Episode 43: One Point
Suhyuk, listening to my ‘Night, Stars, Winter Sky’, focused on the high notes, but the low notes are where true talent lies.
High notes can improve with training, but low notes depend heavily on natural physical traits.
“Tears I should shed
Flow down your cheeks.”
The ballad’s signature lyrics, evoking the pain of letting a loved one go, carry a raw emotion.
My true low voice, heavy with that sentiment, spreads like dry ice fog from the stage to the audience.
The heavy atmosphere chokes the crowd, some covering their mouths.
Perhaps it’s because the lyrics stir the contents of a box buried deep within me—mascara-stained black tears—reviving those emotions.
But for now, I erase that day’s memory.
Those black tears are a painful, original sin-like recollection.
Yet, I’m walking a path to happiness with Jia now.
If I let that happiness show, it’d clash with the song’s expression.
“My love, please smile.
That was our promise.”
The young, foolish me pre-regression, and the me now, given a chance to right past wrongs—neither has walked, nor wants to walk, that unknown path.
I paint that uncharted road.
If I named the expression I wear, it’d be this: a poignant smile born from writhing against the inescapable pain of a fated destiny.
Smiling as if resentfully gazing at the heavens, the piano, which sank from the first octave to the zeroth in the intro, begins climbing back.
A violin harmony joins, and as the pitch peaks—
“Beneath that same
Winter sky,
I sing this love for you.”
Following a melody raised far beyond the original’s second-to-third octave range, the high notes Suhyuk raved about shatter the icy fog.
The highest note from my last main round performance, a third-octave C, is now the lowest in this chorus.
“Through a starlit
Night sky,
Hiding tears, I let you go, goodbye.”
As I utter “goodbye”—
““Woooo!!!””
Cheers and applause erupt over the smooth piano.
But sadly, Night, Stars, Winter Sky’s interlude is short.
As the second verse begins, the audience reluctantly quiets, hands stilling.
“Snowflakes blooming on bare branches,
Whiter than snow on your hands,
Falling like starlight that night—
Do you remember that night?”
With little room for the pitch to drop, the second verse is higher than the first, but the low notes did their job.
The narrator’s attempt to calmly bear the sorrow has long overflowed like a burst dam.
“Though I can’t share
The times to come with you,
My love, please smile.
That was our promise.”
The frozen atmosphere is gone.
Having unleashed their emotions once, the audience is ready to enjoy my song.
“Beneath that same
Winter sky,
I sing this love for you.”
Lyrics they once heard with bated breath.
“Through a starlit
Night sky,
Hiding tears, I let you go, goodbye.”
Unlike the fervent first verse, I ease off in the second.
“Above this sky,
Longing for you,
I sing of my unchanging love.”
A quiet bridge with only piano remains.
Yet, the audience’s eyes still brim with anticipation.
This song is so iconic, they know this lull is a prelude to the climax ahead.
Dugudugudung!
As if answering, drums—silent until now—heighten the tension.
A rich, orchestral timbre, joining the piano and violin, swirls like the emotions I’ve unleashed.
But no one here can sit regally and savor this grand sound.
(Above this sky)
“Yeh—”
A powerful, explosive ad-lib layers over the pre-recorded MR.
(Longing for you)
“Wah-Ha—”
The climax they awaited arrives now.
(My unchanging
Love I sing)
“I sing—my love.”
““Wooo!!””
““Kyaaa!!””
By now, no one recalls the opening’s low notes.
(Above this sky)
“Above this sky”
(Longing for you)
“Longing for you”
(My unchanging)
“I sing my love.”
But that’s okay.
When they recall this song later, that chilling touch will always mark its start.
“Like this starlit
Winter night,
My heart for you
Will never change.”
Just as a starlit winter night sky always remains.
“Sehyuk-ssi, Sehyuk-ssi! Hey, Ji Sehyuk!”
Hong Hyunwook’s roar through the earpiece snaps Ji Sehyuk back to reality.
“Yes! Blind Singer Season 3 semi-finals, the first performance—Han Yujin’s Night, Stars, Winter Sky!”
Amid the flood of attention, Ji Sehyuk manages to deliver, his years of broadcasting experience barely pushing him through.
With a five-minute delay between the live shoot and TV broadcast, it’s not a major mishap, but he came close.
‘Man, that was insane.’
Shaking his head to regain focus, Ji Sehyuk steps toward the one who caused this chaos—Han Yujin, wearing a peculiar smile amid the audience’s applause.
Up close, that smile feels like it’s peering right through him, making Ji Sehyuk feel oddly wronged.
“Ha, how do you sing like that?”
His frustration melts into a hollow laugh through the mic, echoed by the crowd’s approving chuckles amid the claps.
“I bet there’s not a single guy in Korea who sings and hasn’t tried this song.”
““Yesss!!””
“I’m one of those guys who thinks he can sing, so I’ve listened to this song countless times. That’s why I was shocked. The MR started like the original—I thought it was a broadcast error. How’d you do it? Did you lower the key from the original?”
That’s a question for the judges, but Ji Sehyuk—singer before MC, broadcaster, or actor—can’t help asking.
The answer, however, blows past his comprehension.
“It’s not the original. Other instruments were sampled, but I played the piano from start to finish. I worked hard to match the original, so the effort paid off.”
“You play piano too?”
Guitar and bass alone are skills most couldn’t touch, and now piano?
Han Yujin nods as if it’s obvious, leaving Ji Sehyuk speechless, shaking his head.
“I’m starting to think ‘genius’ isn’t enough. Let’s hear the judges’ comments.”
‘Can a guy this crazy be summed up as just a genius?’
Softening that thought, he passes the mic to the judges.
Bang Hokyung steps up first.
“I don’t know if the cameras caught it, but when I first sat here, I said Yujin-ssi sings C5—a third-octave C—with ease, like he could go higher.”
“I remember that.”
“I guessed his limit was E or F, maybe. But he breezed past that. I was thrown off, couldn’t gauge it—was it A?”
“A-sharp.”
“Cough.”
Ji Sehyuk’s desired reaction spills from Bang Hokyung instead.
For Ji Sehyuk, whose highest note hovers at the third octave’s start, that’s an untouchable wall of talent.
Bang Hokyung continues.
“But… the high notes aren’t why I was shocked. It was the low notes. Han Yujin’s true strength as a vocalist lies in his lows, no exaggeration.”
“Hey, I was gonna say that!”
“People focus on highs, but a vocalist’s real talent is in the lows. Lows require innate physical traits—effort alone can’t cut it. The so-called ‘Kim-Na-Bak-I’ vocalists, Judge Seo Yoonje here, even Ji Sehyuk up there—they all handle lows beautifully.”
“Oh, why drag me into it?”
“In that sense, Han Yujin, pulling off heavy lows with clean, true voice without special techniques, is born to be a singer.”
Bang Hokyung’s lengthy critique, punctuated by Seo Yoonje’s affirmations, sparks another wave of audience reaction.
“Can I add to Han Yujin’s talent?”
Lee Ahjeong takes the mic.
“The third octave is high even for average women. For male singers, it’s a no-brainer—a dream realm unreachable without training. But a third-octave A-sharp, in true voice, not falsetto. As much as Bang Hokyung praised his lows, Yujin’s highs are the kind that demands he be a singer.”
“Exactly.”
Ji Sehyuk, moved by the “dream realm” phrase, unwittingly adds to her comment.
“And that’s not all. His knack for making any song his own with arrangement, the diverse charms in his performances, guitar, bass, piano—his skill at 23 is unbelievable. You didn’t regress from the future or something, right?”
“Come on, it’s variety, but that’s a bit much.”
“Right, kidding. Three years since becoming an adult, minus a year and a half of military service, leaves about a year and a half of obscurity. That’s long enough. Why show up only now? I debuted at 15—couldn’t you have come earlier?”
Lee Ahjeong ends her critique with a playful glare, sparking predictable audience reactions.
“At this point, critiques seem pointless. Let’s go straight to the scores!”
Seeing Sally, Yoon Ichae, and Lee Sangwoon holding their scoring remotes, Ji Sehyuk shouts.
The roulette spins.
[40] [40] [39] [40] [40] [40]
[Total: 239] [Average: 39.8]
A result that makes you doubt your eyes, but for a different reason than a perfect score.
‘Even I’d hesitate to give a perfect score today—what would he do next week?’
Understanding Seo Yoonje’s reasoning perfectly, Ji Sehyuk declares,
“Han Yujin finishes his semi-final stage spectacularly, just one point shy of perfection!”
He decides to let Seo Yoonje’s trolling slide, just this once.