Chapter 36 : Youtube
by Afuhfuihgs[[Playlist] Staring at the Milky Way in the Night Sky | Guitar Performances Perfect for Dark Winter Nights].
Ha Su-yeon stared at the video title.
“Staring at the Milky Way in the Night Sky,” huh. Such a nostalgic, winter-night vibe.
But what did this have to do with him? Why had Iseo shoved this video in his face?
“You’re telling me my song is in here?”
“Yeah. Wait, you didn’t know?”
Iseo looked surprised as she asked.
While it was common for YouTubers to engage in what people call “one-sided collabs,” the playlist YouTuber she followed always seemed to send emails and follow proper procedures.
She trusted their work and supported them quite a bit.
“So, you’re saying my song is in that video.”
“Yeah.”
“Then aren’t they thieves? Shouldn’t I sue them for copyright infringement?”
“Um…”
Iseo opened her mouth as if to speak but then closed it, scratching her head.
How could she explain this? There were always parts of this stuff Ha Su-yeon found difficult to grasp.
“First, a playlist… that’s what ‘PL’ stands for. These people don’t make money—no, they can’t make money from this.”
“What? If they upload videos and meet the monetization criteria, doesn’t that mean they’re earning money? Especially if they’re using someone else’s stuff.”
“It’s not like that. YouTube has some system—I’m not entirely sure how it works—that identifies songs and determines whether they belong to someone else. Then it reserves the revenue and gives it to the original copyright own .
Ha Su-yeon still looked utterly confused, leaving Iseo feeling a little frustrated.
“That’s even possible?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess? Some kind of AI or algorithm or whatever determines it and sends the money to the copyright holder.”
Ha Su-yeon felt even more baffled.
How could a company possibly know all that? What reminded him of this strange system was the sudden gust of cold wind.
“Ugh! It’s freezing. Let’s go inside somewhere.”
“Sure. Hey, there’s a Starbucks over there.”
Iseo watched as Ha Su-yeon removed his coat and placed it on a chair.
His outfit today was slightly different from the usual.
Since meeting him in October Ha Su-yeon had always worn Adidas tracksuits or hoodies.
But today, he was wearing a slim, black turtleneck sweater paired with a black long skirt with a slit.
“Is his taste going back to what it used to be? But, no, that doesn’t seem right either.”
Iseo remembered Ha Su-yeon used to wear much flashier clothes—tighter fits, lots of skin showing… the kind of outfits that, if posted on Instagram, would attract men who’d flood the comments with inappropriate messages.
She stared blankly at him for a moment before sensing something odd.
Did a certain part of his body seem a bit… bigger?
Was it just her imagination?
“Does this outfit look… weird?”
“Huh? No, not at all… It suits you well.”
Perhaps noticing her gaze, Ha Su-yeon asked awkwardly, and Iseo quickly reassured him.
He twisted his hair slightly as he explained.
“I wasn’t planning to wear this, but my mom kept nagging me to wear it since she bought it.
So here I am.”
“It looks good on you. Seriously, why wear Adidas all the time when you’ve got clothes like this? That’s such a waste—wasteful for humanity!”
“Let’s not exaggerate.”
When Iseo playfully overreacted, Ha Su-yeon gave her a look of disdain.
Feeling slightly deflated, Iseo decided to make her point.
“Look, we’re starting a band now, right? Bands need star quality, and appearance is important too.
You can’t just walk around in sloppy clothes.
You need to wear nice outfits, exude some s*x appeal…”
Ha Su-yeon let out a small sigh.
Why was everyone—from his mom to Iseo and everyone else—so obsessed with emphasizing his “femininity”?
“That doesn’t really matter. Think about Robert Fripp of King Crimson.
He just sat in a chair and played guitar, and yet he built such a legendary band.”
“What… what ribs? Pork ribs?”
Iseo’s nonsensical response made Ha Su-yeon question how he should deal with her.
Should he set aside some time to lecture her on rock history?
Still, Ha Su-yeon knew how much visual appeal could impact a band’s popularity.
Especially since his current body was female, he couldn’t completely avoid it.
But delaying that shift as long as possible seemed reasonable.
As a former man, surely he was allowed that much.
“Anyway, I still don’t get it. You’re saying if that person uploads my song, I get the money? How does that make sense?”
“Yeah. Something like that. But you have to register it… I don’t know all the details.
I only skimmed over it earlier this year.
But basically, those YouTubers can’t make money off it.”
Iseo began explaining various things.
She mentioned how YouTube had something called Content ID that could recognize parts or all of a video’s content and allocate revenue to the copyright owner.
“But I don’t remember registering for anything like that.”
“Wait, really? Don’t they send emails saying you’re eligible to register? Did you check your emails?”
“Why would I? Nobody emails me anyway.”
Contrary to appearances, Ha Su-yeon was quite familiar with using email.
However, familiarity didn’t mean he checked it often—unless someone specifically asked him to.
“Nowadays, everything comes through email, even business inquiries. Just check it now.”
At her urging, Ha Su-yeon opened his email inbox.
To his surprise, despite never having checked it before, some emails had already been marked as read.
“What…?”
He hadn’t touched his email, yet several Content ID-related emails appeared to have been opened, with back-and-forth correspondence and even his bank account details listed.
Ha Su-yeon twisted his hair again, thinking about the one person who could have done this.
“It must be Lee Hye-in…”
The only person who could access such detailed information about him was Lee Hye-in, Ha Suyeon’s mother.
Who else could it be? Sure, maybe some Chinese hacker might know bits and pieces of his info, but…
As he thought back, he vaguely recalled Hye-in once asking, “Suyeon, are you managing your YouTube channel properly?” When he said he wasn’t sure, she had offered to handle it herself.
“Maybe my mom registered it for me…”
“Your mom? Well, your mom did look really young.”
What did youth have to do with any of this? Still pondering, Ha Su-yeon skimmed through his emails.
There weren’t too many.
“What’s the name of that channel?”
“[Songs I Want to Listen to Collection].”
Sure enough, there were emails from that channel.
They’d sent a polite request to use his music in a playlist shortly after he’d uploaded his second track.
“Those YouTubers usually just take stuff, you know.
Since they don’t get any revenue, they probably think of it as free advertising! They might even believe they’re doing you a favor.”
“Ungrateful bastards.”
Iseo flinched slightly, but Ha Su-yeon ’s thoughts drifted.
He remembered how old TV producers used to treat musicians, saying, “You should be grateful we’re giving you exposure.
Why are you trying to get paid?”
There was a time when you had to scrape together even money for drinks to appease producers who spouted such nonsense.
For women, sexual harassment and assault were practically the norm.
Thinking about those days, the world truly has become a better place now.
Feeling the heat rise to his head, Ha Su-yeon brushed his hair back and checked another email.
Policy updates, subscription notifications—so many strange and irrelevant things were piling up.
“Huh?”
While skimming through these insignificant emails, one subject line caught his eye.
“A collaboration proposal with YouTube’s White Room…?”
Junhong reopened the email he had sent a few days ago.
It was still marked as unread.
“If I collaborate with this person, I think I can pull quite a few views. Why haven’t they read it yet?”
“Maybe it’s because you sent it via email?”
“But there’s no other way! Don’t high school YouTubers check their emails daily?”
At the editor’s dismissive comment, Junhong shot him a light scolding glare before opening the channel again.
It had about 10,000 subscribers—a channel showing solid growth.
But what caught Junhong’s attention wasn’t the channel’s numbers.
“Their guitar skills are absolutely insane.”
Judging by their voice and appearance, they couldn’t be older than their mid-twenties at most.
Yet their guitar skills were so exceptional that even Junhong, who had made a name for himself as a session guitarist, was stunned.
“They might even be better than me.”
Some comments under the videos read, “They’re good, but is it worth all this hype?” and “Hmm… not sure about this.”
But Junhong could see the truth.
The difference between a beginner and a master isn’t about flashy tricks but solid fundamentals.
This channel wasn’t like the typical cover channels, which often relied on ostentatious techniques or flashy displays.
Instead, they focused solely on how to replicate the original songs more authentically or bring out the essence of the original work.
Junhong admired that.
Their original compositions were impressive enough, but what captivated him more was their approach as a guitarist.
Respecting the original, staying faithful to the fundamentals—this person embodied the spirit of a true guitarist.
“If they appeared on my channel, it would promote them and benefit us both.”
Junhong’s main profession was session guitar work.
YouTube was a side gig for him, but his channel had 150,000 subscribers, featuring various covers and practical guitar lessons.
It had enough clout to offer decent promotion.
“The scene needs fresh talent, a rising star to shake things up. Could this person be that star?”
Thinking this, Junhong checked his email again, hoping for a reply soon.
0 Comments