Roots and Routes Hip-Hop From South Korea
Roots and Routes Hip-Hop From South Korea
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Ute Fendler
University of Bayreuth
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Abstract
With the growing success of hip-hop in South Korea, the discussions about the authenticity
of this genre increase and create cleavages between the mainstream and the underground
rappers. The paper intends to analyze three examples of the contemporary music scene that are
representative of different positions. Taking Simon Frith’s work on popular music as a means
to construct identity, the paper suggests questioning the concept of authenticity (“roots”) and
proposes instead conceiving hip-hop in South Korea as a movement at the crossroads (“routes”)
of various influences and practices.
Keywords
Authenticity, Identity, Music videos, Performance, R&B, Rap
In the ongoing process of reaching out to global markets, pop music in South
Korea undergoes fast changes, mainly under the influence of US -American and
Western European markets, as literature on K-pop highlights (Choi and Maliangkay).
John Lie dealt with the question of K-pop as music positioned between different
influences:
The discussion about music production in South Korea is therefore mostly seen
in a field of ongoing tensions between traditional music with diverse historical
influences—mainly from Japan—and the influence from the US , in particular rock,
jazz, and soul genres since the post-war period. In order to grasp this complexity,
one often recurs to concepts of mixture and hybridity, on the one hand, and the
search for authenticity and originality in comparison to the source of inspiration,
on the other. However, this paper will not deal with K-pop as such. Instead, it will
talk about hip-hop in South Korea, whose popularity increased over the last ten
years and around which the question of authenticity is posed regularly in relation
to the African-American origins and music production in South Korea. Um has
described the influence from abroad but also the tendencies that developed in
South Korea from Seo Taeji’s (1992) and Drunken Tiger’s (1999) first albums since
the 1990s. Since then, it has been a complex evolution and discussion about the
merging of elements of the music genre coming from the US and Korean elements
or about the appropriation of the genre in South Korea in relation to lyrics, themes,
and performance. Jaeyoung Yang goes further with his overview of the beginnings
of Korean hip-hop in the early 1990s with the “Big Three, Hyon Chin-Yong, Seo
Taeji and Boys and Deux” talking about the evolution of “Korean Black Music”
(100). Till the mid-2000s, internet communities and underground groups have
developed their own crews and style (103-104), among them musicians that are
still popular today like e.g. Epik High and Verbal Jint. Yang speaks of “Koreanized
black music” in his summary:
Meanwhile, the Korean underground black music scene, which has risen from
the bottom through online communities and clubs since the mid- to the late-1990s,
helped establish the very lively “Koreanized” black culture. Although Korean hip-hop
is different from the American one in terms of its attitude and its essence, it is certainly
connected to a large number of domestic youth as a self-sustainable cultural expressive
form. (105–106)
More than ever, hip-hop has recently gained a very peculiar position as it has
reached the mainstream since 2012 with the TV show Show me the Money, which
offered a platform for rappers to compete for a nationwide TV program. The show
also increased interest on “real hip-hop,” linking it back to the US and therewith
bringing up questions about authenticity, the origins of the music, as well as the
conflicts between underground music versus commodified music in style and
content in South Korea. The discussion is focused on the question of authenticity
and roots.
In the same volume, Sarah Morelli describes hip-hop in South Korea as a fusion
of styles as popular music will pick up themes and tastes of Koreans using some
English lines and different music styles besides hip-hop on the same album. In this
way, they respond to local concerns, which is characteristic of the South Korean
trend from the 1990s onwards. Nevertheless, it seems as if the same questions
persist: what is Korean hip-hop? Is it real? How does it refer to African-American
hip-hop? Do South Korean musicians appropriate elements from the original? To
which extent and in which sense is Korean hip-hop Korean? The doubts about the
nature of South Korean hip-hop might also be due to the fact that hip-hop is a
genre, which is changing constantly as it responds to the contexts it is used in, as
Tricia Rose describes in “A Style Nobody Can Deal With”:
The tensions and contradictions shaping hip-hop culture can confound efforts at
interpretation by even the most skilled critics and observers. Some analysts see hip-hop
as a quintessentially postmodern practice, while others view it as a present-day successor
to premodern oral traditions. Some celebrate its critique of consumer capitalism, while
others condemn it for its complicity with commercialism. (342)
Hip-hop in Korea is not exempt from these tensions. On the contrary, one
would have to add on top the tensions within traditional Korean culture the
historical contact between American with Korean cultures in South Korea and
the complex back and forth movements between the two countries, as well as—to
a lesser extent—Canada and Australia, via returning immigrants that add more
layers to the contact zones (Fuhr). This is the reason why hip-hop, as well as Korean
pop, has been discussed from the point of view of hybridity. Choi and Maliangkay
question this approach:
backgrounds to create something new (4–5). She furthermore argues that tribute is
paid to the African-American origins of hip hop, which do not only emanate from
a certain social experience of a marginalized and oppressed minority in the US but
in a specific style of music and words:
The question about authenticity and the experience of the hardships of life that
are translated into motives of street life, the gangster, etc., cannot find its only
answer in limiting hip-hop to this context of the genre’s origins. Terkourafi speaks
of the “fictionalized street” as well as of the use of hyperbolic procedures to offer
something “bigger than life” (12). Paying tribute to the origins of the genre means
respecting generic elements as a frame that can be filled with content that is—
dependent on the regional, linguistic, and cultural context of production—relevant
for the musicians and their public. In the same volume published by Terkourafi,
Jamie Shinhee Lee approaches this question for South Korea analyzing texts and
music of four prominent hip-hop groups from the perspective of glocalization.
He argues that hip-hop is a global genre but always local in its performance (139).
While respecting the boundaries of the genre to a certain extent, the musicians and
artists fill the content with local concerns, such as respect for the elderly and the
family, overwork, education, and military service. All of them refer to very specific
situations and problems in South Korean society that are linked to social recognition
and respect and therefore cause high social pressure in a rapidly changing society,
which enters the global stage. The last point he stresses is the socio-political
critique that the genre claims and also allows to deliver. Lee uses the song lyrics
of one of the most successful hip-hop groups, Dynamic Duo, to illustrate that
the performers name themselves pirates. The connotations are those of crossing
frontiers, being free, and being daring, which turn pirates into a subversive group
who questions the establishment in arts and in politics (154–155). It also implies
stealing and “borrowing” of items from others, which is part of the glocalization
process as well as of the “mixing” techniques of hip-hop. HaeKyung Um would
speak of cultural “reterritorialization” as African-American hip-hop and rap
are “reconstituted through social interaction” using “multiple selective strategies
of adoption and adaptation with respect to the associated cultural, musical and
linguistic components of the genre” (53). And Jaeyoung Yang underlined that hip-
hop is part of a “complete cultural expressive form” (106). The repetitiveness in
a genre with still slight variations to adapt it to changing contexts could also be
linked to the concept of rites in the sense that Simon Frith speaks of in popular
music. In his book Performing Rites. Evaluating Popular Music, he underlines the
construction of identity via the performing and experiencing of music. Listening to
and appreciating music are a form of participation and contribution to “imagined
forms of identity”:
And what makes music special in this familiar cultural process is that musical identity
is both fantastic—idealizing not just oneself but also the social world one inhabits—and
real: it is enacted in activity. Music making and music listening, that is to say, are bodily
matters; they involve what one might call social movements. (274, emphasis in original)
Taking up this reflection of Frith, the performance of hip-hop in South Korea might
be the performance of a rite: it allows the public to participate in the construction
of an imagined identity that turns real in the shared moments of performance
(by the artist and the audience). The intrinsically subversive, “authentic” value of
the genre is connected with local concerns so that the performance of the rites
according to the rules of hip-hop contributes to the participation in the imagined
forms of identity.
The tensions between local and global as well as between a rooted genre and
its ramifications will be at the center of our interest. I will discuss three examples
taken from the vast field of hip-hop music in South Korea. The examples show how
these tensions manifest in the contemporary Korean hip-hop scene and how they
influence the evolution of hip-hop in Korea towards a performed identity.
Rappers who enter the larger scene of the music industry feel the urge to
claim the authenticity of their hip-hop style and spirit as it seems to be diluted
by commodification—although this is also intrinsically part of the way of hip-hop
through the 1980s until today. One striking example is Zico, who started as an
underground rapper releasing mixtapes before he became known as the leader of
boy group Block B, who debuted in 2009 with Stardom Entertainment and moved
to Seven Seasons in 2013. The song for his solo debut, “Tough Cookie” (09/14), is
about him having reached the top with Block B but, more importantly, in addition
to the success in the idol industry, he became recognized as a rapper without being
part of one of the big entertainment companies, challenging all the critics and the
envier. The song therefore is quite “classical” for a first solo in hip-hop, claiming his
position in the contested scene.
The subversive potential of the hip-hop genre lies partly in the performers
who consider themselves as not being part of the mainstream that would set the
regulations for style and lyrics according to selling strategies. The independence of
large enterprises—and their investments—would guarantee the freedom of speech
and opinion, as the music scene in the South Korean context is dominated by
three large companies (SM , YG , JYP ) and a well-established system of recruitment
and training of young talents. The indie and hip-hop scene is much smaller and
represented by companies like Brandnew, who at the same time constantly gain
economic power and influence with the growing interest in hip-hop, which is also
due to the successful TV show Show me the Money mentioned beforehand. While
the show stirred interest in the music and public discussions about the question
of authenticity, the latter became more virulent in the disputes between various
hip-hop artists discussing questions about what is “real” and what is “commodified”
hip-hop in South Korea. Therefore, the standard “diss” and claims of territory gain
an additional layer of signification in this very particular context.
The song “Tough Cookie” by Zico responds to all those layers starting the song
with the following statement:
Hello all you idiots who still look at me with that sour attitude
I’m sorry but Block B has been sweeping charts
Grabbing trophies without any manipulation, I made it
Getting recruited for concerts, being asked for a featuring
It’s too much to reject it all
Top idol rapper? Fuck I ain’t no snake’s head1
First of all, he refers to the success of Block B, which had been his first aim before
he turned towards a solo career. The lawsuit that caused the change of the company
could have been the end of the story for the idol group, but they succeeded, even
after a longer break. The success of Block B and of Zico is recognized indirectly as
the companies try to engage with them, but they prefer their independence and
their success based on their own work. The refrain sets frontiers:
The refrain invalidates belonging to social groups that are otherwise very
important in Korean society: friends, the age group, family, the work order. All
the categories, Lee has pointed out as being important for local content in
hip-hop songs, are denied as they would come along with societal expectations
and limitations. The subversive power of this text is not only that it tells Zico’s
personal story but that he declines all value systems in order to make it to the top.
At the same time, one should not forget that he fulfilled his promise to look for the
success of Block B first before taking care of his solo career. He is taking care of the
persons who are entrusted to him, but he rejects regulations and systems that have
been transmitted and kept for the sake of tradition. So far, there is a challenge that
the artist launches and fulfills in his behavior and his work using genre elements
but situated in the local conditions.
When it comes to the song’s music video, the question of authenticity turns
virulent as hip-hop also relies massively on visual style in clothing and performing.
In the arrangement of the settings, the music video follows general rules, as there
are four different sets with diverse tones in the narration and visualization. The
first one is a factory hall where Zico performs dressed in a working overall. The
large space allows some movement and the mise-en-scène of groups of rappers or
gangstas gathering in the hall or the courtyard.
This recalls the industrial settings from US -American videos, which imply
working class conditions or even the loss of work and the desperate setting of a
town in crisis, where industries had to close down. The scenery corresponds to
the spirit of the lyrics about the hardship of his career in the beginning and about
the hard work necessary to achieve success. The other settings alternately refer to
motives and scenes that show places that illustrate the two extremes in the hip-
hop world: hardships and poverty on one side and wealth and extravagance on the
other. Alcohol, drugs, and sex accompany the status of the new rich.
One setting comes along as a kind of illustration for the refrain “I am a tough
cookie” as Zico is lying in a bathtub filled with cookies.
He looks up towards the camera positioned from a high angle. In this sequence,
the performance is questionable, as the eyeliner and the hairstyle insinuate rather a
boy toy than a gangster, with the quite common bathtub scene to refer to seduction
However, with the tube filled up with cookies, the scene seems to turn the reference
upside down, turning the gangster into a pretty, cute boy.
Most critics reduce their comments about the video to the use of the word
“faggot” in the lyrics and the Confederate flag on Zico’s jacket that appears twice in
the video. The company and the artist had to apologize for these elements, admitting
their ignorance about the signification of words and symbols, which had been
taken out of their original context and just seemed to refer to the “US ” as an icon,
a standardized representation of the country. This paper will not go into details
about the misreading and misunderstandings in processes of cultural transfers, but
we would rather like to draw the attention to Zico’s statement, namely that he did
serious research about hip-hop so that his first solo and the video coming along
with it would be “real” and as “authentic” as possible. The visual should support
the message of the lyrics that he had made it as a rapper. The result of the honest
concern to be “authentic” and not just a light commercialized form of music that
offers a channel to define identity is a video that looks like a list of references to
iconic elements of hip-hop visual culture. The video “Tough Cookie” turned out
“hyperreal” according to Baudrillard’s concepts of ecstasy and inertia, which are
consequences of the simulation processes. There is no origin and no “real thing,”
and all can be produced and repeated endlessly. Ecstasy is the response to the
“overmultiplication”3 which will finally end up in inertia.4
In November 2016, Zico released the song “Bermuda Triangle” featuring Dean
and Crush together with a music video filmed by Tigercave. This song and the
video illustrate the progress Zico—and maybe the hip-hop scene—has undergone
since 2014. The title refers only indirectly to the Americas and only to the most
dangerous and mystic region worldwide, the Bermuda triangle, where uncontrolled
and (super)natural powers influence events. The parallel to the success of the three
artists, all born in 1992 and all very successful over the last two years, form a kind
of a “triumvirate” in the K-pop scene linking the pop world with the underground
world. The lyrics refer again to the rise via hard work and the envy of colleagues
who think they could be as successful as one of the Triangle. The self-assurance,
which was gained via the references to the US scene in “Tough Cookie,” comes
in “Bermuda Triangle” from the individual success stories, hard work that allows
them to assert themselves in a contested field in South Korea and worldwide. The
video is therefore also a good mixture of some hints to the genre in the US and to
South Korea, but it directly refers to and even strengthens the individual stories
and the success in the local scene. Within two years, a considerable shift took place
from the search for authentic references that help to legitimize the artist’s identity
towards a strong affirmation of their/his own success and a balanced mixture of
references to various cultural code systems.
“Bermuda Triangle” starts in black and white, showing the three performers in a
wide empty desert-like landscape, the perspectives alternating between frontal to
high angle, which isolates them, underlines the uniqueness and loneliness as well
as the leading positions.
The empty space curiously also allows creating the triangle with natural features
or the movement of the artists in space. This scenery in black and white alternates
with one in rather flashy colors with the artists sitting at a table, drinking, playing
cards, which refers to the underground as a space of transition from the bottom
to the top. Part of this first half of the video is also the blueish alley where Zico
performs his rap.
The luxurious sceneries appear in a parallel montage with a wide-angle take of the
interior of a cathedral. In contrast to the first half, the artists do not perform in a
rapping style but they rather pose in the apartment and the cathedral. The latter is
a classical setting in a mafia film indicating the tension between moral values and
practice in life.
The video ends with a medium long shot showing the three performers walk
down the nave, taking possession of the space normally out of reach for the
common people. The song as well as the images form a perfect unity that draws
randomly on references to original hip-hop while developing its own narrative
in the very specific context of South Korea that they are addressing overtly and
directly—creating their own authentic discourse, performing identity.
While Zico places himself in the contested space of rap battles in a tradition of
the “authentic” and at the same time in the South Korean context as being a “real”
rapper, that is, someone who is not being under contract with a big company, and
who finds his own way, the second example sheds light on hip-hop in the context of
the big music companies in Korea. The most recent subunit of hip-hop boy groups
of YG Entertainment MOBB —with two members, namely Bobby of Icon and
Mino of Winner—released their first album in September 2016. Over two million
spectators watched the two videos during the first two weeks after the release.
The song “Full House” was analyzed on blogs that mainly drew parallels between
MOBB and the elder duo of YG , namely G-Dragon and T.O.P. Interestingly, there is
no reference at all to any artist outside of the Korean hip-hop scene. This indicates
a shift in the perception of hip-hop, which already disposes of its own tradition of
20 years (the second generation of hip-hop after Seo Taeji, as Bigbang started in
2005/06 and Seo Taeji in 1999).
This reference to the elder generation of rappers—even if they are in the same
company—also strikes in the visual representation of the artists in the photography
that precedes and accompanies a new album or video. The posing and the style—
black suits, stylish haircut—are very similar to the representation of the duo of
T.O.P and G-Dragon particularly in the photo serial accompanying their first CD
as a duo (2010). Therefore, the new sub-unit MOBB is a continuation in the same
line as the elder duo, which, of course, is also part of a marketing strategy of YG .
However, it is important that the reference system is and remains only South Korea
in the case of MOBB . The music videos for the singles of Bobby and Mino have been
made by a new company, Dream Perfect Regime (DPR ), that bring in elements that
have not been very common in older South Korean music videos and might be
traced to some US -American music videos. However, most aesthetic elements are
references to a Korean canon. These include the use of 2D elements, which, for
instance, appeared in the very first music video with Mino “I am him” (2014), in
which the 2D animate some interaction with a dog that reminds of a wolf and stir
connotations of watchmen, patrols and control of violence, raising the imaginary
of poorer neighborhoods in a metropolitan context. Furthermore, the glowing eyes
and the cage were already used in Mino’s video. Finally, the use of intensive light,
which immerses the spaces in red or blue, started with the videos of the new unit
Furthermore, the video picks up some South Korean trends and aesthetic figures,
like closed rooms, the travelling camera spinning around, setting all upside down,
and a continuous alternation between close shots on the face and poses of the
main performers, like in a fashion show. The aforementioned aesthetic elements
are all part of K-pop music videos, while one set brings in a reference to the Asian
context. The very common motive of a long table where the performers would
gather for dining is transposed to a Japanese setting. At the top end, two armors
in glass boxes and two swords placed in the middle of the room recall the glorious
past of warriors. The background is a wall print of Kanagawa’s painting “The Wave.”
At the low tables on both sides of the room, the dancing girls dressed in traditional
clothes are eating, while Mino sits at the head or performs in the middle that turns
into a stage. This sequence links the hip-hop warrior of the street and the hood
with the historical one and links the global with the regional imaginary.
The video for the single “Holup” (09/2016) by Bobby can serve as a further example,
as the lyrics obviously are part of the rap genre with the classical challenge to other
rappers and affirming one’s own success in the hip hop scene. The music video
is very similar in its aesthetics to “Full house” (09/2016), strengthening the sense
of belonging to a group and the recognizable style of a company. Some elements
are nevertheless striking as being different from the music videos made for the
same album but which link “Holup” to others in the Korean music scene. One of
the sets refers to video games, which has been an important reference in many
music videos over the last decade, as in “Two Mari” (2013) by Baechigi, “Rockstar”
(2013) by Icon, “Video Game” (2014) by Boys’ Republic (2014), “Catch me” (2015)
by UP 10TION , etc. In the very beginning, the camera is spinning around Bobby.
There are flashes in a dark room and animated lines appearing sporadically. It is
reminiscent of the presentation of avatars in video games, when the options for the
figures a player can choose are displayed. This is picked up (1min27) when a giant
remote control serves as a lamp fixed on the wall in the background and indicates
the start of the game in the music video. The next sequence shows Bobby in a 3D
setting of animated white and blue graphics, endless lines of numbers as in the
Matrix film or flickering lights.
Next, he sits in front of a screen, and the camera spins to the right showing
a set of a traditional house where two martial arts fighters face each other. The
rapid montage of short sequences that show Bobby playing in front of the screen
and the fighters blurs the lines between the “real” life and the game reality. The
3D elements recall music videos like that for the song “Meerae” (2016) for Don
Mills filmed by Namsanfilm. Another frequent element is the frame in the frame,
as various screens (TV , computer, cellphone) are “flickering,” thus creating a link
with video games, particularly with a setting that uses an artificially created 3D
background. They are all rather blueish or black and white with white geometric
figures flashing. These elements contribute to linking the loose line of sets and
small narrative elements that are part of the main storyline of the big party and the
effects of getting high.
In general, it is difficult to tell where the origin of the aesthetic elements lies, but
there are trends following rhizomic routes that flow into music videos and enlarge
the spectrum of visual representation of hip-hop in South Korea while leaving the
mere references to classics of American pop or rap aside. Therefore, we can state that
there is a considerable shift in the reference system that would allow us to speak of
a tendency towards the evolution of a specific South Korean way of hip-hop, which
has turned into a referee. The question about authenticity in South Korean hip-hop
is no longer a search for the roots of the genre that would link songs back to the
American genre and its performance. It would rather turn towards models in the
Korean scene, which indicates that over the last two decades, Korean artists have
developed their own style in wording, in narratives, and in visual representation.
If we turn back to Terkourafi’s reflections on hip-hop style using hyperbolic and
fictionalizing strategies, the video for “Full House” could also be understood from
this perspective. The song and the video use elements of the hip-hop genre (like
parties, alcohol, sex) and fictionalize the “real elements” in creating a gangster-like
environment and putting it into extreme light, which turns the narrative elements
into a stage for their performance underlying the fictionality. By referring to the
Korean rapper duo G-Dragon and T.O.P., the video opens up its own referentiality,
which presents Korean rap as the authentic and the roots’ version for the younger
ones. Paying tribute to the origins of the genre means respecting generic elements
as a frame filled with content that is—dependent on the regional, linguistic, cultural
context of production—relevant for the musicians and their public.
Another way of getting to the “real” Korean hip-hop is an overt reflection on the
multitude of crossing lines in the history of cultural exchange, the history of music
in South Korea in this case. The music agency Stone Ship is a good example as
they support artists who come with an individual story and style. On their website,
one finds the motto “sculpt your black,” which is meant to transmit the idea of
independent music that respects the artist. One of the most recent newcomers
under this label is Minje, who is presented as an alternative R&B artist. He released
his first album Mojo and a mixtape “freesms,” both in 2016. Having played in a band
as a teenager, he used to perform a large variety of music genres, while he preferred
Western musicians like Stevie Wonder or Prince, who would always bring up
something new, something different to express their feelings or the feelings of a
decade. Furthermore, Minje’s models are African-American icons of music history:
Stevie Wonder stands for R&B, while Prince stands for a large spectrum of music
styles and for performance and fashion. Besides this, Minje acknowledges some
influence from early Korean rock musicians of the 1960s and 1970s, like Shin Jung
Hyun, or from Japanese composers whose music set trends over decades, such as
Sakamoto Syuichi or Hisaishi Joe. Having a profound knowledge of the context
in which he has grown as a musician, influences are a question of the conscious
perception of a multitude of trends and flows that inspire and also connect
individuals via and with music. He uses the metaphor of the wave to describe the
interconnectedness that is in constant movement, always changing and yet still
the same. It is therefore not surprising that in the music video for “Do,” the river is
a very dominant motif. The video is held in reddish light that turns sometimes to
violet and blue and plunges the whole video into a dreamlike atmosphere, without
clear borders, floating in time and space. The wave also stands for life, which is
in an ongoing, never-ending flow connected with everything everywhere. This
state of mind—or, rather, “flow of mind”— influences the music that integrates
elements from genres, stories from elsewhere but still expressing the experience
of the artist’s life. One of the main objectives is to create music that offers an
alternative perspective, an alternative experience via the music he creates. Minje
strives for being a South Korean artist who embraces all streams, all tendencies to
create music that appeals to the public who gets inspired by the same “wave-length.”
Music would therefore convey the experience of the artist in all its vibes and fibers.
Another music video recently released with the title “fxxked up,” is a coproduction
with Soma. The video was directed by flipevil in close cooperation with Minje who
brought in his inspiration coming from the work of the Korean video artist Nam
June Paik, who is known for his works with screens and videos getting close to
paintings and sculptures alike. The song “fxxked up” does have a smooth melody,
a trance-like flow with some upheavals that come along with a video that captures
the feeling of being lost in a megalopolis like Seoul with its complex time-space-
continuities. Two young men are wandering through streets, across bridges, and the
sequences’ flow is punctuated by flickering images that indicate the disruption of
the flow, which really stops only once for the insert of the song title, before the flow
of images with the strolling of lonely figures continues, endlessly. The music and
the images join magically to transmit the spirit of the city, of the young generation
caught in between the burden of the past and the promises of an uncertain future,
inscribed in the silhouettes of the glimmering city.
These two examples illustrate Minje’s style, which is close to R&B but also draws
on a multitude of sources of inspiration. His music tells his stories as they are linked
to the world, so that all—music, images, feelings—are in a continuous flow that
can connect those who are willing to listen to the music. This example shows that
the question of authenticity of South Korean music that uses African-American
elements is not necessarily a question of “roots.” Minje sees the production of
music first as a contribution to artists’ creative discourses and an ongoing dialogue
between different voices and positions. The main concern is more about “routes,” or
being interconnected in an ongoing exchange, than a question about roots, or being
closely linked to authenticity, which comes along with procedures of exclusion.
The most recent example for the importance of “routes” is the teaser made
by flipevil for Minje’s new album released in January 2017. The short clip for the
song “Our City” stars Minje in New York City. The spectator can recognize some
characteristic sites, but, aside from those short impressions, the video stresses more
the aesthetic work picking up some of the elements of “fxxked up,” such as the play
on blurring images. The opening sequence captures a river by night that could be
the link between Han River in “fxxked up” and the Hudson River in New York in
“Our City.” The short minute-and-a-half clip turns out to be an impressionist meta-
discourse on the relationship between the two countries, as the South Korean flag
on the cap is set next to the flag of the US in an extreme close shot, questioning the
relationship between the two countries. Towards the end, the blurring of images
turn into the slides of a film roll, showing the holes of the negative allowing to
forward the roll in a photo camera.
After the endless takes of the roll had filled up the screen referring to the making
of film and to what cutting and framing means to the representation of reality, the
clip ends with a take of Minje in a hotel room that turns at an angle of 90 degrees.
This seems to question directions and linkages again, compelling the spectator to
doubt the positioning of perspectives.
The very short clip visualizes that a trip to the US , to the assumed roots of all
R&B and hip-hop, will not give any authenticity to the South Korean music lending
some elements from American music but instead will link it in multiple ways with
the ongoing evolution of music.
CONCLUSION
Over the last two decades, hip-hop has developed intrinsically new forms
in South Korea with their own narrations that respond to a lived social reality.
I would like to come back to Simon Frith who states that identity is always an
“ideal,” and listening to music means to participate in a “social movement” (274).
For Frith, a certain “traditional” music is one narrative that a social—and cultural
and historical—community has found to answer questions on the construction of
social life. This form necessarily will undergo changes in time and space according
to the needs of the members of the community.
“Transcendence” is as much part of the popular as of the serious music aesthetic, but
in pop transcendence articulates not music’s independence of social forces but a kind of
alternative experience of them. […] Music constructs our sense of identity through the
experiences it offers of the body, time, and sociability experiences which enable us to
place ourselves in imaginative cultural narratives. (275)
The fact that young hip-hop musicians in South Korea refer to African-American
as well as other South Korean musicians should not only be seen as a conflict
between authentic—that is, American—hip-hop and hybrid or appropriated forms
in South Korea, but it could also be understood as part of an ongoing process of the
construction of identity via music. The musicians who opt for a specific genre also
opt for a certain narrative, as Frith underlines:
[D]ifferent musical genres offer different narrative solutions to the recurring pop
tensions between authenticity and artifice, sentimentality and realism, the spiritual and
the sensual, the serious and the fun. Different musical genres articulate differently the
central values of pop aesthetic—spectacle and emotion, presence and absence, belonging
and difference. (276)
Notes
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