During the Seoul run of The Phantom of the Opera, I found myself rewatching promotional clips from TV and radio broadcasts. Though enjoyable, they only reminded me how different—and irreplaceable—live theater truly is. A voice through speakers never carries the same weight as one traveling across a stage, surrounded by an orchestra and silence. That longing for the live experience eventually led me to Daegu.

At first, I thought I might attend just a few shows. But as the Seoul performances ended, I began thinking about time—how this moment might never return. I ran the numbers, recalculated my vacation days, and realized that if I gave up an overseas trip, this journey was possible. I wasn’t chasing a show—I was following a voice. So I made a spreadsheet, marked dates, and began booking.

My first performance in Daegu was on December 23. I had heard mixed comments about the Keimyung Art Center’s acoustics and worried, but from the overture to Christine’s “Think of Me,” I was unprepared for the impact. Earlier photos showed a central speaker array above the proscenium, but it was gone—likely removed to accommodate the chandelier and angel statue. In its place, two symmetrical side arrays with an arched configuration (16+12 units each) distributed the sound. The result was stunning: clear, resonant, with just the right amount of reverb. The balance between vocals and orchestra was superb. For the first time across three cities, the acoustic environment felt perfectly tailored to the show.

The cast had reached a state of deep comfort after two full-city runs. The Daegu performances were, in my experience, the most complete—emotionally, technically, and musically. The orchestra felt alive, each alternating conductor bringing subtle shifts in tempo and energy. Sitting in the orchestra seats, I felt vibrations of strings and pipes rising from the floorboards, every note tactile.

Julian Kim’s Phantom remained unwavering throughout. Drawing on his operatic background—Verdi, Rossini and Puccini roles like Il barbiere di Siviglia, La bohème, Don Carlo—he commanded the role with vocal assurance and expressive nuance. Every shift in color felt intentional; pitch control and phrasing were delivered not just with power, but with storytelling. Christine, played by Jisoo Sohn, sang with crystalline tone and embodied both innocence and seduction naturally. Piangi became my personal favorite in ensemble moments—his tenor robust, his low register steady, his presence filling scenes even when not in the spotlight.

Not every night was flawless. Christine (Song Eun-hye) showed visible strain in some performances, and at one point her understudy, Kwon Ga-min, stepped in for Act II—rising to the occasion with a stirring “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again.” Raoul (Hwang Gun-ha) sang through near exhaustion, never missing a performance. Choi Jae-rim, scheduled for multiple roles, tested positive for COVID-19 and had to step away briefly. These realities only deepened my respect for the company.

Julian’s Phantom evolved with each show, yet every performance felt complete. Some nights he was a Phantom grieving lost love; on others, one mourning the absence of someone to sing for; on others still, he radiated philosophical solitude. In moments when he stood alone on stage, the character’s inner world projected fully—without unnecessary movement, only presence. Phantom exposes performers; its long breaths and still pacing demand both vocal mastery and deep acting. Julian delivered both.

Two performances stand out. On January 10, there was an almost tangible bond between performer and audience—the singing carried raw strength, and the atmosphere felt electric. On January 25, despite a malfunctioning throne, I witnessed a Phantom and Christine who seemed to truly live and breathe. That night felt like the culmination of his journey. Every performance afterward reaffirmed my conviction: this was a fully realized Phantom.

By the final weeks, I had based myself in Daegu, attending nearly every remaining show. Traveling back and forth, taking vacation days, spending money I usually save—I have no regrets. Instead of sadness after the final curtain, I felt fulfilled. The countdown to the last show became not a descent into regret, but a series of affirmations that I was exactly where I needed to be.

Was it worth it? Absolutely. Would I do it again? I don’t think I have to. I followed a voice, and it never faltered. It did not disappoint me. It did not disappoint itself. I left the theater full—no need for another Phantom right away. This story, this music, this experience—it was enough.