Chapter 13: The Vocal Monster
At the exact moment Kang Jae-hoon nervously pushed open the door and stepped inside, the director’s roar abruptly ceased.
Everyone in the room turned their eyes to him in unison.
Unlike the others who looked at his face, having witnessed the entire scene, Yoon-ah Lim and Taeyeon Kim instinctively glanced toward the crotch of his pants.
“I’m sorry, Director…” Before he could finish, the director cut him off sharply: “Take your seat.”
“Yes.”
After sitting down, Kang Jae-hoon cast a grateful glance at Yoon-ah Lim. She nodded slightly, returning a formulaic smile—the curve of her lips identical to that on stage during performances.
The preparation before recording an animated film’s voiceover and a live-action film’s production are largely similar: the main actors gather to read lines together.
The process differs slightly, however.
Script readings before a live-action film can last weeks or even months.
But for animated films, voice recording and line rehearsals often take just one or two days.
Today’s task for Kang Jae-hoon and the others was to review the script.
They spent the morning running through lines, then began watching the silent original footage in the afternoon for trial dubbing.
“Mark emotional beats first; line readings in half an hour.”
Kang Jae-hoon pulled out a ballpoint pen, hesitated with its tip over a blank space, then suddenly began scribbling swiftly.
Taeyeon Kim was sticking colorful sticky notes with labels onto her script when her peripheral vision caught sight of Kang Jae-hoon’s script.
Black ink arrows and wavy lines crisscrossed the pages; blank spaces were crowded with notes like “larynx descends 3mm” and “chest resonance area,” even an anatomical drawing of vocal cord vibrations.
Taeyeon nudged Yoon-ah Lim with her elbow, hiding half her face behind her script, silently mouthing: “Monster.”
Yoon-ah Lim followed her lead, craning her neck for a peek, her pupils instantly contracting.
Moments later, while marking emotional cues, Kang Jae-hoon suddenly raised his hand:
“Director, Gru’s line — the American-style joke about ‘the moon being more reliable than Congress’ — feels a bit awkward in Korean.”
The director flipped through the script pages noisily.
“Where exactly?”
“Scene 17, shot 3, sixth line of dialogue.”
The rustling of paper stopped abruptly.
Yoon-ah Lim noticed the director’s index finger scraping back and forth over the line three times, the ink smudging from repeated rubbing.
“Explain how it feels awkward.”
“The original line mocks politicians, but Korean audiences aren’t very sensitive about Congress.”
Kang Jae-hoon suggested, “How about changing it to a pop culture joke? The audience relates more to scandals in entertainment.”
“Like what?”
“Change it to — ‘The moon is fairer than talent show judges.’”
He pulled out his phone and swiped to display a news screenshot from last night — the 2012 “Super Star K4” voting fraud scandal, which had recently trended again due to a retrial.
“Just last week it was trending again.”
“Super Star K” was Korea’s first amateur talent show.
Since its inception in 2009, it’s drawn over two million participants.
The male lead in “Reply 1997,” Seo In-guk, was the winner of the first season.
Many contestants who didn’t win but became famous also emerged from this show.
For example, Bae Suzy, who landed leading roles in hit dramas, had auditioned as an amateur in 2009. After failing the initial round and heading to the restroom, she was discovered by a JYP scout and debuted six months later as a Miss A member.
As for why Kang Jae-hoon paid such close attention to this show — Lee Sung-kyung had also been eliminated during the audition stage.
The director stared at Kang Jae-hoon’s phone for three seconds, then suddenly slammed the table:
“Show us.”
Clearing his throat, Kang Jae-hoon let out a lazy, drawn-out nasal laugh: “The moon is fairer than talent show judges — huh.”
At the end, he added a half-second of breathy chuckle.
The director was silent for two seconds before saying:
“Sound team, mark this line to be recorded according to his suggestion.”
“Understood.”
After the director nodded, Kang Jae-hoon returned to his script.
Taeyeon Kim tore off a sticky note and pushed it toward Yoon-ah Lim — a simple doodle of a grimacing little figure marked: “Vocal cord monster.”
Suppressing a smile, Yoon-ah Lim tapped on the line reading “The moon is fairer than talent show judges.”
During lunch break.
Kang Jae-hoon knocked on the dressing room door carrying a bag of fried chicken.
“Thanks for this morning.”
He set the plastic bag down in front of Yoon-ah Lim’s desk.
She was currently fighting with a salad and glanced at the greasy stains seeping out of the bag.
“Thanks, but I can’t eat fried food.”
“Brother Seong-ho made it in an air fryer, no oil added.”
Kang Jae-hoon pulled out a crumpled receipt showing nutritional information on the back.
Yoon-ah Lim traced the fat content with her manicured nail:
“10.2 grams per 100 grams — that’s over the limit.”
Kang Jae-hoon scratched his head.
“Then I’ll eat both portions?”
Yoon-ah Lim thought for a moment, pulled out a tissue, and laid it on the desk.
She unwrapped the packaging, peeled off the chicken skin to remove subcutaneous fat, then rinsed the meat chunks three times in mineral water.
Tiny beads of oil floated on the water’s surface.
Watching her nibble on the plain chicken pieces, Kang Jae-hoon suddenly recalled Lee Sung-kyung’s fridge, where chicken breasts were portioned by weight.
“Thanks. It’s better than salad.”
Before he could say more, Taeyeon Kim’s angry shout came from the doorway:
“Hey! Yoon-ah! Didn’t we agree to munch on leafy greens together during the comeback period?”
[Note: Back in 2013, Taeyeon still had a little baby bump — those who know, know.]
Yoon-ah Lim quickly snapped the lid shut.
“Just one piece.”
Taeyeon stormed in, poking at the fried chicken box:
“Who swore off breaking the diet during the comeback period?”
“Taeyeon, should I help you destroy the evidence?”
“Huh?”
Kang Jae-hoon lifted the chicken box toward Taeyeon, fanning it with his hand:
“If two people share it, the fat content drops to 5%.”
Taeyeon stared at the fried chicken for three seconds, then suddenly grabbed the chopsticks:
“I’m helping Yoon-ah take the risk!”
With a mouthful of chicken, she mumbled indistinctly, “This tastes awful... another drumstick, please.”
Yoon-ah Lim quietly pushed the box toward the center.
“That jacket — I’ll wash it and return it tomorrow.”
“I might not be around tomorrow…”
Voice acting work differs from film shooting.
Films usually require actors on set all day.
Voice recording is more flexible, allowing actors to adjust schedules by recording lines separately.
Popular young actresses often have exhausting schedules, sometimes needing vitamin B complex injections (aka garlic shots) to keep going.
Not to mention Taeyeon’s commitments with the TTS subunit.
“Then... should I leave it in the studio’s locker?”
“That place is already packed with filming equipment. If you leave it there, it’ll probably get thrown out as trash.”
Yoon-ah Lim thought a moment.
“Mail it to my company instead.”
“Okay,” Kang Jae-hoon nodded.
“By the way.”
Swallowing a piece of chicken, Taeyeon asked:
“Jae-hoon, those scribbles in your script this morning — which teacher taught you that?”
“I had some basics from school, and after watching teachers perform on set, I summarized it myself.”
Yoon-ah Lim pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned her fingertips.
“Which school did you go to?”
“Seoul Institute of the Arts, Class of ’09.”
“Class of ’09?”
She thought for a moment.
“So you were born in 1990?”
Kang Jae-hoon nodded.
Yoon-ah Lim suddenly flipped his script 180 degrees and tapped the anatomical vocal cord drawing.
“Can you teach me this?”
Kang Jae-hoon paused for two seconds, then explained:
“This is the muscle memory method taught by Teacher Hwang Jung-min.”
He drew a wavy line on a blank space:
“For example, when angry, pressing the collarbone while voicing creates a torn effect.”
“How exactly do you press?”
“First, feel your swallow.”
He twisted open a bottle of water and took two sips, then tilted his head back, mimicking swallowing a pill, watching his Adam’s apple move up and down.
“Speak the angry line at the moment the Adam’s apple lowers to its lowest point.”
Taeyeon Kim, chewing on a chicken bone, interrupted:
“This is like finding the right spot for high notes when singing.”
“The difference is here.”
Kang Jae-hoon suddenly pressed his thumb into the hollow above his collarbone:
“When voicing, using the thumb to press this groove controls the vibration frequency of the vocal cords.”
Yoon-ah Lim imitated his gesture, pressing her collarbone and trying to recite Gru’s line:
“Give me the rocket fuel—”
“The plosive is too strong. The word ‘fuel’ should hum with nasal resonance, like speaking with a cold.”
Taeyeon Kim pinched her nose and mimicked:
“Give me the fire-cutting pee-oo—”
“Oni!”
Only when Taeyeon raised her hand in surrender did Yoon-ah Lim turn back to signal Kang Jae-hoon to continue.
“Before the emotional outburst, inhale down to the lowest rib.”
Kang Jae-hoon lifted his T-shirt hem, revealing taut oblique muscles:
“See, expand the diaphragm to its limit, then explode the sound. The tone will be more powerful.”
Yoon-ah Lim stared at his tightened waistline, then suddenly hid her face behind the script.
“Did Seoul Institute of the Arts teach this?”
“Hwang Jung-min taught me.”
Kang Jae-hoon lowered his shirt:
“He said an actor’s lungs should be able to burst a blood pressure cuff.”
Yoon-ah Lim didn’t pursue the topic.
She tapped the Korean annotations on his script with her pen:
“What do these symbols mean?”
“Arrows indicate breath direction, triangles mark tonal transitions,” Kang Jae-hoon explained.
“Can I photocopy this?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
The copier hummed.
Leaning against the wall, Yoon-ah Lim watched him adjust the paper orientation:
“Do you usually teach juniors like this?”
“This is the first time anyone’s asked me.”
Kang Jae-hoon pressed the start button:
“When I debuted, even the extras on set had more experience than me.”
“By the way, when’s your birthday?”
“September 12.”
Yoon-ah Lim took the warm photocopy and suddenly shifted to casual speech:
“Then let’s stop using honorifics.”
“This...”
He hesitated.
“Using honorifics among peers on set makes me feel like a harsh senior.”
She covered her face with the photocopy, eyes curved in a smile:
“If it’s too awkward, you can just call me ‘Noona.’ After all, I was born four months earlier.”
Before he could reply, Taeyeon Kim’s wail echoed nearby.
Kang Jae-hoon and Yoon-ah Lim instinctively turned to see her clutching the empty fried chicken box, crumbs still clinging to her mouth, her face a perfect picture of “regret but worth it.”
They exchanged a smile.
Kang Jae-hoon pulled out his phone, pretending to dial:
“Should I order another for Taeyeon?”
“Ah! Do you want my manager to hang me from the Han River Bridge?!”
Taeyeon slammed the table, then suddenly lowered her voice:
“But...”
“No buts, Oni.”
Yoon-ah Lim pulled out a wet wipe and handed it over:
“Your mouth.”
Taeyeon took the wipe, wiping her mouth with the adorable motions of a hamster washing its face.
Sunlight filtered through the recording studio’s blackout curtains, casting a dance of light and shadow on the floor.
One o’clock in the afternoon.
The full cast of “Despicable Me 2” began trial dubbing.
Kang Jae-hoon fixated on the silent footage of Gru in a poofy skirt, his Adam’s apple bobbing three times.
Suddenly, the director’s tapping exploded in his headphones:
“What are you daydreaming about? Where are the lines?”
“Sorry!”
Kang Jae-hoon sucked in a deep breath, pinched his throat, and squeezed out a sweet, syrupy voice:
“Cutie! Fairy sister is here~”
The director suddenly slammed the call button:
“Stop! Are you dubbing Lee Hyori’s ‘10 Minutes’ or something?!”
“Sorry, Director! I’ll adjust it again...”
The second take.
Kang Jae-hoon hummed a bubble sound through his nose:
“Baby~ look at fairy sister’s magic wand~”
This time, his voice resembled Donald Duck with his neck caught in a door.
“Again! It needs to be loving but slightly awkward!”
The director’s furious shout as he threw the script echoed through every actor’s headset.
Taeyeon Kim squeezed her thigh, burying her face in the script, shoulders trembling as if electrocuted.
Yoon-ah Lim bit her lip hard enough to leave crescent-shaped nail marks on the desk.
It was hard to imagine.
The same Kang Jae-hoon who had been earnestly teaching her voice acting techniques at noon was now producing such a strangled, quacky voice...
Voice acting shares a working environment similar to recording songs.
Therefore, Kang Jae-hoon never felt embarrassed by others’ reactions — because no one could see him.
He suddenly closed his eyes—
Images of himself dressed in a medieval underskirt, soothing Hwang Ja-woo to sleep, instantly surfaced in his mind.
Opening his eyes, he lifted his left hand as if holding his skirt, while his right hand formed a delicate, theatrical finger gesture:
“My little princess, tonight’s moonlight will turn into a fairy’s gown~”
His hoarse male voice was thick with honeyed warmth, yet the trailing notes betrayed a faint, shy tremor.
Silence fell for two seconds.
No one laughed this time.
The absurdity of Gru in women’s clothing clashing with Kang Jae-hoon’s voice somehow perfectly matched his awkward paternal love —
A single father desperately protecting his daughter’s innocence.
Just as Kang Jae-hoon braced himself for another scolding, the director called out:
“Scene 17, shot 3, ready!”
The assistant director’s shout snapped him out of his strange practice.
Kang Jae-hoon quickly stuffed the thermos into the chair’s mesh pocket, wiping condensation from the lid with his fingertip.
...
Nine o’clock at night.
After a full afternoon of trial recordings, Kang Jae-hoon rubbed his burning throat as he left the studio.
Taeyeon Kim suddenly popped out, mimicking the father-daughter voice from earlier:
“Ice cream volcano on the moon~ wow, Jae-hoon will definitely be a daddy’s boy!”
“Uh... thanks.”
Holding her script to her chest, Yoon-ah Lim smoothly picked up the conversation:
“Did you learn the kid-soothing technique from Senior Hwang Jung-min as well?”
“No, I practiced it during a play when putting kids to nap.”
“A play? Which one?”
“Macbeth.”
“Oh—”
The three chatted as they walked, parting ways in the underground parking lot.
Kang Jae-hoon climbed into Kim Daewon’s used Kia, his pocket vibrating twice — a message from Lee Sung-kyung:
[There’s honey water in the fridge.]
He stared at the screen, grinning foolishly, completely unaware of Yoon-ah Lim’s nanny car slowly passing by.
Inside the car.
Yoon-ah Lim unlocked her phone, opened the Naver search bar, and typed — “Kang Jae-hoon — Macbeth.”
Several news articles instantly popped up, showing photos of him in a dress during curtain calls.
“Lady Gentleman...?”
Her reflection in the car window revealed a faint, upturned smile:
“... surprisingly dedicated.”
The manager in the front seat suddenly turned back:
“Yoon-ah, have you seen the script for next week’s ‘Strong Heart’?”
“Hm?”
She locked her phone and looked up.
“Not yet, I’ll read it tonight.”
“Remember to mention the sixth anniversary project for Girl’s Generation. No personal topics.”
“Got it.”
As the night swallowed the taillights, Yoon-ah Lim reopened her phone.
Her fingertip tapped Kang Jae-hoon’s comical lady’s expression on the screen, softly murmuring:
“Clumsy... but kind of adorable.”