LOADING INFORMATION ON INDIGO’S LEAD VOCAL, LEAD DANCE KIM RAEYOON…
IDOL DETAILS
STAGENAME: Remy CURRENT AGE: 25 DEBUT AGE: 20 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 17 COMPANY: MSG ETC: They have recently gotten involved more heavily in production and lyric writing
IDOL IMAGE
remy bursts onto the scene of winter 2014 with bad boy debonair, mischievous nonchalance, and a penchant for flirtation. play off the strengths and weaknesses of your members, had been their furtive recommendation. here’s the earnest one, the sensitive one, the diligent one, the ethereal one, and now you. you’re sharp edges, a cut and cruel face, thin mouth that only knows how to grin crooked, and tapered eyes whose surest weapon is their wink. hone your artillery, make it yours, and if you can, make them scream.
remy’s never been one for violent metaphors but he runs with this one because his passion outweighs everything else. for the first few years it gets the better of him and he feels some dissonance, has a hard time believing any of what he’s bringing to the stage is coming from anywhere real because of course it isn’t. but in time he learns that this too is part of the art of performance, and that there’s nothing disingenuous about what he’s doing so long as he can differentiate his two egos of what could never be and what actually is. when the music stops so does the charade and this is how he will retain his authenticity.
the public learn the ins and outs of remy, too; the few who care at all take whatever crumbs and scraps they can find, one scattered comeback at a time, to build a more nuanced portrait and uncover the person behind the persona. for the most part their findings are accurate and positive. remy is methodical, prefers to take things a little bit at a time. but is there a reason he takes forever to make a decision? it’s only dessert. it’s called being considerate. his head is in the cloud sometimes, but he’s always thoughtful. must read a lot too, he’s always quoting stuff i’ve never heard of. pretty sure that’s his way of showing off the fact he used to study in europe, never liked elites like him. the only bravado he shows is onstage, not sure what you’re talking about. he’s surprisingly demure behind the scenes. i’ve never seen him cry, not even once. you sure he’s not some kind of robot? i’d pay good money to see a robot with a laugh that cute. weird. i think you mean his laugh is weird.
his reputation—whichever unassembled pieces exist in phone cameras, group chats, morning catchup by the office water cooler—follows remy straight into re:group, where he thereupon establishes himself as the show’s sage, a calm meditative tide. the contrasting snarl and bite of his performance style still persists, but the sex appeal stops there. he’s not controversial, not cutthroat enough to propel himself to viral fame. but his character and up-until-this-point unseen predilection for music win him the respect of fellow competitors and the sincere affections of weekly viewers. it’s more than he could possibly ask for.
with indigo’s triumphant return to the industry, remy repays fans old and new by trying his hand at songwriting. building off of the momentum from re:group and recognizing the group’s need for growth, msg embraces a brand shift, letting him produce the track for their next comeback. the move effectively solidifies and tacks on a new identity for him as a producer for the group; he acquiesces to the role with ease, and to rave reception. indigo’s reaffirmation in society comes with the affirmative understanding for all of the members that donning their faces, old and new, they’re in it for the long haul.
IDOL HISTORY
a: at five, he is petulant. more than the average five-year-old should be, but who can blame the kid when he feels how jarringly out of place he is in this country and continent, but doesn’t have the vocabulary to express any of it. and so raeyoon prefers to spend his time indoors, in front of the television and away from prying eyes, watching documentaries and music broadcasts he never quite comprehends but thinks he likes the sound of. mother, ever observant from the kitchen, keeps a watchful eye.
b: prideful, not passionate. pride is what keeps him enrolled in piano lessons but keeps him from realizing his potential. his mother sits with him through every practice session, guiding him with an iron will and berating him with an immovable ear. she calls him a technician and so do the judges, but he plays a showstopper in basel and a sonata in bern anyways because people have programs to fill and don’t expect full emotional maturation from a ten year-old. that summer when he takes the train to summer camp abroad—but then, what isn’t abroad at this point—raeyoon distantly wonders where he’s headed.
c: hundreds of miles from home, raeyoon is suddenly compelled to take to the stack of cds that father snuck into his suitcase months ago without ever citing a reason. the cds themselves are bare. the cases in which they are contained are bare save for a rough tracklist penned in permanent marker. the music that he hears isn’t anything familiar. but the voice he hears most certainly is.
d: he passes his audition.
he had gone on a whim. while out shopping for beef bones with grandmother one morning someone had approached him with a business card and while stewing the beef bones back in her apartment he’d asked grandmother to accompany him. he doesn’t remember anything about it beyond a panel of faceless men and his mother’s voice reverberating like a dream in the caverns of his head.
it was never supposed to be this consequential and yet it is, yet here he is feeling the most something he’s felt in his five-thousand-eight-hundred-eight-eight-day life. the news hits him like a brick and his head drops onto the table. grandmother pries the phone away from his hands and dials in another number. with his head still down and eyes closed raeyoon hears her shuffle into the kitchen, open the pot, and plate up the last serving of oxtail soup. he hears the line click on the other end. and then he hears her voice again, so familiar and sweet and real.
e: he blends in here. he laughs thinking back to a decade ago when he’d stood out so sorely, and how that’s exactly what he needs now if he wants a good shot at this. for the next three years, he sharpens himself to the finest point possible.
f: it’s called face. face in the crowd, facing the music, saving face. it’s a word loaded with meanings and potentialities and it feels so wholly appropriate raeyoon almost cries but doesn’t, not yet. he runs through the showcase introduction, performance, final ments. thanks everyone for coming out to support their debut. when the spotlight dims down and the mass of bodies begins to file out of the venue, he spots his mother lingering in the audience, a face in the crowd. raeyoon swallows the lump in his throat. not yet.
g: during rehearsal at a hundred-person venue in gwangju city, a standing light crashes and raeyoon sustains a small injury to his right pinky. no big deal, he tells everyone, it’s not like he’s using it for much anymore anyways, and the appendage is wrapped in gauze and rehearsal continues like clockwork.
he doesn’t notice until a year later, when it’s much too late for buddy tape and a brace, that his pinky never quite recovered right. he opens up a dusty book of liszt arpeggios wondering if maybe now is the time to leverage that skillset, if maybe now he can demonstrate something beyond the technical prowess of his childhood, and fumbles like a clown on the keys. looking down, his pinky tells him the whole story. the first knuckle juts outward and askew with the rest of the finger, like a soul separating from its host.
he thinks back to the past year, and even the year before that, and draws a funny picture not unlike the analogy. it’s not just the finger. negligence is rampant. looking the other way and pretending not to notice everything that’s gone wrong, and everything that could possibly go wrong. what were the meds for, again? chronic pain, allergies, or just insomnia? he forgets. forgets most things, like his pinky finger, like the fact he hasn’t called home in weeks out of shame, and forgets that crying was even an option even though these days he’s got all the time in the world.
h: his saving grace descends in the form of a reality show that sweeps the country and his group by storm. it’s in between mandatory diary entries, the relentless gaze of the camera, stress and sleep deprivation, public defamation, and the thrill of a new stage—another day—that sets raeyoon alight again.
on the last night: a sea of faceless, wailing bodies under the stage, let’s debut, and his mother’s song ringing in his ears. he feels the bodies beside him leave one at a time to claim their spot on the podium, rank five, four, three. he’s tired, hungry, and smiling brighter. two. a rock tied by string. and one. his vision blurs, wet, and opaque. the lump in his throat swells, and he throws his head back to blink away the tears. not yet, not yet.
i: his first hand at production, a first win for the group, and a first concert after five years. it’s nothing short of a miracle, and their story is one that resonates somewhere deep. though revitalized, raeyoon doesn’t hunger for much anymore. but even five years in and with the tides swaying in their favor, he knows better to submit to complacency—scoffs at even the suggestion of it. with the attention on them—actually, legitimately on them now—the stakes are higher than ever, and he’s simply too grateful to do anything but deliver.