Super Cool Sounds
By Julian Warmington
An earlier version of this article appeared
in the September 2011 print version of Gwangju News.
The Seoul-based musical talent booking agency Super Color Super brought a touring party of five bands to play in Gwangju’s downtown performance venue Club Nevermind recently.
A range of random people lounge around the dimly lit room. Equipment is scattered in odd corners and spaces. As the clock strikes 11:00 a young man with long, curly hair, blue shorts and suspenders, and two-tone leather shoes – red and blue – starts whacking his yellow/black guitar hard and fast. It has an angry bee bass layered with distortion, yet the treble is sharp as a sword.
Another colorfully dressed person suddenly thrashes two sticks on a drum – but is the musician male or female? Feminine facial features and dress style distract from the listening – the drumming is immaculate, precise, and extraordinarily intense.
The guitarist wails into the microphone, but his vocals are swallowed by the room and the crowd is drawn into the total sound as it grows and flows around the dark space until, with a final stab, the guitarist leaves a last chord ringing, and the audience standing, stunned. Applause is instant and echoes the intensity of the music. The Seoul-based, anti-folk, power-pop duo Wagwak have started the show.
As the clapping and cheering dies down, a different sound begins. It is a warm, deep, electronic gurgle. Heads swivel, following the sound like a dog looks for a smell. A slight, slim woman in micro-shorts and a tight wooly beanie is standing up on stage, focused down on a small platform of electronic gadgets.
If the previous drummer could have been either gender, with her bright platinum blonde hair, this performer could be any nationality. Her electronic gurgle warps into a rhythmic warble that wanders into a wickedly quick robotic dance beat.
As she twists and turns dials and steps on loop peddles, she sways, nods, and sings into the microphone placed low enough for her to continue looking down at her hands as they massage a mysterious magic from the black boxes. She moves with a confident boppy style unusual for Korean women.
Jane Ha performs as “Pika”. After the show, she says she’s looking forward to when her friends from her regular band, Loro’s – for which she plays cello – can reunite following military service. In the meantime, her lyrics are lost in the swirl of sound as it beeps and burps and floats between the mesmerized onlookers.
When she finishes her piece, the sudden silence is a rude awakening, like turning on the lights after sitting in a dark room. The crowd blinks once, then cheers and claps, partly for her unique energy, and certainly for her sounds.
As the crowd grows quiet, they start to look at a group of five teenagers all ready and waiting with instruments. It’s a conventional band set-up, with drums, lead guitar, bass guitar, and singer, but the bass guitarist is a girl so young-looking it’s like she’s just escaped from her first-year middle school class. Eventually they launch into an old Chili Peppers number; it’s full-flight rock, raw and distinctly unpolished.
The drummer loses the tempo within the rhythm three times, but the band as a whole plays on with the excitement that comes with developing confidence and learning to share music. The singer leads, grabbing the microphone stand and jumping up and down in time as he belts out his vocals. The Gwangju band Biscat gets full applause and new fans for their effort.
A techno-tempo click-track starts zipping and sliding from the main speakers. People turn and walk over toward the sound-smith bent as if laboring over his buttons and dials. But seeing who is actually creating the layers of colorful zaps and bleats flitting around between the beats is difficult; he’s wearing a full-face welding mask with a dark-glass eye-slit.
Like a medieval knight riding his sound-desk into a joust, he gradually coaxes it to full speed, frenetically pouring over the dials as the enticing trance-state envelops the crowd. Finally, fitfully, it fades, and the unsettled audience cheers again for the new audio-hero Quarkpop.
Suddenly the sound of two drumsticks snaps out a four-four beat: ‘Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!’ and a new group on stage throws out a full band sound. It’s Gwangju’s own Harp, with their seasoned guitarist, ultimate rock-chick bass player, uber-confident singer, and prodigal-genius young drummer Jung Ick-tae sitting up straight, loose in his thin frame as he relaxes into the tight groove of a great rock number.
He plays with a precision that continues to amaze; he undercuts the vast experience and proficiency of his band-mates. The group as a whole starts the song okay, but as it continues, they suddenly click together in a way that comes with years of practice, sharing each beat’s throbbing power until the blasting end.
Then the round starts off again. The weird duo Wagwak start their second song, but this time the drummer plays a tiny ukulele, and then hits the bass drum with a kick-peddle, and then plays a colorful kid’s-set xylophone, plinking a tune in time with the energetic guitarist strumming a tight tempo on his great old Gibson acoustic. The sound is a fast, fun, jaunty sweet number, and they play it so quick it’s like it’s for kids with ADHD.
And so the performers go around again, each act taking turns to play variations on their own styles of sound. As difficult as this must be for the musicians having to start and stop so often for the sake of one event’s performance, for the audience at least, the ‘Round Robin’ idea is a fun, interesting way of presenting a collection of new bands to a crowd.
Jane Ha, interview, c. November 1, 2010
Jane Ha, interview c. May 6th, 2011
Featured image: Harp live, by Margaret Clarke