Recommended reading while listening to Aerosmith's "Dream On."
"In a way, it's more common than one might think..."
After returning to his dust-laden room, Hide sat on the floor and picked up his guitar. Though people claimed the era of the band had arrived, the influence of the major agencies remained absolute.
Free-spirited kids drifted into the indie scene without preparation, while those seeking the standard path debuted only after undergoing rigorous training within an agency.
Looking at it coldly, if someone is still 'preparing' at a music or dance academy by the time they hit high school, it means they lack a competitive edge.
In such an industry, talent is sucked away by the indies or the agencies, leaving the academies caught in the middle to slowly rot. In a way, it was a natural progression dictated by the logic of competition—an irreversible tide.
Even Enfants Terribles could not change the current of the market.
'Changing the whole industry might be a tall order, but saving a single academy is nothing.'
If I played up the fact that I once stayed there, it would surely survive. It was an exploit of my fame as a star, but Somnium Music Academy was one of the few spaces that held the life I lived before becoming a 'star.'
"It's not a difficult task."
For promotion, I first needed music. A brilliant, kick-ass track that captured the story of that place.
I began to grip the guitar strings, tracing back through my hazy memories.
What is the motto of rock? It is 'freedom.'
Of course, the legitimacy of rock doesn't guarantee a living. In the name of mainstream appeal, many become like lions trapped in a cage—neither grand products nor magnificent beasts, but toothless predators that are neither one thing nor the other. Despite that, the motto of rock remains 'freedom.'
That is why I have refrained from making predictable songs until now. A predictable song, by definition, is something standardized.
Standardized tracks basically repeat the same chord progressions, often called 'money chords,' or offer only slight variations through the arrangement.
Making those songs is boring for me, and boring for the listeners. I had never worked on such obvious music before.
At their core, aren't players naturally attention-seekers and rebels filled with a contrarian spirit? I want to be the only one—a peerless existence. Like Jimi Hendrix and The Beatles, I want to create something uniquely mine.
Living day by day for that desire is the life of a player. Usually, once you put enough miles on your instrument, that's what happens.
And yet, here I am, composing a predictable song.
A Rock Ballad.
In this world, it was a genre just beginning to emerge, but in the place I lived in my past life, it was a genre that had dominated the charts through self-replication until your ears bled.
Of course, after the trend passed, the genre slowly died out through the 2010s, but it was still the very thing that had held back the sinking of the rock scene for a long time through sheer mainstream appeal.
"I should probably keep the main genre as hard rock, right?"
Because it's a genre that sold the soul of rock for popularity, one might think a rock ballad lacks 'pedigree,' but surprisingly, they do have a foundation.
That foundation is Hard Rock.
Typically, a rock ballad starts quietly, builds an emotional line with mournful lyrics and intense high notes, and then concludes with a hard rock finish that explodes all the emotions built up beforehand.
In the rock scene I belonged to in my past life, even the endings had the hard rock color drained out to finish like a standard ballad, but I couldn't bring myself to concede that far.
Every time I look in the mirror, the wrinkles on my face grow thicker and deeper.
The past is gone, like the time passing from twilight to dawn.
Though it may be a rock ballad lacking 'pure' roots, it has its own advantages. Specifically, the ability to focus entirely on emotional expression.
The song I'm writing now is a tribute to my mentor. I construct the melody while envisioning a narrator who has grown old, reflecting on their own life as they fade with the years.
Sing with me, sing for the years.
Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears.
On a rainy day, the old man found him.
A boy standing alone in the rain.
"Is something wrong? It's a bit chilly to be out in the rain."
"Just mind your own business and keep walking."
Watching the boy respond curtly to his question, the old man recalled his own youth, which was growing increasingly hazy.
A being neither genius nor fool, caught in the middle—too clever to live doing nothing, but lacking the wisdom to navigate the world.
Where does a young man who belongs nowhere go?
Usually, out of frustration and despair, they either crave rest or project their anger toward the world onto others.
"Say, have you ever thought about singing? Life is too short to waste time like this. Tomorrow, God might just take you away—that's what life is."
"What does an old geezer like you know about me?! Don't meddle!"
When the boy grabbed the old man by the collar, the man offered a bright smile.
"About half the lessons in my life came from both the wise and the foolish."
"......"
"Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears. That's the lesson I've earned from life."
"After getting it all out, you start dreaming again with a refreshed heart."
"Old man, I don't have a dream."
"A dream is something you can find at any time."