OK, world music buffs … how many Korean traditional musicians can you name? Without sneaking a look at The Rough Guide to World Music, you’ll probably have a tough time coming up with even one artist from Korea. Even so, this little known far eastern peninsula has a distinctive musical culture with a long, well documented history.
If you’ve been lucky enough to have attended any of the sporadic DANO ‘Korean Breeze’ concerts staged in London, Oxford and Sheffield over the last couple of years, you’ll know that Koreans have a unique suite of instruments, music and dance genres – as well as exquisite traditional clothing with a striking and instantly recognizable pastel-toned palette.
The spectacular Korean group Dulsori were an eye-catching highlight of last year’s WOMAD festival in Reading, with their thunderous drumming, swirling ‘ribbon dance’ and the dramatic, almost a cappella ‘pansori’ song story, which was accompanied by frenzied onstage calligraphy. Yet, without the benefit of a translation or contextualising visual clues to add meaning, this last genre can be a trying – even harrowing – experience on CD. Dinner guests at my flat will often make faces and head for the door at the mere suggestion of a ‘Korean opera’ session. Even much instrumental Korean music rubs many western ears up the wrong way, with its slithering microtones, exaggerated vibratos, asymmetrical rhythms, disregard for harmony, sparse arrangements and often extremely slow tempos, which can create an illusion of almost metreless music.
As Nigel Williamson observed in his recent Songlines feature on the BBC Radio 3 Awards for World Music (sorry, ‘The Planets’), Asian music is a chronically under-represented area. Given that many world music fans take Africa as their point of reference – ¬and of course the ubiquity of African American popular music – this is hardly surprising. But why exactly is it that so much Asian music (and specifically, Korean) is outside our comfort zones? Are we searching for things that aren’t there, and missing out on what is, by listening in the ‘wrong way’?
Travelling to South Korea’s capital city of Seoul to meet some of the next wave of Korean artists who will be visiting London between May and December for the ‘Korean Encounters’ season, my first port of call is the home of Byungki Hwang, who actually played a rare London gig in February 2006. As Korea’s leading master of the kayagum (a plucked zither related to the Japanese koto and Chinese zheng), he seems like a good person to shed light on such questions.
I’m not disappointed when we meet at his elegant and substantial home on a hill in west-central Seoul. Below us, the central business district looms through blue-grey pollution haze, and the walls of his lounge are lined with books and dozens of kayagum, ranging from the old fashioned 12-stringed model to the huge 25-stringed version popular in North Korea since the early ’90s.
Mr. Hwang has a delightfully curious manner, and a youthful sparkle in his eyes, which defies his seventy years. He speaks heavily accented but remarkably poetic English. Referred to as ‘a green bud on a firmly rooted tree’ for his fresh and broadminded approach, his slim but eclectic back catalogue dates back to 1965 and ranges from a 70-minute sanjo (a folk genre pioneered in the 19th century) to the jarringly avant garde The Labyrinth, which is not for the faint-hearted.
He explains that Korean traditional styles can be broken down into ‘court’ and ‘folk’ music, both of which he has trained in. Court music is easily recognisable for its very slow tempos, whereas folk music is livelier and often has more immediate appeal. But both generally have a pervading sense of space, a result of the high value placed on individual tones, which is why there is no real place for harmony.
“Traditionally, Korean musicians especially dislike harmony. Comparing with Chinese or Japanese music, Korean music especially emphasises the beauty of sound, like a calligraphy line. So usually the calligraphy must be done on white paper. Otherwise it has no meaning. So like that, one tone is perfect. One tone has its own musical value …so important Korean melody instruments can change in pitch microtonally.”
This means that instruments with fixed tones like the yanggum (hammered dulcimer) or even piano are considered minor instruments, not worthy of solo parts. And chords are naturally an anathema, as they combine tones. Just as important as the tone is the concept of yeo eum, roughly translated as ‘after-tone’:
“If you see a beautiful calm or quiet lake, sometimes we put a stone to the lake. Then there make a ripple. And a ripple was created by myself. But it exists in its own way, by itself. You cannot change it. You can only appreciate the beauty. Like that in kayagum, if you pluck one string, the remaining tone is like a ripple. And Korean people like that after-tone very much. [It’s] like with Korean tea, they usually have as much interest in the aftertaste. So, for example, sugary tea is very tasty but the aftertaste is very bad. Usually the bitter one has better aftertaste.”
And because yeo eum is best achieved with plucked instruments, they are considered more important than bowed ones. With harmony, counterpoint and chords absent, a large Korean court ensemble with ten, twenty or more melodic instruments makes music fundamentally odd to western ears.
“In that case, they use heterophony. All the melody instruments follow the same melodic line, but not in unison.”
What results is a loosely swaying matrix of overlapping microtones, with startling vibrato and other effects differentiating each element. Mr. Hwang acknowledges it’s an acquired taste.
As for his own music, the ‘less is more’ philosophy rules. Not only is his sound incredibly sparse, but his output too. He gives no more than a handful of concerts each year in Korea and his fifth album came out in 1994; he is now preparing ‘number six’. He agrees with my suggestion that his work is something of an antidote to the high speed world modern Koreans find themselves in.
“Just the opposite! My hope is to create some music like a fountain of water from the mountainside. Even though I know modern people like Coca-Cola, cider or Fanta, I like no taste! Just pure water! But the interesting thing is, in peoples’ minds, they have some unconscious hope to drink pure water,” he chuckles.
The following day, my translator and cultural chaperone (also the organiser of DANO ‘Korean Breeze’) Justina Jang accompanies me to The National Center for Korean Traditional Performing Arts, (NCKTPA) housed in a rather monolithic late ’80’s building on the other side of town. Founded more than 1400 years ago, it employed up to 1750 people at its peak during the early years of Korea’s illustrious Josun dynasty (1392 –1910). The current staff of 500 represents a huge recovery from the chaos of the early 20th century, when Japanese occupation (1910-1945) was followed by the Korean War. Funded entirely by the Korean Ministry of Culture & Tourism, the present site houses an excellent museum and a 24-hour radio station (Gugak FM 99.1) dedicated to Korean traditional music. There’s also a dance troupe and a school for training music teachers. The centre holds regular public concerts at their 1200-seat theatre and they have produced more than 100 CDs, ranging from ancient ceremonial court music to east-west fusion and new experimental material as radical as anything by Byungki Hwang.
With no little ceremony, director Chul-Ho Kim presents us with copies of their wonderful 4CD sampler A Selection of Korean Traditional Music (SBCD-4380- 1–4). He explains that Koreans treat sounds ‘like living souls’, the importance of ‘harmonising with nature’ in the ancient court music, and how a full understanding of Korean music really requires knowledge of Confucianism and Taoism. He acknowledges that much of what they do is a recreation of now-extinct traditions, so I ask Justina about this as we walk among the fabulously decorated chingo drums and pyeongyeong stone chimes of the museum.
“Because of Confucian philosophy we have to learn the tradition that we had in order to develop into a new culture,” she explains.
A good place to hear a wide cross-section of court and folk music is the Chongdong Theatre near City Hall station. ‘It’s your turn to feel it’ promises the brochure somewhat ominously as I take my seat for the fragmented but entertaining 70-minute show.
It begins with sinawi folk music and dance of Southern Korea, which is associated with shamanist rituals. The first ensemble includes a kayagum, a seven-stringed bowed zither called an ajaeng, a taegum (tranverse flute) and the ubiquitous changgu (hour-glass drum). The dancers use their long sleeves to graceful effect; based as it is on the breath rather than the heart beat, most Korean traditional court and folk dance is slow, so there’s no jumping about. Next, there’s a little taste of pansori. A commanding female singer gestures with fan and hands while singing a short story from Korean folklore, acccompanied by a seated puk drummer, whose non-verbal exhortations (‘chu im se’) and beats are analogous to the jaleo of flamenco. The tempo heats up with a samgomu drumming group – seven immaculately dressed women who literally bend over backwards to beat out synchronised triple-time rhythms on 14 drums mounted in beautifully decorated stands. A short ‘chamber music’ duet between a two-stringed haegum fiddle and a piano follows, and the climax is a thrilling and thoroughly acrobatic farmers’ ribbon dance. Each performer beats a gong or drum while dancing, using small head movements to create mesmerising cyclical patterns with ribbons attached to their hats, accompanied by the raucous wailing of the shenai-like taepyeongso.
It’s an instrument I hear a lot more of the following day when we visit a shamanic ceremony at the temple run by Kim Gum Wha. Designated as a ‘National Living Treasure’ by the Korean government, she is probably the country’s most renowned shaman, in demand for her blessing ceremonies said to bring good fortune. Her ‘performances’ abroad have included a blessing for New York City, and at home she conducts both public and private events. January is her busiest month, when fishermen and farmers hopeful of a good harvest beat a path to her quiet retreat at Incheon, near Seoul’s airport.
Today, she’s doing a private ceremony for an old woman and her family. It’s a colourful and sometimes tearful affair conducted with the help of relays of apprentices, who spin and mutter incantations in archaic Korean before an altar decked with edible offerings. They don and shed layer after layer of clothes, wielding knives, bells and gongs, and even puffing the occasional cigarette –¬ if the spirit that posseses them happens to be a smoker – accompanied by four seated musicians. There’s a changgu drum, two gongs (the medium-sized ching and a smaller kwaenggari) and the gnarled shrieks of taepyeongso and the oboe-like piri. Afterwards, Ms. Gum Wha explains in her calm manner the central place of shamanism in Korean culture.
“This shamanic music is the roots of Korean music in general. It all comes from there. We didn’t have Christianity or Buddhism before. Shamanism was like the main religion.”
Though there was a time when shamans were revered advisors to the royal court, organised religion, and later repression during the Japanese occupation have meant that they now have low social status. “But there are also lots of people who realise the importance of our own culture,” Ms. Gum Wha adds.
My next stop is the Korean National University of the Arts, another important centre for music students. The music department was only established in 1998, but its professors have recorded a wide range of Korean styles, perhaps with more emphasis on fusions with western classical traditions than at the NCKTPA. I meet three who have all performed in the UK and will do so again in late May– taegum and tanso (Korean recorder) player Park Yong Ho, and kayagum maestros Min Eui Sik and Kim Hae Sook. The latter has a fervent pedagogical manner, but also a ready laugh. On one of the CDs she has recorded with her colleagues, it says: ‘If we see the history of harmony in western music, we see the history of rhythm in Korean traditional music’. She elaborates thus:
“Because western music is based on chords, the rhythms are more restricted. In Korean music we play with one tone, so we have more freedom to use different types of rhythms. Western music is typically binary, but Korean music typically uses triple time.”
When we adjourn to a rehearsal later that day, I’m amazed to see a succession of large ensembles of young players. Among others, there’s a 12-piece kayagum group, one with 15 haegum, a six-piece ajeang ensemble and even one with 15 komungo (a 6- stringed zither plucked with a short stick). There’s plenty of counterpoint, western scales and even harp-like caressing of the kayagum, which flies in the face of everything Byungki Hwang told me. Afterwards Min Eui Sik reassures me that these new compositions imitating western styles are experimental works in progress, largely aimed at improving the students’ technique and artistic scope – as well as broadening their employment prospects. One of the albums he gives me (Masterpiece of Korean Music Vol. 18) has an excruciating arrangement of Bizet’s Carmen Suite and Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite, but I’m reassured they won’t be playing any such things in the UK. It should also be said that his own Yeongsan Hoesang CD (AKCD-0022) is wonderfully minimal and old school, as is Park Yong Ho’s Pyeongjo Hoesang (TOPCD-024).
On my last full day in Seoul, I visit Chungmu Arts Centre to meet Kim Duk Soo, whose story encapsulates the last half-century of rapid transition in Korean society. As the founder of the percussion ensemble SamulNori, he is now a household name in Korea, and has collaborated with a wide array of jazz, classical and popular musicians on over 20 CDs. SamulNori have taken his adaptation of Korean farmers’ music around the world since 1978, generating a folk revival at home epitomised by the iconic ribbon dancers I saw at the Chongdong theatre.
This short, chain-smoking man with a piercing gaze is a formidable and charismatic presence, like a loaded spring. Born in 1952, he started performing in his father’s group of ‘wayfaring male entertainers’ called Namsadang at the age of five. It was a gruelling lifestyle, going from village to village performing traditional puppetry, tightrope walking, acrobatics, juggling, mask dancing and nongak or pungmul (farmers’ music) from dawn to dusk with as many as 45 artists and as few as four.
“You have to remember that this was just after the Korean War. It was a very harsh situation for Koreans to survive in, and as artists it was even harder”
They were in fact the last representatives of an art form heading for extinction by the end of the 1950s as the traditional town squares (madang) they used disappeared.
“Namsadang always performed in such places. However, once we became more industrialised, all these madang became occupied with other buildings. So obviously we lost our performance space! But also you had things like television coming along and also the western religions which immediately disregarded Korean culture … so things like shamanism and Korean traditional culture had to take second place.”
By the time the Korean government had woken up to the plight of their vanishing culture and designated Namsadang a ‘Living Human Treasure’ in 1964, the group had done its last performances. However, Kim Duk Soo soon applied his skills to a new career, first with the Korean Folk Singing and Dance Arts Troupe, with whom he made his international debut at the Tokyo Olympics. Then, from 1966 –1976 he was a member of the Little Angels Art Company. Such experiences abroad gave him plenty of perspective on what was happening at home.
“Obviously, I had lots of questions about what I was supposed to do as a traditional artist. I had the experience of looking at all these different cultures, so I had to think about what another way might be to express myself. I felt that we had actually thrown away our traditional culture.”
In response, he created SamulNori, whose impact on Korean culture has been described as ‘shocking and irresistible as the force of a sudden gust of wind’. They took the basic ensemble of four percussion instruments from the pungmul/nongak farmer’s music (changgu, puk, ching and kwaenggari) and other elements of traditional theatre and shamanist rituals and adapted them to the modern stage, sparking a folk revival in the process. As a result of their influence, there are now SamulNori–style groups in virtually every school, village and city throughout Korea. When I ask if he knows the group Dulsori, his eyes light up in recognition.
“Ah! That’s one of our student groups – from the south west!”
True to his word, when I venture down to the southern province of Yeongam the next day to witness the first few hours of a four-day folk festival, I’m greeted by the gaudy spectacle of 300 hefty farming women in paramilitary outfits with psychedelic tradi-modern mega-pom poms. They represent the eleven towns of the province, each with its own wildly distinctive colour scheme. Tang-ul-lim (‘rumbling of the earth’) is what they call the ritualised racket they make by thumping ching and kwaenggari gongs as well as puk, changgu and sogo drums as they parade around ‘pressing the misfortune into the ground’. It’s the tenth year of this festival, which commemorates the life of Wang In, a local hero revered for taking Chinese script and the teachings of Confucius to Japan in the 4th century AD.
Retreating from the sound and fury with my travelling translator Park Joo Chan, I visit the nearby Wolchusan National Park. It’s cherry blossom time in the countryside below, but up here in the serenity of the mountains, wild camellias and azaleas are beginning to splash the bare woods in crimson and mauve. We pause for a moments’ reflection at the marvellous Dogapsa, a Zen Buddhist temple where a monk is chanting prayers, beating out naturalistic rhythms on a hand-held wooden moktak bell. Eventually he gets up and sounds an intricately wrought metre-high cast iron bell. In the still morning air, the aftertone lasts for well over a minute.
Gamsa hamnida to: Justina Jang (KCPA), Park Joo Chan, Korean Air, the Korea National Tourism Organisation and all the people at NCKTPA and KNUA. For more Korean traditional music than you can shake a stick at, check out www.gugakfm.co.kr and the Korean Cultural Promotion Agency (KCPA) www.kcpauk.org
By Hyon O’Brien