The Liar and His Lover—A bittersweet music romance about honesty, ambition, and first love in Seoul
Introduction
Have you ever fallen for a voice before you knew the person behind it? The Liar and His Lover takes that fragile feeling—the way a single melody can reroute your whole day—and builds a coming-of-age romance around it. I pressed play expecting sweet industry fluff, and instead found a low, steady hum of longing, compromise, and small courageous choices that echo long after the credits. As the show moves from riverbank chance encounters to neon-lit stages, you can almost hear the cost of a white lie tightening like a guitar string. Maybe you’ve been there too: wanting love and success without losing yourself in the loud room of everyone else’s expectations. Watch because this drama leaves you with a clear, resonant note—the kind that makes you brave enough to tell the truth.
Overview
Title: The Liar and His Lover (그녀는 거짓말을 너무 사랑해)
Year: 2017
Genre: Romance, Musical, Coming-of-Age
Main Cast: Lee Hyun-woo, Joy (Park Soo-young), Lee Jung-jin, Lee Seo-won, Hong Seo-young, Song Kang, Jang Ki-yong
Episodes: 16
Runtime: Approx. 60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Netflix
Overall Story
Kang Han-gyul is a prodigy who used to be the bassist of rising band Crude Play, but he stepped away before debut and now composes hits in secret as the elusive producer “K.” The anonymity gives him power in an industry where image sells more than authenticity, and it protects him from the stage fright that once crushed him. On an ordinary afternoon by the river, he hears a bright, untrained voice cutting through the city noise—and meets Yoon So-rim, a high schooler who sings like she means it. He gives a fake name and lets the moment pass, but carries her sound home like a stolen melody. So-rim, who plays with her two childhood friends, can’t forget the stranger whose tune lingers on her phone and in her chest. Their first meetings are shy, messy, and electric, the kind that make you ask yourself how a voice can feel like a promise.
So-rim’s world is small—school hallways, her grandmother’s produce shop, and the cramped practice room she shares with her friends. Yet the industry notices what Han-gyul noticed: that she has a tone producers can’t manufacture. Sole Music’s director Choi Jin-hyuk scouts her, offering auditions that sound like stardom if she’s willing to grow up quickly. Inside Sole, the shiny rooms have rules—about weight, wardrobe, even smiles—and So-rim learns how contracts can turn dreams into deadlines. Have you ever been told your instinct needs “corrections” to be valuable? She’s told to polish, to wait, to listen to older men who swear they know her voice better than she does. Meanwhile, Han-gyul keeps drifting near and away, drawing strength from her without admitting who he is.
Crude Play, the band he left, is thriving on his songs but fracturing under the surface. Current bassist Seo Chan-young resents living in Han-gyul’s long shadow and wants to prove his own ear by producing So-rim’s band, Mush & Co. That offer threatens to pull So-rim into a triangle of ambition: Chan-young wants validation, the label wants control, and Han-gyul wants…something truer than the lies he’s been telling. The show slows down to let us sit with So-rim’s choices: will she debut as part of a trio with her best friends, or as a solo vocalist shaped by older, safer hands? The series layers in the sociology of modern K-pop—trainee hierarchies, “live” stages sweetened by backing tracks, ghost producers behind photogenic faces. It’s not a takedown; it’s an unflinching look at what it costs to sound perfect.
When Han-gyul finally writes a song “for” So-rim, it’s tangled up with a past love, the acclaimed singer Chae Yoo-na. Those blurred lines hurt in a way you might recognize: you want to be special, not simply the latest person breathing life into someone else’s inspiration. So-rim senses that the melody she cherishes wasn’t born from her, and the truth feels like a splinter you can’t tweeze out. She tries to be professional—she practices, she records, she smiles for the people footing the studio bill—but the heart has its own logic. The show lets her be angry without making her cruel, a rare kindness in dramas about young women who say no. And Han-gyul, who thought a few lies could keep the music pure, watches how deception stains everything it touches.
As Mush & Co inches toward a debut, Sole Music plays a familiar game: pit artists against each other to sharpen their hunger. Chan-young coaches So-rim with genuine care, but also with a quiet wish that her success will prove he’s more than Han-gyul’s understudy. Yoo-na, too, is written with empathy—a woman whose voice bought her freedom, only to realize freedom without tenderness is lonely. The adults run on caffeine and compromise; the kids run on ramen, credit card rewards for gear purchases, and friends who will split cab fare after midnight rehearsals. It’s the everyday economics of a dream—one where a high-yield savings account for a new guitar might matter as much as rankings on a chart. Even the sweetest scenes keep one eye on the bill waiting outside the studio door.
Secrets always want a stage, and this one gets the loudest possible reveal. So-rim learns that the man she loves is the very “K” who orchestrates her world, and the shock turns her microphone into a weight. Han-gyul has reasons—panic, pride, performance anxiety—but reasons can’t rewrite outcome. They try distance. They try professionalism. They fail, and you feel that failure in the way So-rim sings on autopilot, technically perfect and emotionally numb. It’s here the drama makes its point: the opposite of a lie isn’t a confession; it’s changed behavior.
The industry storm arrives when the public questions whether Crude Play is truly “live.” Rumors about session players and edited performances turn into press conferences and panicked memos. In a rare, arresting move, the band decides to tell the truth, even if it ends them. The camera holds on the boys’ faces as they publicly admit shortcuts, letting authenticity cost them in real time. You don’t need to be a musician to feel the courage of saying, “We did this, and we’re sorry.” For once, the adults in suits fall silent while the artists take back their name.
So-rim refuses to let the machine grind her friendships down. She asks for fairness: keep Mush & Co intact, give them time to write, let them sing their own sound. Her boundaries with Han-gyul grow clearer too; forgiveness becomes practical, not poetic. The show is gentle with their reconciliation, building it through late-night rehearsals, honest apologies, and small shows where ten fans feel like a stadium. When they do return to bigger stages, it’s with a different kind of confidence—the kind that comes from knowing who you are when the lights cut out. Have you ever noticed how the right person doesn’t solve your problems but makes you braver while you solve them?
Tours and schedules bring their own pressures: missed classes, exhaustion, and the unglamorous logistics of life on the move. There are meetings about contracts and travel insurance, and there are breakfasts where the only policy that matters is whether someone remembered to pack honey for So-rim’s voice. Yoo-na finds a lane that honors her artistry instead of her image; Chan-young learns that producing is less about control and more about care. Even Choi Jin-hyuk, who saw artists as assets, risks trust and is surprised to find it reciprocated. The series isn’t naïve—money still matters—but it allows craft to have the last word.
By the finale, the truth has loosened the knots that once kept everyone tense. Crude Play chooses a hiatus on their own terms; Mush & Co releases music that sounds wonderfully like three kids who practiced after school until the janitor flicked the lights. Han-gyul finally plays without hiding, not because the stage stopped being scary, but because So-rim stands there too and the sound is bigger than his fear. Their love isn’t a grand fireworks display; it’s a steady chorus that holds even when the verses change. And when the curtain falls, you’re left with a sensation I cherish from the best romances: that honest work and honest love can coexist in the same room.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 A riverbank meeting, a borrowed melody, and a name that isn’t real. Han-gyul records a tune on So-rim’s phone, then dodges her earnest questions with a lie that feels harmless in the moment. The scene frames everything the show will wrestle with—how intimacy begins and how it breaks when one person edits the truth. You feel the flutter of first love and the small sting of doubt landing at the exact same time. It’s giddy, awkward, and impossible to forget.
Episode 3 Mush & Co’s audition at Sole Music turns nerves into narrative. The camera lingers on scuffed sneakers, trembling hands, and that first note that always decides everything. Choi Jin-hyuk sees market potential; Chan-young sees a sound he wants to guide; So-rim just wants to sing with her friends. The episode captures the trainee ecosystem—the hierarchy, the hallway envy, and the quiet kindnesses that keep rookies afloat. When So-rim accepts training, it’s not a sellout; it’s a brave step into a complicated room.
Episode 6 The truth cracks open. So-rim confronts Han-gyul about being “K,” her face a mix of awe and hurt, because the reveal validates her instincts even as it invalidates their intimacy. The writing lets her articulate complicated feelings without punishment, and it asks Han-gyul to do more than apologize. After this, every duet they attempt has a ghost harmony labeled “consequence.” It’s a turning point that makes the later reconciliation feel earned.
Episode 9 Backstage, So-rim freezes—too many eyes, too much pressure, and a heart that hasn’t healed. Chan-young steps up with thoughtful coaching, but he can’t sing away the residue of betrayal. The show respects performance anxiety as real, not a hurdle you leap by sheer will. Han-gyul watches from the shadows, learning that love without honesty cannot protect the person you love. When So-rim finally finds her breath mid-song, it plays like a small miracle.
Episode 12 The “live vs. not-live” whirlwind hits Crude Play. Accusations about session musicians escalate, and the label prepares a sanitized apology. Instead, the band decides to tell the whole truth in front of reporters, detonating the narrative to reclaim their music. It’s one of those rare K-drama sequences where consequence feels immediate and meaningful. You can almost hear the silence after the confession—the breath before either redemption or ruin.
Episode 16 A final stage that isn’t about perfection. Han-gyul performs in his own name; So-rim sings beside him without flinching; friends cheer from the wings with that tired, teary pride artists know well. Not every career lands softly, but every character ends closer to themselves. The confession of love is quiet, sure, and more persuasive than any grand gesture. The series closes on the sound of people who stopped lying to survive and started telling the truth to live.
Memorable Lines
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” – Yoon So-rim, Episode 2 Asked with a smile that borders on a dare, it’s the moment her courage sets the tone for the entire relationship. She isn’t performing confidence; she’s choosing it in real time, and that choice pulls Han-gyul out of hiding. Their dynamic shifts from accident to intention, and the show signals that So-rim will drive her own story. From here on, honesty won’t wait for permission.
“I kept lying because I was afraid the music would stop.” – Kang Han-gyul, mid-series In one sentence, he admits what many creators feel: fear dressed up as strategy. The line reframes him—not a cold genius, but a boy who mistook secrecy for safety. It complicates our sympathy and forces him to rebuild trust through action, not explanation. You can feel how the industry taught him to hide, and how love invites him to try another way.
“I don’t want to be your secret; I want to be your choice.” – Yoon So-rim, after the reveal She sets a boundary that protects her heart and her art. The show treats this not as an ultimatum but as a declaration of self-respect, letting the romance grow up alongside the characters. It also marks So-rim’s shift from passive trainee to active artist. From here, every step she takes is toward a stage she can own.
“Let’s stop lying to our music first.” – Crude Play, during the scandal Said before the press conference, it’s the band’s quiet pact to accept the fallout. The line recognizes that audiences can forgive failure, but they can’t love a mask forever. It becomes a thesis for the back half of the show: truth may cost you, but it clears the room for better songs. The boys choose legacy over image, and it lands.
“Your voice is where I want to rest.” – Kang Han-gyul, late series It reads romantic, but it’s also an apology in disguise—he’s done running from the thing that scares him. The tenderness here isn’t grand; it’s specific, a daily promise to show up with his real name and real work. The couple’s future feels plausible because it’s built on practices, not miracles. As a viewer, you feel invited to believe in the small, steady way love heals.
Why It's Special
The Liar and His Lover is that gentle, guitar-strummed romance that sneaks up on you, all warm blush and late‑night playlists. Set in Seoul’s showbiz back rooms and school corridors, it braids first love with the pressures of hit-making, letting a song spark a relationship before names are exchanged. If you’re ready to press play, you can stream the full series in the United States on OnDemandKorea (free with ads) and on Tubi; it’s also on Netflix in select regions and on Disney+ in Japan, so availability may vary by country.
Have you ever felt this way—when a melody pulls you back to the moment you met someone? That’s the dreamlike current of this drama. Its storytelling starts with an anonymous producer and a high-school singer whose chemistry is written in choruses, not confessions. The episodes move with the tempo of pop ballads: verse, build, refrain, and that lift right before the bridge.
What makes it special is how it translates an intimate love story into the machinery of the music industry. Contracts, stage lights, practice rooms, and A&R meetings share equal space with rooftop sunsets and hesitant handholds. The series reimagines Kotomi Aoki’s beloved manga for Korean television without losing the bittersweet tug that fans adored in print.
The direction favors close, unhurried shots that let glances linger. You feel the weight of a secret in the silence between two characters; you hear the ache in a chorus they write together but can’t yet sing out loud. The camera loves rehearsal rooms and city buses at dusk, finding romance in everyday places.
Writing-wise, it’s an easy watch that still nudges at larger ideas: the ethics of ghost-producing, what “authenticity” costs a young artist, and whether love can thrive when honesty is off-key. Even when conflicts spike, the tone stays tender, more coming-of-age than cutthroat melodrama—comfort television that doesn’t talk down to you.
Then there’s the music. Original tracks thread through the plot, from the heroine’s first demo to showcase stages, turning the OST into a diary of their relationship. Songs like “Yeowooya” and “I’m Okay” aren’t just earworms; they’re plot points you can hum, a rare trick this show pulls off with ease.
Finally, the genre blend is quietly addictive: part campus romance, part workplace drama, part industry procedural. Instead of whiplash, you get a harmonious mix—sweet enough for a weekend binge, grounded enough to remember on Monday morning.
Popularity & Reception
When it first aired on tvN in March–May 2017, domestic TV ratings were modest by cable standards, hovering around the low 1% range. That didn’t stop the show from building a soft-power afterlife: once it landed on international platforms, more viewers found it at their own pace and fell for its mellow charm.
Streaming extended its reach dramatically. The series rolled out internationally on Netflix from October 1, 2019, which helped word-of-mouth cross borders. Today, it’s easy to discover (or rediscover) via U.S. ad-supported platforms, which has kept the fandom humming years after the finale.
Critics and bloggers were split—but tellingly so. Some praised its “beautiful melody of chasing dreams and young love,” while others wished for a tighter final act; that blend of praise and gentle critique mirrors the show’s own balance of softness and ambition.
Among fans, conversation often centers on how the OST carries emotion between episodes. Community spaces and episode trackers note the series as “romantic,” “relaxed,” and “feel-good,” a vibe that explains its rewatchability even more than numbers do.
Awards didn’t define The Liar and His Lover, but there were bright spots: Joy (Park Soo‑young) received a Newcomer Award at the 2017 OSEN Cable TV Awards, and the production earned nods across fan-driven ceremonies—validations of the show’s growing international affection.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Hyun-woo plays Kang Han‑gyul (also known as “K”), the withdrawn prodigy whose songs light up other people’s stages. He carries the paradox of a hitmaker who hates the spotlight, giving the role a guarded vulnerability—sharp in the studio, clumsy in love. You believe he could ghost-compose a nation’s summer anthem and still get tongue-tied when asked his real name.
Off-screen context deepens his performance. Lee’s gentle tenor folds into the soundtrack on “I’m Okay,” a duet that marks a turning point for the couple and proves he understands the character as both producer and partner in rhyme. It’s a clever fusion of actor and role that fans still replay.
Park Soo-young (Joy) is Yoon So‑rim, a high‑school vocalist whose voice is bright enough to chase storm clouds. Joy makes So‑rim’s honesty a superpower: she blurts out feelings most K‑drama heroines swallow, and the show rewards that courage with small, sparkling victories. You can feel when her chest tightens before a high note—and when it eases because she’s decided to trust.
This was Joy’s screen acting debut, and it shows—in the best way. There’s a rookie freshness to her emotional beats that suits a character taking her first steps onto a stage. That she also anchors multiple OST tracks (“Yeowooya,” “Your Days,” and more) turns the series into a love letter to her dual identity as singer‑actress.
Lee Jung-jin brings steel and shade to Choi Jin‑hyuk, the label executive who can read a balance sheet and a broken heart. He’s the adult in a room full of prodigies, and his gravitas keeps the industry plot from floating away on teenage butterflies.
What’s fascinating is how Lee plays power as protection and pressure at once. His Jin‑hyuk isn’t a mustache‑twirling villain; he’s an idealist with a ledger, a man who believes art needs structure—and that structure sometimes hurts.
Lee Seo-won steps in as Seo Chan‑young, the bassist who replaces Han‑gyul in Crude Play. On paper he’s a rival; on screen he’s the show’s ache, the artist who wonders if talent without the right origin story will ever be enough.
Chan‑young’s shift from overlooked bandmate to producer is one of the drama’s most satisfying arcs. His gentle mentorship of So‑rim adds a triangle that’s less about jealousy than about timing and truth—what you say, when you say it, and who gets to listen first.
Hong Seo-young is unforgettable as Chae Yoo‑na, the glamorous singer tethered to past choices. She’s the show’s hardest note to hit: part cautionary tale, part guardian of the flame that first ignited Han‑gyul’s creativity.
Listen closely and you’ll hear Hong on the OST—“Counting Stars at Night” and “Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow”—songs that sketch Yoo‑na’s interior life with aching clarity. Her vocals give the character a second voice, letting us hear the woman behind the headlines.
Behind the camera, director Kim Jin‑min and writer Kim Kyung‑min tune the story with a soft, contemporary key. At the press showcase, Kim described it as “a sweet romance with music”—less a backstage exposé than a drama about how love and songs change people, which is exactly how it plays. Studio Dragon’s development and Bon Factory’s production roots help the adaptation honor the manga while finding its own rhythm.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a romance that hums rather than shouts, The Liar and His Lover is a cozy, heart-forward pick you can curl up with tonight. And when it inspires you to map a music‑themed trip to Seoul’s live venues, protect the dream with practical planning—think travel insurance and one of the best credit cards for flights and streaming perks. As you binge, consider channeling those rewards into concert tickets or a weekend getaway. Have you ever felt a show become a soundtrack to your own next chapter?
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