crew called to us, and we turned.

“Did you have fun performing?”

“Yes!”

“...Congratulations. You’re cash-positive now.”

“Yeah... the elder gave us all of it, though.”

We tallied the extra on top of our existing budget and smiled.

“With this, we could hit Australia’s top restaurant. Right, Jett?”

“Absolutely, seniors.”

“Jett, pick anything you want too. Today, NewBlack is—treating!”

“Th-then....”

When we said we’d take him to one of the best places—even he’d never been—our grins went wide.

Meanwhile, the crew started to mourn.

A writer waved a foam mallet.

“Whack-a-mole. Don’t you want to play Whack-a-mole? We prepped it....”

“Pogs. Play pogs with us. We practiced pogs for two weeks to beat you.”

“Let’s do at least one game.”

They rattled bags full of games and punishment props; we burst out laughing.

Then we piled into the van.

“Ah. Refreshing.”

“Nothing beats that feeling when a show goes well....”

“Where should we busk next? No—maybe we should pick up some instruments here. Hyung?”

While they tossed around ideas, I pulled out my phone.

Glen Davis.

I typed the name into search.

“Uh...?”

Ri Hyuk held out his tablet.

“Is this him?”

“Huh?”

Search “Glen Davis,” and a profile popped right up.

Not a current photo—older.

It said he was the guitarist for the legendary Australian rock band Devil Grills, active from the ’60s through the ’80s.

“......Whoa?”

“Why? Is he famous?”

“Hugely...?”

So that’s why the guitar felt familiar.

A band that shook the world.

They were even famous for their final post–Cold War concert in Moscow that drew an enormous crowd.

“No way....”

I clutched my head.

“Oh nooooo!”

“What now?”

“Why didn’t I give him my card? I should’ve at least gotten contact info!”

“.......”

“Oh noooo! I let gold slip through my fingers!”

While I clutched my head and howled, the kids groaned in sympathy—

And Ri Hyuk, still searching, froze with his hand mid-air.

“What is it?”

“I wondered if he had social media so I could try to reach out, so I looked him up, and....”

“And?”

“His net worth is listed at around three hundred fifty billion won. Owns a mine, and a pro sports club here in Australia.”

“.......”

We all blinked.

Right then, the old man’s words echoed in my head.

“A poor musician... a poor musician... a poor musician....”

W-was he... right?

At the same time.

A luxury sedan rolled to a stop on a sunlit road.

“Ho ho ho.”

A pleasant heat lingered in his fingertips from the excitement of the show just now.

Glen Davis climbed into the back seat and set down his guitar.

The driver asked:

“Did something fun happen, sir?”

“I had a very fun performance. Some kids from Korea called NewBlack—they sing well.”

And he’d made a little money on the side.

“I gave alms to some poor musicians, too. Ha ha.”

Glen Davis chuckled, pleased.

“If it’s NewBlack, do you mean these kids?”

“Hm?”

The driver searched NewBlack on his phone and showed him a MeTube screen.

A channel called NewBlack TV.

“Oh?”

Glen’s eyes snagged on the subscriber count.

Tens of millions.

Top-10 worldwide on MeTube. The old man’s gaze went blank.

“And they... don’t... have money...?”

A moment later, an indignant bellow rang out inside the sedan.