Korean Entertainment Recording Studio Never Turns Off the Lights

Lu Yan, 22 years old, is of Chinese and Korean descent. He graduated from Berklee College of Music and came to Seoul with his works in mind. Full of expectations, I submitted demos to major entertainment companies, but encountered obstacles one after another. The three major music companies only want assembly-line singles that can quickly generate traffic, and independent musicians are struggling on the peninsula. No one believed that this taciturn young man who was accustomed to spending time in the recording studio could write high-quality works that spanned lyrical, K-pop, R&B, hip-hop, and alternative pop. He started from a cheap basement recording studio, accepting low-priced demos, writing songs for unknown trainees, and looking for rough gems in underground live houses. I have seen trainees suffer around the clock, witnessed the cold and overbearing contracts of brokerage companies, and witnessed the struggles and confusion of artists under the traffic bubble. Some people advised him to compromise with capital and concoct fast food songs to make money; some people tried to win him over to become the royal producer of the giant. Lu Yan chose to take the most difficult path: establishing a small independent label, discovering trainees ignored by large companies, and insisting on musical autonomy. From an unknown newcomer to counterattack the music charts with her single, to create a phenomenal girl group and solo female singer; from a small workshop surviving in the cracks, to a music label that can talk to the three major companies on an equal footing. The spotlight is bright, but the recording studio always hides fatigue and ideals. In an era when the idol industry is rapidly expanding, Lu Yan wants to prove that traffic can be copied, but music that touches people's hearts can never be mass-produced.