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Hanguk, hip hop: the making of hip hop in South Korea

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Hanguk, hip hop: the making of hip hop in South Korea

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Content HANGUK, HIP HOP: THE MAKING OF HIP HOP IN SOUTH KOREA by Myoung-Sun Song A Dissertation Presented to the FACULTY OF THE USC GRADUATE SCHOOL UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY (COMMUNICATION) May 2016 Copyright 2016 Myoung-Sun Song ii Dedication For Appa, Umma, Imsun, & Bokdol iii Acknowledgements This dissertation would not have been possible without the professors, colleagues, and staff members at USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism whose continued support allowed me to successfully complete the doctoral program. I would like to share my deepest gratitude to my dissertation committee— Professors Larry Gross, Josh Kun, Nancy Lutkehaus, and Youngmin Choe—for their encouragement, generosity, insight, and guidance along this journey. To my advisor Larry, thank you for everything. I am indebted to your kindness and knowledge. To my mentor Heather, thank you for being there each step of the way from near and afar. To my cohort and friends at Annenberg, your friendships have kept me through #core, #qualsing, and #dissertating life. A special thanks to our Kakao group buddies. To my friends in Seoul, thank you for the many virtual hugs during my time away from home. To the Song & Chang families, thank you for the incredible love and unwavering faith. A special acknowledgement and appreciation is made to USC Annenberg, USC Korean Studies Institute, and USC Graduate School’s Research Enhancement Fellowship for allowing me the wonderful opportunity to fully devote my time to this project. Finally, I would like to express my admiration to the hip hop artists whose lives, music, and work inspire and shape this project. iv Table of Contents Dedication ii Acknowledgments iii List of Tables vi List of Figures vii Abstract ix Introduction | We All Made Us: Historicizing Hanguk Hip Hop 1 Theoretical Framework 6 Authenticity, Hybridity, & Globalization 7 Sociocultural and Economic Conditions in the Production and 10 Consumption of Music Music, Youth Subcultures, and Technology 12 Research Questions 15 Historicizing Korean Hip Hop 17 Korean Society’s Perception of Hip Hop 29 Research Process 33 Structure of the Dissertation 42 Chapter 1 | Made in Korea: Authenticity and Hanguk Hip Hop 47 Hanguk Hip Hop or Hanguk, Hip Hop? 48 Sound 50 Language 52 Content 57 Scene 60 Culture 62 Black & Yellow: Negotiating Asian Identities in Hip Hop 70 Yellow Skin, Black Hearts: Race and Korean Hip Hop Artists 75 Authenticity in Korean Hip Hop 83 Chapter 2 | From Hongdae to Sinchon: Space and Place in Korean Hip Hop 93 From PC Communities to Club Master Plan 97 Locating Hongdae 106 Hongdae as Underground Space 108 Hongdae as Tangible Place 111 Hongdae as Community Playground 118 Walking Through the Streets of Hongdae 123 v Hongdae as Imaginary Kohyang 127 Everyone’s Mic 130 Chapter 3 | 2 Chainz & Rollies: Hip Hop as Self-Development Text in 136 Neoliberal South Korea Consumption and Identity in Korea 143 Self-Development Texts in Korea 144 Mr. Independent 2: A Rapstar Born Without One Single Contract 146 Came From the Bottom: A Self-Made Multillionaire 156 Hip Hop as Occupation? 167 Rapstar as the New Chaebol? 175 Chapter 4 | Idol Rapper: K-Pop and the Production of Authenticity 178 K-Pop and Hip Hop 181 The Making of Bangtan Boys 188 American Hustle Life 198 Rap Monster: An Idol, Rapper, and Idol Rapper 205 Chapter 5 | Unpretty Rapstar: Gender and Representation in Korean Hip Hop 210 Reflections as a Female Scholar in the Field 213 It’s a Man’s World: Challenges into the Hip Hop Scene 216 Skill 218 Style 220 Role Model (… Or Leaving Yoon Mirae’s Shadows) 224 Community 227 Unpretty Rapstar as Korea’s Female Rappers 234 Program Structure 236 “I’m a Pretty Pretty Girl.” 240 Unpretty Rapstar as Pretty Dutiful Daughters 243 Conclusion 245 References 249 Discography 264 Appendix A: Biographical information of artists interviewed for the project 266 vi List of Tables Table 1: Timeline outlining important periods and shifts in Korean hip hop 20 Table 2: Semantic dimensions for authenticity in American hip hop as outlined by McLeod (1999) 83 Table 3: Semantic dimensions for authenticity in Korean hip hop 84 vii List of Figures Figure 1: Poster for B-Free & Okasian Concert (2012) 115 Figure 2: The audience waits for the show to begin inside Rolling Hall. 117 Figure 3: In the campaign, “Smirnoff District,” The Quiett rhymes: “The neighborhood where I accomplished my dreams, people call it Hongdae / 365, the streets are filled with passion, freedom, and youthful energy” 125 Figure 4: DJ Noah sets up to play at Everyone’s Mic. Contestant names are written on strips of paper that are taped onto the mirrored wall. There is one microphone placed on a small wooden platform that the contestants perform on. (September 15, 2014) 131 Figure 5: Dok2 walks from his Lamborghini to the center of the stage. (March 29, 2015) 137 Figure 6: Album cover for the Illionaire Records compilation album, 11:11 (2014) 148 Figure 7: Album cover for Dok2’s Multillionaire (2015) 162 Figure 8: “RapMon Freestyle 3” post on BTS blog—uploaded on March 24, 2013—captures RapMon’s handwritten lyric notes and social security card that shows his date of birth, September 12, 1994. 192 Figure 9: Introducing the members of BTS, their date of birth, and their role in the group. “Boy in Luv” was part of their second EP album, Skool Luv Affair, which was released on February 12, 2014. 194 Figure 10: The first episode of American Hustle Life where the group is “kidnapped” to an undisclosed location in Downtown Los Angeles to be “reborn as true hip hop artists.” 200 Figure 11: The album cover for RapMon’s solo mixtape, RM, shows his duality as idol and rapper. 207 Figure 12: Yoon Mirae as a member of the hip hop group, Uptown (1997) 211 viii Figure 13: Yoon Mirae featured in Sure Magazine (January 2015) 222 Figure 14: Official teaser poster and program description for Unpretty Rapstar which launched its first season in January 2015 236 Figure 15: In the last teamwork battle, female rappers grouped in pairs to compete for the final track on the compilation album. 238 Figure 16: Kangnam (above) claims that he would have dated Cheetah (bottom) if he liked women with short hair. 239 ix Abstract This dissertation aims to define the meaning of Hanguk hip hop—Korean hip hop—by (1) outlining the sociocultural, economic, and historical conditions that underlie the production and consumption of Korean hip hop and (2) locating the local, national and global flows of cultural exchange between America and South Korea. Through a critical examination of the practices that intersect the two planes, this study aims at unpacking how Korean hip hop musicians —particularly rappers—negotiate their identities through music. Korean hip hop, from its conception, is largely removed from the sociocultural, economic, and historical conditions in which American hip hop were born. At the same time, Korean hip hop artists and fans alike differentiate Korean hip hop with mainstream popular music in Korea, most notably in the forms of K-pop and ballad rap. Moreover, hip hop, as negotiated and understood by both artist and fan communities, becomes at once more than just a style of music. It is a culture deeply tied to (1) understanding the origins of which it came from and (2) overcoming the differences Korean hip hop has with American hip hop, especially in terms of racial, ethnic, and cultural sensibilities. How did Korean hip hop develop over the last two decades (1992 - 2015) as a musical, cultural, and artistic entity? How is Korean hip hop located in the sociocultural, economic, and historical matrices of Korean society? How is hip hop represented in Korean media and popular culture? In order to answer these questions, I employ ethnographic methods including fieldwork research and in-depth qualitative interviews with Korean hip hop artists. In each chapter, I examine Korean hip hop through the notion of pulan—personal, as well as, societal anxiety and uncertainty—in dimensions of (1) space and place, (2) economy, (3) cultural production, and (4) gender x to argue that pulan also largely serves as a metaphoric state of Hanguk hip hop, which is continuously growing and evolving within the conditions of Korean society. Key words: Korean hip hop, K-pop, youth subculture, consumption, identity 1 Introduction | We All Made Us: Historicizing Hanguk Hip Hop We had been talking for a little over an hour and a half in a basement cafe in Sangsoodong called 100% Original Coffee. Our interview was winding down to the last few questions and rapper Born Kim paused for a brief moment. He looked straight at me and said, “Isn’t it amazing?” He continued to explain, “It’s not like when the missionaries came to Korea with a clear purpose and built churches. It was MTV and a few CDs that made its way to Korea and were passed to someone. That someone listened to it and said ‘This is cool. I want to try it.’ Those someones met together and Hanguk [Korean] hip hop grew this much. It was never about ‘I’m doing this to build [hip hop] culture’ but because of the true joy and pleasure that came from rapping and making music. I did it because I liked black music and from that hip hop gave me the biggest pleasure. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but hip hop was the best. I think that’s because I grew up in the 1990s—between the analog and digital eras—I was given the special privilege of knowing hip hop. Had I been born before, it might have been jazz, blues, soul, etc. Or had I been born later and not known the boombap years, I would have thought trap music is hip hop” (personal communication, October 8, 2014). 1 Born Kim, a rapper born in 1981, remembers the first time he fell in love with black music. In 1999, he had taken a Kool & The Gang album from his father’s shelves “just out of curiosity.” Two years before then, his parents had put in cable television in their home. Calling himself an “MTV kid,” Born Kim remembers watching Yo! MTV Raps. Before MTV, there was AFKN (Armed Forces Korea Network), or often referred 1 All interviews and lyrics were translated from Korean to English by the author. Those that were originally stated or written in English have been italicized. Korean words have been romanized following the McCune-Reischauer romanization system. 2 to as Channel #02 by many of the artists I interviewed for this dissertation, where he remembers watching Soul Train. Born Kim’s consumption of American television and popular music is not unique in that it represents how American hip hop was largely introduced to Koreans in the 1990s. Various forms of media and technology, including television and particularly the personal computer, play an important role in the making of hip hop in South Korea (henceforth Korea). The birth and development of Korean hip hop is marked by many travels including (1) tangible forms of music like cassette tapes and CDs from America to Korea (2) individual bodies to/from America and within Korea and (3) communities of hip hop listeners. Within the confluence of these travels, there are important shifts and transformations where Korean fans of American hip hop grew into artists who are deeply involved in defining Korean hip hop’s sounds, lyrics, and culture. Just like the name of the cafe Born Kim and I were meeting in, many of my interviews and conversations with hip hop artists ultimately led to a discussion of what was original, real, and authentic (or consequently not) about Korean hip hop as music and culture. Korean hip hop is just short of twenty years of history. Within these two decades, it saw birth to three generations of rappers. It is noteworthy that most rappers do not like the dividing of generations because it creates a barrier in communication between generations, especially in Korean society where age creates hierarchy. Because these “generations” are divided into five to eight year periods, many agree that an actual first generation has not even ended. Yet, I will use these distinctions for the purposes of this dissertation as they are widely recognized and utilized by musicians, fans, and media. I use the term “generation” not in its dictionary term of classifying a body of individuals 3 born within a thirty year or so time period, but more so as a group of people who share a similar start or debut in their music careers. The first generation fell in love with American hip hop often through an introduction via AFKN and MTV. Many of these fans logged onto personal computer (PC) communities and met in offline places to question and discuss how rap could work in the Korean language. The second generation, who were in their mid to late teens when they saw the first generation perform, turned their stories of youth into relatable lyrics. The third generation includes those whose love for hip hop grew from Korean hip hop. For some third generation rappers, they have not listened to, or to borrow older generations’ words, “studied” or “researched,” American hip hop. A more in-depth description of the three generations in relation to Korean hip hop history will be provided below. In Korea today, American hip hop and Korean hip hop exist as separate categories: oeguk hip hop meaning foreign hip hop (shortened form: oehip) and kuknae hip hop meaning domestic hip hop (shortened form: kukhip). Hanguk hip hop is also widely used to refer to Korean hip hop. The literal translation of Hanguk hip hop is “Korean hip hop.” Hanguk means both Korea (noun) and Korean (adjective). As will be demonstrated below, the use of Hanguk becomes at once sociocultural and political in negotiating hip hop in Korea. I often think about an anthem song for my project and there is one song that I replay in times I need direction for this dissertation: Jerry.k’s (2012) “We All Made Us” featuring Paloalto, The Quiett, Deepflow and Dok2. 2 The hook of the song is memorable 2 In his album commentary, Jerry.k notes how he selected the featured artists for the track: (1) They must have debuted or started their career in a similar time frame as Jerry.k, (2) They must still be actively making music, (3) They must have “made us” in other words 4 and central to my project: “We made a gold mine from a place filled with ‘no’s (we made us) / From a nobody to a cool somebody (we made us) / We built a stadium where there was no game (we made us) / Hanguk hip hop (we made us) / We do it for ourselves, we do it for ourselves / We do it for ourselves, we do it for ourselves / We do it for ourselves (we made us), Hanguk hip hop (we made us).” While making something from nothing is a common theme in hip hop (c.f. Kathleen Knight Abowitz’s (1997) work on the Horatio Alger mythology in American hip hop culture), it is telling of Korean hip hop that “a stadium [was built] where there was no game.” Each verse of the song touches on important issues in the discussion of Korean hip hop. In the third verse of the song, Deepflow not only outlines the history of Korean hip hop, but its position in Korean society: We made us, we all look like our mothers / Yellow skin, our hearts are black / We have lost all sense of fear, don’t ask us why / We walk the outskirts, it only messes with our pride / Some earn and sweep money, give them a thumbs up / Some walk through the fog, clear the way for them / Who can say that one path is worthier than the other? / We made us, we all carry the stones to build our castle / Master Plan is born, Big Deal, Soul Com / This is a ball shot up by a homunculus and we protected it for ten years / The sun comes up, the light is bright / We saw the future, Illionaire, Hi-Lite / That’s right, this is our playground. Sweat splatters each day / Sometimes, it’s a spider’s web that binds you. Let’s make a fire. have made an influential impact in Korean hip hop (Jerrykmusic.blogspot.kr). 5 / Everyone hurdle and pat each other on the back. Let’s applaud. / To the phrase, ‘As far as here,’ only lies a question mark. Deepflow traces Korean hip hop’s history with the birth of Club Master Plan and independent hip hop labels like Big Deal Records and Soul Company to today’s Hi-Lite Records and Illionaire Records. Although this history is a “ball that has been protected for ten years,” there are questions to how far hip hop can grow in Korea reflected in the lines “as far as here.” Dok2 echoes Deepflow’s notion of hip hop as “walk[ing] the outskirts” of Korean society in his verse, “The word ‘hip hop’ always comes with hunger, C-class singer, fake celebrity wannabes / . . . / It was just a trend that everyone would condemn / But I made it fool from nothing to something.” In the final verse, Jerry.k raps, “Before you become a rapper, do hip hop first / . . . / It ain’t black, you can’t be, the authorized textbook / Paloalto, Deepflow, The Q and Gonzo and Me, Jerry.k / Listen to us and learn, we made us.” It is interesting to note Jerry.k’s use of the word kŏmchŏng kyokwasŏ in the song. While kŏmchŏng kyokwasŏ refers to government authorized textbooks used in schools, the word kŏmchŏng is a homonym for the color black. Using this meaning, black or blackness can also serve as an “authorized textbook” in the discussion of hip hop. In the following sections, I will first outline the theoretical framework and research questions that guide this dissertation. I will then historicize hip hop in Korea by outlining important moments in its inception and development. In the final sections of the introduction, I will outline my research methods and provide an overview of chapters in the dissertation. 6 Theoretical Framework As outlined above, this dissertations aims largely at defining the sociocultural meaning of hip hop in Korea. In order to do this, it will unpack how Korean hip hop musicians—particularly rappers—negotiate their identity through music. Three theoretical threads guide this study. They are frameworks that provide sociocultural and economic contexts in locating, articulating, and negotiating the flow of music and identity in globalized currents. Arjun Appadurai (1996) provides important dimensions in understanding the exchange and circulation of creative flows in an increasingly borderless global cultural economy. Appadurai introduces ethnoscape, technoscape, finanscape, mediascape, and ideoscapes as frameworks that allow for a more nuanced understanding of global cultural flows. Similarly, Georgina Born (2011)’s four planes of social mediation offer dimensions that allow for a plural and anti-reductionist engagement with music as sound and social form: musical performance and labor, imagined communities of listeners based on musical identification, social identity formations including race, ethnicity, gender, class and locality, and the institutionalization of music and its circulation in cultural economy (p. 274). While Born’s four planes are useful in understanding the multitude of layers and intersections from which music allows a mediation of the social, a fifth plane might be added to identify how music concerns itself with the imagination of the “nation.” Echoing Kun’s (2005) notion of popular music as a post-national formation, how does music (de)construct our imagination of the nation? This question becomes even more important in a world where technology allows for the travel of music ever imagined than 7 before. It is within these scapes that I look at (1) authenticity and hybridity in music, (2) sociocultural and economic conditions that underlie music production and consumption, and (3) music, youth subcultures, and technology. Authenticity, Hybridity, & Globalization In Beyond Exoticism, Timothy Taylor (2007) examines the West’s representation of its Others, especially captured in sound. Taylor explores the notion of power through systems of oppression in three historical eras: colonialism, imperialism, and globalization. Taylor sees globalization as a cultural system where “commodification and consumption of otherness, selfhood has come to be fashioned as much by the construction of identity through practices of consumption” (p. 114). For Taylor, in a globalized world, hybridity becomes a way of commodifying and selling what on the surface is a new form of difference, but one that reproduces old prejudices and hegemonies (p. 143). Taylor draws on the works of Pierre Bourdieu and Manuel Castells to create the notion of a “global information capital” where activities of production, consumption and circulation become organized on a global scale. Martin Stokes (2004) similarly examines the global circulation of music, especially how and why particular musical forms, styles, processes, sounds, rhythms, and metrical practices cross national cultural boundaries. For Stokes, “what is heard implies forms and processes of embodied social interaction” and this takes into serious consideration musical, political, social, and economic conditions that underlie global music order (p. 68). Musical styles in the modern world travel along other vectors including “people via aural/oral transmission, with instruments and technologies, and 8 with social institutions that connect people globally—sport, religion, political organizations, and so forth” (Stokes, 2004, p. 109). In these conditions, “every element of hybridized style is itself a hybrid, a bricolage of previous encounters, assimilation and blendings” (p. 111). In the case of Korean popular music, globalization is an important condition in negotiating the identity, influence, and impact of Korean music in the global context. Dal Yong Jin (2007) uses a historical analysis approach and cultural imperialism framework to argue that Korean cultural product flow in Asia articulates the increasingly hegemonic role of Korean popular culture in the regional audiovisual market (p. 753). Jin further recognizes that this is complicated by the fact that America still dominates the Korean cultural market through product and capital (p. 756). Until the mid-1990s, a one-way flow of cultural production was dominant from America to Korea. After the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis, there is a rise in the export of Korean cultural products within Asia. Much of this is credited to the cultural proximity between East and Southeast Asia, economic and technological developments of the region, and political changes in media policies (p. 758). Whilst these changes promoted the cultural product flow from Korea to other parts of Asia, Jin argues that the Korean cultural market still remains heavily influenced by the US through the institutionalization of cultural industries. Similarly, Doobo Shim (2006) situates the rise of Korean popular culture in Asia by looking at three strains of globalization discourse: (1) globalization as an outgrowth of cultural imperialism where American forces subjugate weaker, national cultural identities (Americanization), (2) globalization as an outcome of modernity and as a global movement toward capitalism made possible by the development of new technologies, and 9 (3) globalization as discourses of cultural hybridity that investigates power relations between periphery and center from the perspective of postcolonial criticism. Shim argues that the “current commercial success of Korean media is an outgrowth of Korea’s struggle for continuity when confronted by the threat of global cultural domination” (p. 31). Unlike Jin, Shim places emphasis on cultural hybridization where “local cultural agents and actors interact and negotiate with global forms, using them as resources through which Koreans construct their own cultural spaces, as exemplified in the case of rap” (p. 38). John Lie (2012) looks at Korean popular music, cultural industry, and national identity by posing two questions: (1) what are the sources of K-pop’s recent commercial success? and (2) what does it say about Korean society and culture? (p. 340). Lie argues that there is almost nothing “Korean” about K-pop. It does however serve as part of Korea’s identity in branding the nation as a globally competitive product. For Lie, “K- pop is symptomatic of the cultural transformation of South Korea: at once the almost complete repudiation of traditional cultures—both Confucian and folk—and the repeated rhetorical stress on the continuities between the past and the present: the nearly empty signifier that is South Korean cultural-national identity” (p. 361). Similar yet parting with Lie, Jeongsuk Joo (2011) look at the flows of globalization to argue that what makes Korean popular culture Korean is not an essentialized Koreanness but rather “its appropriation of and negotiation with global forces” (p. 502). For Joo, a “pop nationalism” emerges where this appropriation in transnational Korean culture is celebrated by the nation within its nationalistic discourses. “Korean popular culture is one of numerous 10 sites of the global-local encounter and interaction” (Joo, 2011, p. 501) and its visibility and recognition are clearly articulated by the nation-state as nationalism. In considering Hanguk hip hop as a site of local, national, and global flows, my own work examines the intersections of popular music, (national) identity, and globalization. Hanguk hip hop is a site of global cultural flows in that it is continuously influenced by American hip hop, whilst it continues to sustain and evolve itself as Korean hip hop. What is contested through these sociocultural, linguistic, musical, economic, and historical flows is the notion of authenticity and hybridity. How is authenticity and hybridity understood and negotiated by the artists? Furthermore, how are these notions contested not just musically but in sociocultural and racial contexts? Is there something fundamentally Korean about Hanguk hip hop? How is hip hop understood in the continued flow of American culture and influence in Korean society? Conversely, how does Korean hip hop flow outside of its local and national boundaries? Sociocultural and Economic Conditions in the Production and Consumption of Music In Art worlds, Howard Becker (1982) argues that all artistic work depends on the joint activity of a number of people. Through divisions of labor, art worlds operate on the collective activity of the production, commission, preservation, promotion, criticism, and sale of art. Art worlds are “the network of people whose cooperative activity, organized via their joint knowledge of conventional means of doing things, produces the kind of artworks that art world is noted for” (x). Expanding on Becker’s notion of art worlds, how do music (art) worlds operate? What are the sociocultural and economic conditions that underlie the collective activity of music production and consumption? How do artists 11 mediate these conditions in which they operate in? How do networks form, expand, and dissolve in the collective making of Hanguk hip hop? In “Music and the social,” Georgina Born (2011) offers four planes of social mediation as dimensions that allow for a plural and anti-reductionist engagement with music as sound and social form (p. 274). In the first plane, “music produces its own diverse socialities in the guise of the intimate microsocialities of musical performance and practice, the social relations enacted in musical ensembles, and the musical division of labor” (p. 266). In the second plane, “music has powers to animate imagined communities, aggregating its listeners into virtual collectivities or publics based on musical or other identifications, collectives that may be more or less unified or heterogeneous” (p. 266). The third plane allows “music [to refract] wider social identity formations—formation of class, race or ethnicity, gender or sexuality, nationality or locality” (p. 266). In the fourth plane, “music is entangled in the institutional forms that enable its production, reproduction, and transformation, including nonmarket or market exchange, elite or religious patronage, public or subsidized cultural organizations, or late capitalism’s multipolar cultural economy” (p. 267). Similarly, in “Communication, music and speech about music,” Steven Feld (1984) interrogates the social character of musical communication. Feld writes that music has a fundamentally social life that is made to be consumed [“socially interpreted as meaningfully structured, produced, performed, and displayed by varieties of prepared, invested, or otherwise historically situated actors”] as a symbolic entity (p. 1). Feld argues that people’s participation invents, validates, circulates, and accumulates musical meanings. In defining communication as “a socially interactive and intersubjective 12 process of reality construction through message production and interpretation” (p. 2), Feld locates the listener as a socially and historically situated being. This is why “a description and a theory of the musical encounter must be sensitive to the biographies of the object/events and actors in question” (Feld, 1984, p. 6). “In short, the musical object is never isolated, any more than are its listeners or its producers. The cause of this non- isolation is doubly social: the object exists through a code, and through coding/decoding” (Feld, 1984, p. 7). Korean popular music—more specifically K-pop—has been widely examined in the context of government policy, cultural export, transnational consumption, international fandoms, etc. Existing literature does not fully address or interrogate the cultural producers or those involved in actually making music. This study locates Korean hip hop as a case study in which music worlds can be examined through not just the idea of networks but also communities of individuals through which social meanings are created. How is Korean hip hop understood in this network of artists? How do they constitute a community in defining and developing Korean hip hop? How do artists—as both listeners and producers—operate within the sociocultural and economic conditions of music worlds? Furthermore, how do space, place, and geography impact these networks in the production, circulation, and consumption of music? Music, Youth Subcultures, and Technology In Subculture: The meaning of style, Dick Hebdige (1979) observes the styles of Britain’s post war working-class youth subcultures, particularly punks, to illustrate how style is constructed through music, dance, and clothing. In his illustration, Hebdige 13 emphasizes how subcultures challenge dominant ideology and hegemony through symbolic forms of resistance. Subculture as once subversive, resistant, and radical can also be contained through commodification of its style by mainstream dominant society. Hebdige argues that “the struggle between different discourses, different definitions, and meanings within ideology is therefore always, at the same time, a struggle within signification: a struggle for possession of the sign which extends to even the most mundane areas of everyday life” (p. 17). For Hebdige, “each subcultural ‘instance’ represents a ‘solution’ to a specific set of circumstances, to particular problems and contradictions” (p. 81) and “in order to communicate disorder, the appropriate language must first be selected, even if it is to be subverted. For punk to be dismissed as chaos, it had first ‘to make sense’ as noise” (p. 88). Subcultures are systems of communication and representation which are “not as timeless objects, judged by the immutable criteria of traditional aesthetics, but as ‘appropriations,’ ‘thefts,’ subversive transformations, as movement” (Hebdige, 1979, p. 129). Therefore, “each subculture moves through a cycle of resistance and diffusion and we have seen how this cycle is situated within the larger cultural and commercial matrices” (Hebdige, 1979, p. 130). Subcultural styles may also be understood as meaningful mutations (Hebdige, 1979, p. 131). Similarly, in Club cultures: Music, media and subcultural capital, Sarah Thornton (1996) expands on Bourdieu’s notion of cultural, economic, and social capital to examine how “subcultural capital” allows individuals to construct identity through music, fashion, and ritual, particularly in the club cultures of local music scenes. 14 Looking at club cultures and identity politics in Korean society, Mu-yong Lee (2004) outlines Hongdae as a highly contested area in which politics of identity can be located not just as a “play culture space” for performances, but as a “community space,” where people with similar tastes form relationships, and finally as a “commercial space” where these tastes compete for hegemony (p. 104). Using a tricircle diagram, Lee interprets landscape through space, subject, and society to illustrate how Hongdae club cultures have the spatial identities of “a carnivalesque space of communitas, a local culture space, and a space of contested meaning” (p. 65). Echoing the idea of identity politics, Young-ra Ahn (2009) defines Hongdae as a representation of “the subcultural sensitivity of minorit[ies]” (p. 334). By identifying those who consume the culture of Hongdae as minority, it juxtaposes a majority that adheres to another set of sociocultural norms. In his study of Hongdae as an indie music scene, Hyunjoon Shin (2011) argues that “there is no definite relationship between the musical style of Hongdae and the space known as Hongdae” (p. 152). The reason behind this, Shin notes, is because there is no conscious effort by the artists and fans to connect sound with place. His reasoning is based on the fact that location and musical diversity has only recently emerged in Korea. For Shin, Hongdae is not a “fixed, bound place for community-based cultural production and consumption,” but a “flexible space for communication networks, information flows, and collaborative creativities” (p. 152). He argues that musicians and artists in the Korean indie scene do not intentionally associate themselves within certain places but “conceptually construct and rationalize their relationship” (p. 162). While Shin is correct in that there is no distinct sound that can be defined as Hongdae, I would like to challenge 15 the notion that artists do not associate themselves to places. In the case of Korean hip hop, Hongdae not only becomes a place of reference in music, but this reference also serves as a connection to the authenticity and identity of hip hop musicians. Existing studies outline the importance of Hongdae as the cradle of music subcultures. Yet very little research exists that critically engage with the people working within the subculture. I would like to expand the study of youth subcultures by not only looking at Korean hip hop, but by also adding technology as an important lens in which subcultures are examined. Technology plays an important role in both bringing hip hop to Korea, and developing and sustaining it as culture. How is hip hop understood in the language of subculture? How is hip hop marginalized and commodified in Korean society? What role does technology play in the making of Korean hip hop, particularly for the artists in their understanding, sharing, and creating of music? How is subcultural capital established and accumulated in Korean hip hop? What are the values contested in this process? Research Questions Given the theoretical framework summarized above, I am interested in exploring the research questions outlined below. The four questions are my own interventions to the existing conversations on popular music and (national) identity, taking into consideration the intricate sociocultural, economic, and historic conditions that underlie both the production and consumption of music today. By investigating Korean hip hop— particularly through the eyes, ears, and narratives of rap artists —this study contributes to the study of popular music, communication, and identity. 16 1. How does hip hop as culture and commodity travel across sociocultural and geographical boundaries? a) What is the role of technology in the process? b) How are local scenes and communities developed? 2. How is hip hop understood within the socio-economic conditions of Korea? a) How is the notion of self-made understood within the Korean context? b) How is hip hop (re)imagined as self-development text for youth? 3. How does Korean hip hop define, sustain, and expand itself within and against K-pop? a) How do artists understand Korean hip hop in the broader context of K- pop? b) How is the notion of authenticity understood and negotiated in hip hop? 4. How is hip hop understood within the historical conditions of modern Korea (e.g. Korean War, United States military presence in Korea, military dictatorship under Jung Hee Park and Doo Hwan Chun, Westernization, compressed modernity, 1997 Asian financial crisis, emergence of a multicultural society, etc.)? a) How is gender understood and represented in Korean hip hop? b) How do Korean artists and their work operate within the local, national, and transnational flows of racial and cultural exchange? 17 Historicizing Korean Hip Hop When asked what defines the Hanguk in Hanguk hip hop, Deegie, a first generation rapper who debuted in 1998, answers: For me, it’s the philosophy. This is something I said during a lecture I gave: Korean hip hop is music made from pulan. That’s why kids love Dok2. They want to wear Rolex watches and ride Mercedes Benzes when in reality that can’t be the focus of their lives. If they are at school they get asked, ‘Why aren’t you studying harder?’; When they are about to graduate, they get asked ‘Which university are you going to?’; When they go to college, ‘When are you going to the army?’; When they come back from the army, ‘Which company are you going to work for?’; When they get employed, ‘When are you going to get married?’; When they get married, ‘When are you going to have children?’ or ‘When are you buying your house?’; When they have children, ‘Do your children do well in school?’ It’s a never-ending cycle. What is the message for these kids then? Please tell me a country other than ours where a rapper gets famous for his educational pedigree? Beenzino and Verbal Jint aside, half of the rappers are yuhaksaengs. (personal communication, August 22, 2014) 3 Yuhaksaeng is a term that refers to Korean students studying abroad. Yuhaksaengs are often regarded as from privileged upper middle class, having the economic means to 3 Verbal Jint attended Hanyoung Foreign Language High School and holds a degree in Economics from arguably Korea’s most prestigious university, Seoul National University. Beenzino is a graduate from the esteemed Seoul Arts High School. He recently dropped out from Seoul National University’s College of Fine Arts to focus on his music. 18 study abroad from an early age (e.g. attending private boarding schools in America). What is most interesting and important in Deegie’s answer to what defines the Hanguk in Hanguk hip hop is the notion of pulan. While there is no English word that can provide a direct translation for pulan, it is Korean for individual and societal anxiety or uncertainty that is manifested on multiple levels, including psychological, social, cultural, and economic dimensions. Kyung Hyun Kim (2004) in his book, The Remasculinzation of Korean Cinema, argues that men portrayed in Korean film reflect a series of traumas modern Korean history has endured, including: Japanese colonialism, national division, Korean War, United States military presence in Korea, military dictatorship under Jung Hee Park and Doo Hwan Chun, Westernization, and the Asian Financial Crisis (c.f. Kyung-Sup Chang’s (2001) work on Korea’s “compressed modernity”). Through the crises, the notion of home and family become severely broken and men are alienated and traumatized. Kim’s work focuses on the desire to regain wholeness and to recover from the oppressive conditions of society which often comes through the sacrifice or destruction of women. Other scholars like Nancy Abelmann (2003) note collapse as an important metaphor for Korea in the 1990s, including the actual 1994 collapse of Seongsu Bridge, 1995 collapse of Sampoong Department Store, and the symbolic economic collapse shown in the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis (p. 6). Echoing the notion of collapse, Laurel Kendall (2001) argues that Korean identities have been “construction sites” for new definitions of home, family, work, and leisure in the shifting conditions of Korea, including urbanization, industrialization, military authoritarianism, democratic reform 19 and social liberalization (p. 1). While public discourse had been focused on hard work and personal sacrifice in the name of national development, the 1990s saw a decline in censorship and social control and the emergence of a consumer culture (Kendall, 2001, p. 3). Although Korean hip hop is a style of music and lived culture, it arguably extends into the traumas that Kim (2004) outlines in his book. Consequently, collapse (Abelmann, 2003) and construction sites (Kendall, 2001) are symbolic images that are ultimately tied to the notion of pulan as articulated by Deegie. The artists who are involved in making music are second and third generation to the series of traumas modern Korea has endured. They are also first generation to new traumas that emerge as a continuation of Westernization, Asian Financial Crisis, and emergence of a multicultural society. Pulan, as individual as well societal anxiety or uncertainty, underlies these traumas as the conditions which the rappers operate within. It is also important to note that the Korean hip hop scene is largely male dominated, except for a handful of women in the scene. Pulan also largely serves as a metaphoric state of Korean hip hop, which is continuously evolving within the conditions of Korean society. In this section, I outline the sociocultural, economic, and historical background in which Korean hip hop developed and continues to grow. By doing so, I provide a very brief history of Korean hip hop to contextualize my research and analysis. While there are many debates on when Korean hip hop actually started, I start my timeline with the 1992 debut of Seo Taiji & The Boys. I categorize Korean hip hop into largely four periods. Each period is not completely isolated or separated, but organically falls over one another as is history: 20 Time Period Cultural Significance Notable Media Use Historical Moments 1992 - 1997 Seo Taiji & The Boys Generation Rap is incorporated into mainstream dance music. “Rap dance” as a new genre serves as a precedent to K- pop where rap is frequently formulated into segments of songs. Television (AFKN, MTV) 1992 LA Riots 1996 - 2001 PC Community Generation Hip hop fans active on personal computer communities begin to meet in offline places to discuss hip hop. They eventually begin to make their own music and perform in places like Club Master Plan. Personal computers (PC communities like BLEX, Dope Soundz, Show N Prove, Word Up and Black Life) Comic book series called Hip Hop by Suyong Kim and hip hop compilation albums like 1999 Taehanmin'guk added to the popularity of hip hop in Korean popular culture. 1997 Asian Financial Crisis 21 2004 - 2011 Soul Company Generation Independent hip hop labels like Soul Company and Big Deal Records begin to flourish, bringing in a new influx of hip hop fans, most notably teenagers and female audience. Internet (Portals and webzines specializing in hip hop including Hiphopplaya, Rhythmer, HiphopLE and ROK Hiphop; artists personal pages and label fan groups on Cyworld; YouTube) 2011 - Present Rapstar Generation There is a rise in the number and visibility of independent hip hop artists (or so-called rapstars) like Beenzino who are able to top music charts without making television appearances. Television reality competition shows specializing in hip hop (Show Me The Money and Unpretty Rapstar) Table 1. Timeline outlining important periods and shifts in Korean hip hop In Black Noise, an influential exploration of rap music and hip hop culture in America, Tricia Rose (1994) defines rap as a “black cultural expression that prioritizes black voices from the margins of urban America” (p. 2). Rap music, as one element or practice within hip hop culture, serves as “a public and highly accessible place, where black meanings and perspectives—even as they are manipulated by corporate concerns— can be shared and validated among black people” (Rose, 1994, p. 17). In the last three decades, what started in 1970s in the postindustrial city of New York as a “cultural form 22 that attempts to negotiate the experiences of marginalization, brutally truncated opportunity, and oppression within the cultural imperatives of African-American and Caribbean history, identity, and community” (Rose, 1994, p. 21), has travelled across geographical and linguistic boundaries and become part of the sociocultural and musical landscape of many cities and countries. When the culture of hip hop—DJ, B-boying/B- girling, Graffiti and Rap—traveled to the East Asian location of South Korea, the ideologies and cultures embedded in American hip hop become (re)organized in the Korean language and context. In 1992, Korean audiences got their first taste of hip hop from the birth of an idol group called Seo Taiji and the Boys who debuted in the mainstream music scene—which was at the time replete with ballads—with a dance song infused with rap. With Seo Taiji and the Boys came “the introduction of a new musical soundscape that became almost invariably ‘Western’ pop music but also in introducing dance as a critical element of their performance” (Lie, 2012, p. 349). Groups like Seo Taiji and the Boys, Hyun Jinyoung and Wawa, and Deux helped create a genre later labeled as “rap dance,” where rap segments are incorporated into dance music and performance (Kim et al., 2008). The success of Seo Taiji and the Boys is described by Eun-young Jung (2006) as “efficient localization of global lexicons selectively redefined for the needs and sensibilities of Korean youth” (p. 109) in that the “initial adaptation was not strongly reminiscent of American rap: [Seo’s] childlike face, youthful fashion, playful dancing and the song’s love theme were far removed from the negative images of African American culture” (p. 112). 23 Though hip hop was introduced to the music scene through a hybrid genre called “rap dance,” Korean hip hop began to grow as a cultural and artistic entity from 1996 when hip hop music devotees, with the help of technology, began to actively participate and engage in virtual spaces. Fans of hip hop joined personal computer (PC) community groups like BLEX, Dope Soundz, and Show N Prove (SNP) to share Korean translations of English lyrics, swap imported cassette tapes and CDs which were rare and expensive at the time, and discuss the meaning of hip hop in their lives. Participants of PC community groups started to meet offline and establish hip hop—particularly the narrative performance of rap—in Korean language and culture. Many established hip hop artists today like Garion, Verbal Jint, and Joosuc are from these communities. Simply put, hip hop did not start in the streets for Korea. It started in the rooms and personal computer spaces of hip hop fans and moved to the streets and performance spaces of Hongdae/Sinchon areas like Club Master Plan. DJ Wreckx, one of the most respected DJs in the scene, remembers Korean hip hop’s formative years: I got interested in rap when I started b-boying. Then I started to make my own mixtapes because music could encompass all that. We didn’t know that people released mixtapes. We just didn’t have that information. But it became clear what we should be doing as we started thinking about music. In 1994, we released our first mixtape. It was shared through people we met on the internet. In 1998, I met Meta hyung. 4 He was performing at a club called Master Plan and they needed a DJ. So I took the few records 4 Hyung is a Korean word meaning older brother. It is a term that is widely used not only to refer to someone’s actual brother, but also serves as a term of endearment for someone older and not necessarily of familial tie. While hyung is used by males, the term oppa is used by females to refer to an older brother or older brother figure. 24 that I had and played. It was a time when things were really coming together so people were naturally excited. People wanted to do hip hop so badly. It was restricting just to talk about it through PC communities. Things got clearer as we met offline to exchange information and talk about the future of hip hop in Korea. (personal communication, October 19, 2014) The decision to meet offline is significant in that from these meetings the first generation or group of Korean hip hop artists is born. While the nature and size of offline meetings varied, one of the most common were monthly meetings in which members would gather in cafes or clubs to listen to new album releases or watch music videos. Most of what they watched depended on what was acquired through family, friends or relatives who were travelling to/from America. Members would also pay approximately $10-20 (adults) or $0-5 (students) to participate in these listening sessions. The money would be spent on renting the space for the meeting. For many of the participants, their desire to rap became a possibility as they began to meet peers whom they could make music with. DJs and producers were welcomed even more as they were able to “fit the last puzzle” to making actual songs. One of the very first results from these creative endeavors is from the Hitel PC community, BLEX (Black Loud Exploders), who released an album called Kŏmŭn Sori, Ch'ŏtpŏntchae Sori [Black Sound, The First Sound] in 1997. This album, which was entirely made, produced, and distributed by the community members, signified a turn in which the group shifted from a music listening to music making and performing based 25 community. Similarity, Dope Soundz was a community geared toward music listening and music critic. Show N Prove was formed from the members of Dope Soundz who had a strong desire and drive to produce music. Likewise, each community had different characteristics in the nature or goal of the group. While most groups were very open to new members, other groups had strict policies for newbies to gain access into the community (e.g. new members were asked to write album reviews before they could enter the community). The PC community era coincides with an important socioeconomic moment in Korean history: 1997 Asian Financial Crisis (IMF). It is interesting to note that in my interviews many rappers referenced and recalled the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis as a moment where their family lost financial stability. During the years of economic instability or pulan, they turned to music as a way of coping. This was a time where “serious” music listening had taken place and marked a moment where they began to think about pursuing music as a career. It is ironic that pursuing music as a career does not necessarily provide economic stability. IMF was also a time where many students who were studying abroad—yuhaksaeng—returned to Korea because their family could no longer afford to pay for their tuition. Consequently, the influx of American culture brought home by returning Koreans is significant, along with the many young individuals who had already started listening to hip hop during their studies in America. What also marked these individuals as different is their proximity to hip hop as culture as experienced either firsthand or through everyday media consumption in America. Or as Laura Nelson (2000) argues, “travel encounters with visitors, international news, the Korean Diaspora, and the import and 26 export of goods—as well as the national division—have all contributed to the destabilization of the notions of ‘Korea’ and ‘Korean’” (p. 170). Culturally speaking, 1997 was also a time where earrings, dyed hair, tattoos or exposing of navel was banned on Korean television. Entertainers could not wear “outfits which may harm the sound emotional development of youth” (Howard, 2006, p. 82). In the early 2000s, MC Meta, a first generation rapper and a godfather figure in Korean hip hop, held hip hop seminars at Haja Center (Seoul Youth Factory for Alternative Culture). Haja Center was established in 1999 by the Seoul Metropolitan Government and Yonsei University to offer workshops for youth and young professionals in fields like web, film, music, and design. Students from this program, including The Quiett, Kebee, and Jerry.k, went on to make Soul Company, the very first independent hip hop label to have measurable success in Korea. The creation of Soul Company also marks the start of the second cohort of artists in Korean hip hop. Soul Company’s artists, who were all in their late teens and early twenties at the time, created music that would appeal greatly to their peers. Soul Company’s popularity created a shift in the consumers of hip hop particularly from male listeners in their 20s and 30s to teenagers and more notably female fans. The Quiett recollects Soul Company’s beginnings: Soul Company’s start goes like this. In 2003, most of Soul Company members had already gathered including Kebee hyung, DC, and Creiz. We also got close to a team called Loquence [Jerry.k & Makesense]. We would usually meet at Haja Center. Meta hyung wasn’t as busy then so he’d come out to the center every Sunday. If you think about it, Meta hyung didn’t do anything extraordinarily special for us. He didn’t teach us 27 how to rap or anything. What he did was tell us fun stories. Things he had gone through, things about the hip hop scene and knowledge he had about hip hop. Meta hyung loves old school hip hop, so we learned a lot about that too. In February 2004, the two members of Loquence and I were given the opportunity to visit Tokyo. This was a very important moment in my life. We went for 4 nights and 5 days. It was a time when hip hop was booming in Japan. The whole city, especially Shibuya, was just filled with hip hop. There were more record stores than coffee shops. The young people were all dressed in hip hop clothes. The clubs were busy and we were able to perform on one of the stages. It was a unique experience to see how hip hop was done in Japan by Japanese. To put it simply, our minds were all completely blown away. Because in our country—in Korea—it wasn’t like this. How could we go back to Korea and do music when we have seen this? It was the first time I had gone abroad and I think it was the same for the Loquence hyungs. It was great that we were able to witness this, but the problem was figuring out what we were going to do next because there was nothing in Korea. The first idea that I suggested was making a label of our own. There were more than a dozen of us so there was great energy. Everyone agreed and it really took off from there. (The Quiett) A decade later, hip hop thrives as one of the very few musical styles that survived in the independent music scene. Many artists referred to Korean hip hop today as its 28 “Golden Era” or “Renaissance” referencing the success of independent artists like Beenzino or labels like Illionaire Records which The Quiett co-runs with Dok2. Another example would be the use or incorporation of hip hop in wider popular culture and media, most notably the creation of Show Me the Money and Unpretty Rapstar, both reality competition shows produced by Mnet, Korea’s largest cable music channel. Mnet operates under CJ E&M, an entertainment and media conglomerate. CJ E&M Broadcasting Division runs the biggest cable media network in Korea with 17 channels on music, film, food, entertainment, and games. Show Me the Money can arguably stand as a unique program in Korea in that it is the first competition show that specifically concentrates on one musical style, whilst Unpretty Rapstar showcases female rappers. Thus, both programs not only function as entertainment for Koreans, but also becomes a commodity readily accessible and widely circulated as part of reality television. It also places a rather marginalized style of music in Korean society—hip hop—in the spotlight. As of February 2016, Show Me the Money is now preparing its fifth season. Unpretty Rapstar, a spin-off program of Show Me the Money, had two very successful seasons in 2015 and is due to come back for a third season in 2016. Quickly after CJ E&M announced its plans to launch Show Me the Money in 2012, it became apparent that there were serious issues concerning the development of the program. Through Twitter, it became known that Fana, an independent artist, who at that time had two EPs, one LP, four singles, and more than fifty featured songs, had been asked by the producers of the show to audition as a hopeful contestant. Anyone with some knowledge or interest in Korean hip hop would not argue against the notion that 29 Fana is already a well-established and respected artist with a solid fan base he has built over the last ten years. From August 2010, Fana continues to curate hip hop shows under a concert series called “The Ugly Junction Live.” The producers of Show Me the Money had supposedly approached Fana on the basis that he did not have “mainstream” presence and also because the show needed Fana as a “character” whom they can portray as the struggling yet talented artist who has not had the fame he “deserves.” This incident triggered many heated debates on not just how the producers had been ignorant and insensitive in approaching Fana, but how hip hop is understood in Korea. At the core of the debate were also questions as how hip hop as music and culture could be conformed to a survival competition titled Show Me the Money. Despite the initial push back and resentment from the underground hip hop scene, it is also worthy to mention that many established independent artists participate in the show today for media exposure either as contestants or judges. Korean Society’s Perception of Hip Hop Before moving onto the research process and structure of the dissertation, I will briefly touch on Korean society’s perception of hip hop. Naachal, a member of the duo Garion, remembers how Koreans perceived hip hop when they were starting out as musicians in the late 1990s: When Seo Taiji and the Boys first came out, ‘hip hop’ as a word began to circulate in our society. What hip hop was to the public were (1) fashion and (2) a distorted attitude. People thought of hip hop music as ‘freely expressing one’s opinion.’ Whose opinion? The opinions and stories of 30 American gangsters. So hip hop became music that was done by gangsters. This was how people perceived hip hop in 1996, 1997, and 1998. Even between fellow musicians, they didn’t think too well of us. ‘Are they even serious about making music? What are they doing to make music? They don’t even bring instruments. They come barehanded and perform with just a microphone.’ We really had to fight with the music engineers at the time. Back in those days we used to carry our own turntables and mixers. The turntables were 110V and when we’d ask for 110V transformers, they’d retort back, ‘You don’t carry transformers?’ They’d treat us as trash. Now this was right after the 1992 LA Riots, so it was a time when Koreans’ perceptions of Blacks were the worst. Absolute worst. So because they thought of us as those who did Black—gangster—music, we were immediately treated as trash. It was a total mess back then. (personal communication, January 28, 2015) While the notion that ‘hip hop is violent’ has not disappeared completely, almost two decades later, Koreans have become more open to understanding hip hop. The Quiett explains this change: I think people are more open to accepting hip hop’s sensibilities. For example, the success of songs like “YGGR” really shows the way hip hop’s sensibilities are being accepted by the public, whether that be consciously or not. A lot of what [K-pop] idols do—wearing snapbacks, pants or shoes that are popular in hip hop—naturally spreads to 31 elementary, middle, and high schoolers. They wear it without knowing what it is. For example, a lot of people wear hats that say DOPE or F--- (laughs). Would this have been possible in the 90s? I don’t think so. We, Koreans, are very conservative and hip hop’s rough or flaunting attitude was rejected by many, even rappers themselves. But nowadays, I think it can be accepted or read as cool whether in terms of attitude or fashion. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) Korea’s acceptance of hip hop is largely tied to the circulation and consumption of hip hop as fashion. In essence, in the last two decades, hip hop has become a code that is easily identifiable and consumable for youth. It is interesting that The Quiett also remembers avidly watching NBA games in the mid 1990s as a young teenager (personal communication, December 10, 2014). His parents would let him put up posters of NBA stars, who were predominantly African-American, on his bedroom wall. This was different from his friends’ parents who forbade them to do so, which echoes the sentiments Koreans had toward Blacks especially after the LA Riots. Finally, one pervasive perception of hip hop in Korean society is related to age: hip hop is something you stop listening to or grow out of once you reach a certain age. During my interviews, a handful of artists commented that it is interesting how I am still interested in hip hop despite my age which is considerably older than the average fan. For example, Vasco who debuted in 2000, explains: Hip hop as culture is not rooted in Korea. My fans are middle and high school students. College students? They only make up about 5%? 10%? 32 But throughout my career, my fans have always been middle and high school students. Simply put, in Korea, hip hop is something you move away from when you graduate from middle and high school. You move onto elec[tronic] clubs. You take off your hip hop clothes and dress sexy or dandy once you start going to elec clubs. (personal communication, November 13, 2014) In the final scenes of the Korean documentary, Too Old Hip Hop Kid (2011), rapper JJK says: “Whenever someone says, ‘Hyung, I don’t think I can do hip hop anymore. I have to study,’ I say this is wrong from the very start. Hip hop is not about standing on the stage with a microphone. You all have hip hop inside you. You feel it and that is why you are here. See Daegun [the director of the documentary] here with his camera. This is hip hop. Let’s not let it go. Everyone, let’s hip hop.” Too Old Hip Hop Kid captures Korean hip hop as a subculture experienced and consumed by Korean youth. The documentary traces the histories of eight young men who met through PC communities and who all dreamt of becoming a rapper at one point in their lives. Ten years later, only three are making music, while the rest are pursuing jobs that offer more stability. Perhaps the Korean language allows for this grammatical shift and play, but it is interesting that hip hop can be transformed from a noun (hip hop) to a verb (hiphophada). In this transformation, much like Christopher Small’s (1998) notion of musicking where music is understood as social human actions rather than as object, hip hop is no longer understood as music that one has to give up once they reach a certain age or once they 33 start finding a means of financial security. Hip hop, as a verb, becomes a state of mind that can be embodied by anyone with a love and passion for hip hop. While the title of the documentary echoes what Vasco expresses as hip hop being something you grow “too old” for, the film also demonstrates how hip hop in Korean society can function as a temporal gateway into the nostalgic past, community building in the present, and a way of life for the future. Research Process I spent the summers of 2012 and 2013 to begin research for this project. During these two time frames, I attended concerts and conducted informal interviews with artists. From these preliminary interviews, I came to the conclusion that I needed to add structure and formality to my interviews. This decision came mostly from my observations and experiences that arose in gender and age dynamics between older male interviewees and myself as a younger female interviewer. In entering the research site and completing fieldwork, I recognize and highlight the importance of situated knowledges (Haraway, 1988). My understanding and reading of both primary and secondary data derives from my position as a bilingual—Korean and English—female scholar interested in understanding popular music and identity. I recognize that the Korean hip hop scene is a male-dominant one. I also take into careful consideration aspects of Korean culture that are embedded in everyday practices and interactions, such as education and age. My participation straddles between moderate and active (Spradley, 1980) as I aim to engage in almost every cultural and artistic practice—from writing and recording to practicing and performing music—as an observer. I also recognize my own limitations in 34 approaching an art world, in which I am not a full participant in the sense that I do not write, produce, or perform music. Yet, I approach the site with a sincere appreciation and interest in Korean hip hop. In interweaving the histories of thirtysomething artists, it is crucial to understand and position my own history. As a Seoul native, I was raised in various parts of the world including Malaysia, United States, United Arab Emirates, and Belgium. Having gotten my BA and MA at Korea’s oldest all-women's institution, I was always reminded by my [female] mentors that what we read and discussed were innately different from our friends studying at co-ed universities. We were cultivated to have perceptive eyes and conscious minds of how our bodies navigated in/through Korean society which is often at conflict and caught between tradition and modernity. Being fully bilingual in Korean and English, I was often mistaken as a Korean-American during my PhD studies in Los Angeles. I often find myself gasping for words when my head was thinking in one language, but speaking in another. But this also meant through the silences and struggles of juggling back and forth languages, I have developed a cultural sensibility that allows me to have an easier grasp on translating and understanding the travel of bodies, languages, and cultures. My intensive fieldwork was conducted between May 2014 and May 2015. During this time, I met and interviewed 33 hip hop artists: 31 rappers and 2 DJs. 5 For this, I selected a preliminary list of fifty artists based on their year of debut (generation), discography, and influence. Collecting qualitative data was no easy task. This is especially true when you are trying to meet the top echelon of hip hop artists in South 5 Please see Appendix A for biographical information on the thirty three hip hop artists interviewed for the project. 35 Korea. Writing letters of introduction and sending interview requests took many forms from handwritten letters on carefully chosen stationery paper that were personally delivered backstage at concerts to emails and Facebook messages which took just as much time and energy to write. Getting positive responses also took some time, luck, and patience. On average, it took anywhere between one week to three months from initial contact to the actual meeting for the interview. Almost all first contact was made via email. Email addresses were acquired through artists’ bios on Twitter or Facebook accounts. For those this information was missing, I contacted via Facebook message or through their label contact. A handful of artists were contacted via introductions through artists often at concerts or events. “Can I start over...?” This is a question I received numerous times from my participants during our interviews. In what I call life timeline interviews, I asked each artist to freely draw her/his life on a large sketchbook to record important moments in her/his life including the first time s/he heard hip hop, wrote lyrics, recorded music, performed on stage, etc. Talking about one’s life is a private and intimate affair. No matter how cautiously the interviewer describes the interview beforehand, when you are face to face with a person you just met, this process can be offsetting. When you are given an empty canvass sizing 636 X 469 mm (about the size of eight pieces of A4 paper put together), it can even be daunting. “Can I start over...?” reminds us of the intricate layers involved in (re)collecting, recording, and (re)connecting moments in our own histories. As a method of collecting qualitative data and engaging in ethnographic fieldwork, the life timeline interviews offer both the interviewee and interviewer a chance to identify oneself within the community and larger society. It is a method that allows the 36 autobiographical to be part of a collective history, circulated within larger conversations of local/global, national/transnational, personal/public, etc. When we met, usually at a cafe of the artist’s choice, I explained the interview process and project’s goals. I then handed each artist a fresh page in a bounded sketchbook, a twelve colored marker set, and scrap paper for jotting notes. On average, each interview lasted 90 to 120 minutes. Some artists used more than five to six colors to code different life periods (e.g. using the color red to symbolize times of psychological chaos), while others only used one color (mostly black, brown, or blue). Some drew events inside large circles or bubbles, while others used bullet points or spiral shapes or even triangles. Some drew little illustrations and caricatures to accompany their stories. Each life timeline reflected the artist’s personality and history. Upon agreement with the artists, the interviews were recorded using the author’s smartphone. Interviews were conducted in Korean, except for three which were done entirely in English (Jolly V, Maniac, and Pinnacle TheHustler). A handful of artists flexibly used and shifted back and forth Korean and English. All interviews were transcribed by the author. Parts that were quoted in the dissertation have been translated from Korean to English, also by the author. Words that were originally said in English have been italicized. The life timeline interview was designed in three parts. In the first part, each artist freely drew his/her life on a blank sketchbook. This part allowed them to freely record important moments in their lives. It also allowed artists to only write things s/he was comfortable with. This helped eliminate issues of privacy and avoid awkwardness during the interview. Drawing usually took anywhere between twenty to sixty minutes. In the second part of the interview, each artist narrated his/her life story. The sketchbook notes 37 served as reference points for their stories. Oftentimes, artists would also add more information as they went along. The final part of the interview consisted of approximately a dozen questions that were asked to all participating artists. This set of questions aimed at unpacking views on Korean hip hop and the music scene: 1. Where do you see yourself in the next five to ten years? 2. Could you describe a typical day? 3. Could you describe the creative process behind writing your music? 4. How would you define Hanguk [Korean] hip hop? 5. Do you think there is a sound that is unique to Korean hip hop? Do you think we need a unique sound? 6. Do you think there is a commonly shared value or ideal amongst Korean hip hop artists? 7. What are some similarities and/or differences between Korean hip hop and American hip hop? 8. Do you think hip hop as musical style is rooted in Korea? Do you think hip hop as culture is rooted in Korea? 9. Why do you think there are so few female rappers in Korea? Do you think there are barriers to females entering the scene? 10. Does Hongdae carry a special meaning for you? 11. Where do you see Korean hip hop in the next five to ten years? 12. What does hip hop mean to you? How would you define hip hop? 38 The biggest goal for the interviews was to record oral histories of each artist. This included their childhood, musical background, introduction to hip hop, career, etc. Through this I wanted to capture various moments and methods of travel of not only music but people. The interviews are grounded in Feld’s (1984) argument that music has a fundamentally social life that is made to be consumed as a symbolic entity where people’s participation invents, validates, circulates, and accumulates musical meanings. Or as John L. Jackson Jr. notes in reading realness in hip hop, “The focus is equally about what you say and how you say it; where you are from and where you are at; public presentations of self and the private autobiographies underpinning them (p. 177). Hip hop artists are also listeners whose identities are socially and historically situated. “For this reason, a description, and a theory of the musical encounter must be sensitive to the biographies of the objects/events and actors in question” (Feld, 1984, p. 6). The life timeline interviews value Feld’s argument that “each hearing has a biography and a history, and these may be more or less important to the actual momentary single hearing in question at a specific time” (1984, p. 11). Going back to the question of asking to “start over,” this for many artists reflected the level of engaged interest and determined responsibility in recording their life histories to the best of their abilities. Many artists showed enthusiasm and thoughtfulness in their participation. For a handful, this was just another interview reflected in their terse answers. But for most artists, this interview was unlike any other in that they were asked to historicize their life and work. While this may be an overwhelming task, many described the interview as a therapeutic process using words like “healing” and “refreshing.” There was cute rivalry between the artists where each wanted to draw 39 “better looking” sketches than the others. There were also many moments where artists referenced others by saying “I am sure you have heard this story from X, Y or Z.” These moments not only mark an intersection of histories, but a connection that forms and places individuals within a collectively defined hip hop community. It is through these moments that meaning is made, sustained, and remembered. Upon transcribing each interview, I shared the document with artists via Google Doc, offering each an opportunity to review, reflect, engage, and comment should they want something to be revised or changed to off-the-record information. While most artists did not provide any feedback on the document, a handful replied with thanks and a brief note of how they hoped this information will be useful to my project. Of these, one artist’s reply stuck with me throughout the project. I had emailed the interview transcript on December 8, 2014 and the artist replied two days later saying that it was the first time he had seen an interview transcribed in full. He commented how refreshing it was to see the interview in letters and how much time it must have taken for me to transcribe the interview which was 19 pages single spaced. He was also struck by his own answers to the questions and more so how he would answer some differently, even though it had been less than two weeks since our interview which took place on November 26, 2014. He offered and suggested a follow-up interview in a year's time to see how much he changed and grown over the course of the year. This email resonated with me not only in how I approached my other interviews, but also helped me gain perspective on my project in general. As stated above, I had started my dissertation with a grand desire of wanting to define Korean hip hop. Not only was this almost impossible, but rather futile. In the course of collecting data, I realized 40 that not only do the artists’ perspectives change over time, but what I was documenting were snapshots of Korean hip hop as remembered in 2014 and 2015. My attempt to historicize Korean hip hop using oral history is only accurate as much as they are dependent on the memories of artists. This is not to say that memory rides on inaccuracy or misinformation, but rather to show which moments in the individual histories of these artists help to understand the making of Korean hip hop. Each interview served as a conversation that connects people, places, and identities. Like much of the autobiographical lyrics that my artists have written, each life timeline functioned as a mirror or annotation to their work. It also helps us trace those moments in which individual histories intersect—across time and space—to not only make music but also form communities. A good example is Olltii, a rapper born in 1996, who describes how he was forever hooked to hip hop by watching a YouTube video called “Mic Swagger #5.” Produced by beatmaker Nuoliance and hosted by freestyle rapper Sool J, Mic Swagger invites established rappers for freestyle sessions. “Mic Swagger #5” features Huckleberry P. This is evidently the most popular in the series with 691,976 views as of 4/12/2015 and is comparable to other videos which are all below 270,000 views. “I liked hip hop as a fan boy. In ninth grade, I saw Huckleberry P's Mic Swagger video. I was shocked. How can this [freestyle] happen? It was great motivation for me. I wanted to freestyle like Huckleberry P. I wanted to be him. When I came home from school it would be about 4 pm. My sister and brother were in high school so they wouldn’t come home till about 10 pm. That meant the six hours would usually be spent playing video games and such, but I started using that time to practice freestyle rap. Since I started rap by looking up to 41 Huckleberry P and Huckleberry P started by being inspired by MC Meta, I want those who are inspired by me to come out to the streets and rap. I think it’s all about creating these natural circles of inspiration and from this Korean hip hop will grow” (Olltii, personal communication, September 12, 2014). Similar to Olltii’s story, many artists’ histories intersected not only in finding musical inspiration, but also creating a sense of community and belonging. There were also those artists who regarded their own histories as “side stories from the existing Korean hip hop history” (JJK, personal communication, June 17, 2014). JJK distances his own story from “the existing Korean hip hop history,” primarily those located in Club Master Plan or Soul Company. His story started and grew in the streets of Hongdae where he created cypher events like Rap Attack. From 2013, JJK and his crew ADV also held larger cyphers across cities in Korea through a guerrilla concert series called Street Rap Shit (SRS). It is interesting that most stories intersected in physical locations of Hongdae. This was especially true in the start of their careers. Hongdae’s significance in the development of Korean hip hop will be further explored in latter parts of the dissertation. Finally, the artists that I interviewed for this project range from newbies in the scene who just released their debut album to icons and rapstars who are at the forefront of Korean hip hop. In this spectrum are those who established and lead independent labels that are most influential in (re)defining Korean hip hop today, including Soul Company, Illionaire Records, Hi-Lite Records, Vismajor Company, Just Music, Daze Alive Music, etc. 42 In addition to collecting life timeline interviews, I also visited various sites of hip hop production and consumption—hip hop clubs and performance venues in Hongdae (Seoul) and Daegu—to collect ethnographic data including observation notes, photographs and video footage of 74 shows (from December 2010 to May 2015). This dissertation is also informed by a comprehensive overview of Korean hip hop singles, EPs, LPs, and music videos released from 1992 to 2015. I also take into consideration secondary data, including existing artist interviews from newspapers, magazines, webzines, promotional videos, and fan videos available online. Whilst qualitative interviews and observational ethnographic data serve as the backbone to this dissertation, musical archives and existing documentation help formulate the basis from which primary data is collected and contextualized. Finally, although this dissertation focuses on the perspectives of artists—rather than hip hop music fans—I continuously monitored on-going discussions on fan boards and forums including Hiphopplaya, Rhythmer and HiphopLE as the issues raised online can also serve as areas of critical engagement and discussion during artist interviews. Structure of the Dissertation Rapper Swings calls Korean hip hop a “deformed child.” Similarly, other artists I have interviewed use words like mutation, modification, and transformation to describe Korean hip hop. Without seeming overly romantic, something beautiful can be born from a mutated state. I look at Hanguk hip hop, not as a proper noun that is tied to one particular set of sound, aesthetic, or sensibility, but more so as a loose grouping of hip hop music made by artists in Korea primarily using the Korean language. Instead of 43 offering one particular definition, I attempt to look at Hanguk hip hop as (1) Korean hip hop and (2) hip hop in Korea. For Hanguk (or Korea), what meaning does hip hop have? In order to do so, my study looks at hip hop through the context of pulan (personal, as well as, societal anxiety and uncertainty). I examine pulan in the context of space and place, economy, cultural production, and gender. Each chapter focuses on one aspect to argue that Korean hip hop is ever-evolving and changing in essence to reflect the society it is a part of. In doing so, it also demonstrates how notions authenticity are continuously questioned, challenged, and redefined. While hip hop culture encompasses various elements including rap, graffiti, DJ-ing, and B-boy/girling, for the purpose of this project I mainly look at Korean rap. In such, I use the terms hip hop and rap interchangeably. This project also attests to this as a limitation as I have only looked at one element of hip hop—rap—and that the majority of my interviewees are rappers. The first chapter explicates the term Hanguk hip hop. I first outline the differences and similarities between American and Korean hip hop drawing from answers by those who are active in the making of Korean hip hop: Korean hip hop musicians. Second, I look at how hip hop—as music and culture that is deeply tied to racial formation and identities in America—is understood in the context of Korean society. How is hip hop lived and understood by Asian, and more specifically Korean, artists? What role does hip hop play in the understanding of race and ethnicity in contemporary Korean society? Finally, I categorize and offer semantic dimensions in negotiating authenticity within Korean hip hop. Through this, I argue that Hanguk hip hop is not bound to one strict definition or set of values, but is constantly changing to reflect the society it is a part of. 44 The second chapter examines how hip hop as music and culture travelled across sociocultural, linguistic, and geographical boundaries from America to Korea. In doing so, it will look at the notion of space and place in Korean hip hop, particularly rooted in a cultural region in Seoul called Hongdae. Hongdae, specifically as a site of music production and consumption, also becomes a place where the “authentic” (re)branding of Korean hip hop takes place. First, this chapter will focus on the role of technology by examining online personal computer spaces called “PC communities” and its role in the localization of hip hop in Korea. I will then look at the changing nature of Hongdae’s significance in Korean hip hop to argue that Hongdae functions on largely four levels: (1) a symbolic space that represents the real and underground, (2) a tangible place for creative production and consumption, (3) a community playground for artists, and (4) an imaginary kohyang [hometown] for musicians. In the third chapter, I examine the success of independent hip hop label Illionaire Records to argue that hip hop has become a new type of self-development text in neoliberal South Korea. I outline Illionaire Records’ success as anchored by two preconditions: (1) staying true to oneself and (2) working hard. By emphasizing these two values, their success story allows hip hop to become a self-development text, one that manifests in accumulation of fame and wealth through hard work and honest labor, especially in times of economic pulan. Thus, as a self-development text, their success is twofold: (1) doing music that was not accepted or thought of as possible in Korea and (2) maintaining “realness” in doing so. While the notion of being self-made is not something new in Korean society, the unprecedented economic success of Illionaire Records has 45 fundamentally changed how money and success is negotiated in Korean hip hop, allowing terms like “rapstar” to circulate in Korean society. The fourth chapter looks at K-pop and the production of authenticity through the term “idol rapper,” a word that refers to rappers in K-pop idol groups. First, I will explicate the term K-pop and how it is negotiated as cultural industry. By doing so, I juxtapose K-pop and hip hop as seemingly separate but coexisting and codependent musical worlds. Next, I examine the making of BTS, a K-pop idol group that has consistently labeled and marketed itself as a hip hop group from its birth. Third, I look at Mnet reality show BTS’ American Hustle Life (2014) to see how the group’s authenticity tied to hip hop is negotiated within the program. Finally, I look at Rap Monster, the leader and main rapper of the group, and the duality represented in his career as an idol and rapper. By looking at multiple levels in the making of BTS as a hip hop group, I examine how authenticity—or what I call conditional authenticity—becomes an urgent and vital requisite especially for idol rappers. I argue that authenticity is assumed as non- existent or very minimal for K-pop group members and one that must be earned through a show-and-prove in the public eye, so to speak. This final chapter looks at gender and representation in Korean hip hop. I argue that a double bind exists for female rappers in Korea: (1) If you are attractive, you have to take extra measures to prove your skills as a rapper or (2) If you have the skills but are not attractive, your appearance becomes a so-called Achilles Heel for your career as a rapper. As unproductive and restricting as the double bind becomes, it offers an interesting look into a much needed discussion on gender and representation in Korean hip hop and the consequent lack of visibility for female rappers. This discussion is not 46 restricted to the Korean hip hop scene, but more so offers a look into Korean popular music and society at large. In this chapter, I will untangle the double bind by first outlining some of the reasons to the question why there are so few female rappers in Korea, including lack of skill, style, role model, and community. I will then examine the reality competition show Unpretty Rapstar (2015) as a case study to see how these conditions are manifested and reproduced in television and media. 47 Chapter 1 | Made in Korea: Authenticity and Hanguk Hip Hop It was a Saturday night in late March 2015. I had just arrived at the corner of Kapiolani Boulevard and Keeaumoku Street to take the number 13 bus to University of Hawaii. As I sat myself on a bench, I saw four young friends in front of me. A white student of the group, who happened to be wearing a "Taylor Gang or Die" t-shirt, was looking for a song on his iPhone. He then played it asking his friends if they knew the song. “My youth is 14 carat gold~,” rhymed a rapper in the Korean language. The three friends, who were ironically all Korean, shook their heads. The guy could not believe they did not know one of his favorite songs, “Always Awake” by Jazzyfact. He went on to share another song which this time was a ballad by Si Kyung Sung. He mouthed the lyrics to the song. It is this moment of musical and cultural encounter that really resonated with me throughout my journey in completing this project. Who would have thought that I would hear a Korean hip hop song—particularly one categorized as “underground”—being played by an American to Koreans on the streets of Hawaii? I had never thought of Korean hip hop as being restricted to music that is played and heard simply in Korea or by Koreans. But this moment served as a pleasant reminder that my project should also be situated in a wider context by looking at Korean hip hop as a site of local, national, and global encounter and interaction. In essence, “what makes Korean popular culture Korean is not some essentialized and unalloyed Koreanness, but rather its appropriation of and negotiation with global forces” (Joo, 2011, p. 502). This chapter looks at the meeting of the words Hanguk (Korea) and hip hop. What happens when Hanguk meets hip hop? Or hip hop meets Hanguk? In doing so, this chapter largely examines (1) Hanguk hip hop as hip hop made by Koreans living in Korea, (2) the 48 sociocultural meaning of hip hop in Korea, and (3) Koreanness in Hanguk hip hop. In this chapter, I explicate the “Hanguk” in Hanguk hip hop by (1) outlining the differences between American and Korean hip hop, (2) examining how race is lived and understood by Korean hip hop musicians, and (3) identifying authenticity claims within Korean hip hop. Hanguk Hip Hop or Hanguk, Hip Hop? The literal translation of Hanguk hip hop is “Korean hip hop.” Hanguk means both Korea (noun) and Korean (adjective). In Korea, Hanguk hip hop is used to describe hip hop that is made in Korea by Koreans. In so, Korean hip hop is distinguished or separated from (American) hip hop. This difference is marked in not only sound and language, but also in the culture from which music is made from. While most artists label their music as “Hanguk hip hop” as exemplified in the active use of the term in their lyrics or interviews; others consciously move away from it by calling their music as just “hip hop.” This move is both symbolic and strategic as it demonstrates how Korean artists imagine their work in the global exchange and flow of music. This section identifies key differences between American hip hop and Korean hip hop, including sound, language, lyrical content, music scene, and culture. In doing so, it offers to look at the concept of Hanguk hip hop as a proper noun that is distinct from American hip hop and as an adjective that extends hip hop outside of America. I started this dissertation with the romantic idea that I would somehow provide an overarching definition of Hanguk hip hop. I imagined an artist community where there would be a value or ideal that is shared together within this community. Hence, this is 49 one of the reasons I asked each artist I interviewed whether or not there existed such a shared value. Their answers conflicted to a degree that confused me. Some rejected such a thing existed, claiming that there were too many different values or naming one would be restricting. Others replied their love and passion for hip hop as what ties them together or the notion that Real Recognize Real (RRR). In my conversations with artists, it also became evident that Hanguk hip hop could not be defined or tied to one specific definition. That is why my own definition and understanding of Hanguk hip hop as hip hop that is largely made in Korea by Koreans in the Korean language serves only as a starting point to which the definition’s boundaries can be expanded from. Some artists confessed their discomfort in labeling their music as “Hanguk hip hop” claiming that they would rather have their music be heard as hip hop. These artists wanted their music to be placed within global hip hop and alongside what is currently being produced in America. In these discussions, some may question whether or not hip hop made by Korean- Americans can be counted as Hanguk hip hop. In answering this question, I say yes but with a caveat. The caveat falls to one of primary listenership, language, and where the artist is based. For example, Dumbfoundead is a Korean-American rapper based in Koreatown, Los Angeles, California. Dumbfoundead occasionally visits and performs in Korea. However, the Korean audience does not necessarily view his music as “Korean” but more so “American.” This largely depends on language as Dumbfoundead’s music is in English. I would say that for Korean-American artists like Dumbfoundead, their Korean ancestry and embracing of Korean culture and identity make for a possible extension of Hanguk hip hop outside of Korea. Yet this extension is limited when lyrics 50 are primarily written in English and make it difficult for Korean listeners to understand. Conversely, there are a number of Korean artists who are more comfortable with English and yet who make a conscious decision to write their lyrics in Korean so they are able to better communicate with their primary audience (e.g. Swings). Sound In terms of sound, there are two general conflicting camps amongst Korean artists: (1) While Korean hip hop should strive to have a distinct sound, it should not be one that is forced by using traditional Korean instruments (e.g. fusion music). 6 Rather, artists should use Korean sources that are sampled within a scope that can be read as hip hop. Or (2) Korean hip hop should not have a unique sound, but follow or remain within a recognizable global [read American] hip hop sound. MC Meta elaborates: I think it’s high time that we think about Hanguk hip hop. For me, those debates will become clearer if we have more musicians like DJ Soulscape. We have far too little number of people who continuously dig for Korean sources and are able to express it using hip hop. There’s no discussion or interest in that. I think it’s everyone’s responsibility. We used to joke that someone needs to cut Arirang before DJ Krush does. If Krush did it first and made something great, it would be J-hiphop. It would be too late to 6 For scholars of Korean culture, fusion music is largely debated in the form of gukak fusion where traditional Korean instruments or sounds are hybridized with Western music (c.f. Howard, 2010). “Fusion music, in all of its various forms, comes under criticism from many directions. Those who subscribe to notions of cultural purity denigrate fusion as impure, as inauthentic. Those who value music for its noble and uplifting values denigrate fusion as crass and commercial. Those who value musical sophistication and originality denigrate fusion as cliché, formulaic, easy listening” (Sutton, 2011, p. 20). 51 say ‘Arirang is ours.’ We needed a skilled producer to cut it and make a hip hop track. It was half joke but half serious talk. There have been no attempts. If we look at young friends, they are very skilled at using sources and such. But if you look at them I think it wouldn’t be too hard to say they are American, musically speaking. I am not saying let’s add Arirang to our beats or use Korean traditional instruments. In the past, people used to really add Korean traditional instrument sounds to hip hop. But that’s just fusion and it’s like forcefully dressing something that doesn’t fit. We need more creative attempts and musical experiments. We need more ways of thinking and looking at what Hanguk hip hop means and sounds. (personal communication, September 21, 2014) While some artists think of Hanguk hip hop as simply doing hip hop in Korea and thus not having a unique sound of its own, Dok2 imagines his hip hop as being produced globally. “Of course I reference my music [after American hip hop] but it is not to plagiarize or copy it. I am living in the same age and making music in the same era so we are sharing the global trend. It’s not a Korean musician copying an American song, but rather sharing a musical trend as one of the many hip hop musicians in the world. I do think Hanguk hip hop exists though and 90% of rappers are doing Hanguk hip hop. Because they don’t follow the trend at all. I think of it simply like this: Can I imagine this music as being released in America and not just in Korea. Will the people like it? Does it not drift away from the bigger picture? The bigger framework? If we listen to it alongside what’s topping the hip hop iTunes chart, does it fit there? If I look at other Korean 52 rappers’ music, it doesn't fit at all. Of course, there is a trend that is uniquely Korean, but if we are looking at that that’s kayo. That’s K-pop and not hip hop” (Dok2, personal communication, March 7, 2015). The notion of creating something “new” is largely dependent on what has been done before or what is commonly accepted as hip hop. Like the “bigger framework” that Dok2 describes, for many Korean artists, this is much decided by the standards as set by American hip hop. Deepflow explains through what he describes as the position of Korean artists as “consumers who are taking in the culture” (personal communication, May 23, 2014). In that case, Korean artists are “revisiting what is popular in the United States. . . and are always comparing our music with and against the so-called ‘real’ hip hop from America” (Deepflow, personal communication, May 23, 2014). The notion of “real” emanates from American hip hop. San E’s answer resonates Deepflow’s in that “Korean hip hop cannot but follow American hip hop. It’s not just Korean hip hop but also hip hop globally” (personal communication, November 14, 2014). San E explains further, “Sometimes, I feel that doing hip hop in Korea is almost a competition of who can best follow American hip hop. And that’s not an easy thing to do. It’s something we can’t escape from because rap is really dependent on trends [which is led by American hip hop]” (personal communication, November 14, 2014). Language While differences in sound were deemed small or insignificant, the most important and common of differences that the artists pointed to was one of language. The use of the Korean language clearly distinguishes Korean hip hop from American hip hop. 53 As obvious as this statement is, for many artists, language was not only crucial in self- expression, but an important means of communication with their listeners. For example, Olltii, a rapper born in 1996 and the youngest interviewee for this project, explains that “what makes Korean hip hop Korean is simply the language: To be able to tell my own story, using our language, to the people who can understand it. I think language is made and developed based on our country’s culture” (personal communication, September 12, 2014). Olltii’s notion that language is made and developed upon culture is also echoed in Jerry.k’s answer where “what we can understand and share is very different because our cultural, legal, economic, and historical standpoint is different” (personal communication, June 3, 2014). That is why for Jerry.k “we can’t make something great entirely by copying American hip hop” because the public’s understanding of the music’s history is so different (personal communication, June 3, 2014). Born Kim’s answer also resonates with Olltii’s and Jerry.k’s, but what is interesting is his observation of how hip hop in Korea became called “Hanguk hip hop”: I think it’s a hard question especially for me because I have never called my music Hanguk hip hop. I think it’s called Hanguk hip hop because we are doing it in Hanguk [Korea]. I’ve always thought of my music as hip hop. I have thought about how I could make the best rap using Korean. How can I rap and rhyme [in Korean] but also keep the root of the music I’ve grown up listening to? How can I make my lyrics more visual and more detailed? I think it’s not accurate to categorize Hanguk hip hop by sound. For me, I think Hanguk hip hop became naturally labeled and 54 named as such when people started to rap in the Korean language. Because we were doing this in a land that is called Hanguk, it became natural to call it Hanguk hip hop. (personal communication, October 1, 2014) Finally, MC Meta and Naachal of the duo Garion explain the differences in American and Korean hip hop with regards to language. Garion, often regarded as the godfathers of Korean hip hop, is famous for only using the Korean language in their lyrics. The word Garion also reflects the group’s conscious artistic and linguistic choice: The similarity between the two is that they are both hip hop. The differences between the two lie in the difference between Korea and America, but I don’t think there is one clear definitive answer. We thought we knew the answer when we made Garion because the answer lies in our team name. Garion was pure Korean for a white horse with a black mane. The reason we used the name was to represent that we would only rap in our own language. We felt that this was the coolest. There was a white DJ from New York called Jessie who came to play at Master Plan. He was a kid when hip hop started so he always used to say he was born with hip hop. Jessie came to one of our performances and we got to talk after the show. It was a period where there were a lot of Korean American teams in the scene. He told us that he couldn’t stand listening to one of these teams. For him, it seemed like they were copying this verse and that verse [from American rappers] and didn’t have originality. It was a sort of cosplay. He 55 liked us because we used our language and through that created an art form. And that was real hip hop. When we met DJ Krush, we talked about similar things. It was the same in Japan. It was a mix of Japanese and English at first and from the 90s it changed to reflect their culture and linguistic identity. That’s when DJ Krush marks the start of J-hip hop. (personal communication, September 21, 2014) To put it simply, using English can be seen as a sort of “cosplay.” Scholars like Jamie Shinhee Lee (2004) see the use of English in K-pop as “discourse of resistance,” where “mixing two language codes epitomizes South Korean youth’s battle with their unsettling identities in dealing with the tension between global and local dialogues to which they are simultaneously exposed” (p. 429). “English use in K-pop can be understood as an instance of pre-planned, deliberate, intentional code-switching with specific goals in songwriters’ and artists’ minds” (Lee, 2004, p. 429). In another study, Lee (2011) examines the use of AAVE by Korean hip hop artists to argue that “K-hip hop artists are not mere copycats of American hip hop artists since they put their own linguistic ‘spin’ on their lyrics to make themselves marketable to South Korean audiences” (p. 19). For Lee, “performing in AAVE in some ways endows Korean hip hop artists with authenticity and legitimacy” (2011, p. 20). While I agree with Lee in that choosing English over Korean is definitely in part a deliberate artistic choice, I argue that using a certain language should be taken into a more serious context than negotiating its marketability. Also, the notion that “performing in AAVE in some ways endows Korean hip hop artists with authenticity and legitimacy” 56 (Lee, 2011, p. 20) is highly problematic and calls for a more careful reading with respect to cultural appropriation and racial identities. Choosing one language over another is an undeniable part of identity formation, especially in hip hop where telling one’s story is one of the biggest prerequisites and expectations. While recording in English may very well have the potential to reach transnational audiences both within and beyond East Asia (Benson, 2013, p. 24), using English indiscriminately is often looked down upon by both Korean artists and audiences. In fact, authenticity is given to those who are able to tell their stories using the Korean language. Echoing MC Meta’s notion that by using the Korean language artists are able to build a unique cultural and linguistic identity within a globally recognized creative art form, Naachal cautions against those who do not concern themselves with similar questions as artists: These days, the internet has really allowed easy access to music. People can easily copy American rap. Having a hip hop attitude or mind is a different story. When we think about technical aspects, younger rappers have become very skilled and that’s the truth. But we can’t just take it as is. There are still a lot of problems with attitude. If we just look at attitude, Garion is Hanguk hip hop. We are very Korean. When younger rappers strictly copy American hip hop and call it their own, it’s a mind that is without an artistic soul. The reason American hip hop grew is that they continued to have creative and artistic minds and strived to make something greater whether that be in rap skill, composition method, etc. But no one in Korea is willing to do that. ‘The trend in America is this.’ They just follow after that. They don’t think about how to rap using the 57 sentiments of our language or the rhythm and patterns that our language has. They only think about how to distort the pronunciation or length of vowels so it sounds like English. This is something Meta hyung said and I really respect him for it: We shouldn’t be indebted to using English. We have our own language. It’s also keeping true to hip hop’s fundamental core: to show what we have. (personal communication, January 28, 2015) Content When talking about the differences between American and Korean hip hop, artists first noted language (how we say) and this naturally led to the differences in lyrical content (what we say). Based on the differences in culture and history, what we say differed greatly. For many artists, American hip hop dealt with themes of “thurr, women, money, and drugs,” which could be something “Americans can enjoy” as music (Vasco, personal communication, November 13, 2014). Vasco explains, “But Koreans cannot consume that. There is no drug in Korea. If you go out to the corners of our streets, they are selling pungŏppang [fish-shaped bread filled with red bean paste] not drugs. Naturally, we need to tell stories that our friends can relate to and enjoy. I think that is Hanguk hip hop. For example, I really enjoyed Chaboom’s album. There is a line that goes ‘I’m sniffing glue on top of the rooftop.’ For Americans, this is not even close to drugs. But for us, it’s quite sensational and shocking. I think that could be a snippet of Korean hip hop” (personal communication, November 13, 2014). Pento’s answer resonates Vasco’s in that Hanguk hip hop has a different set of themes or stories it can tell: “I think it’s inevitable for Korean hip hop to have American 58 hip hop’s DNA. Because that is what we listened to before we started as musicians whether that be the sound or rap style. If there is a difference in sound, it’s very small and almost insignificant. Lyric-wise, in the past, a lot of Korean rappers referenced Confucian values and idioms. Culturally, in America, rappers talk about how their uncles were shot or killed selling drugs. But that’s an almost impossible story in Korea” (personal communication, October 8, 2014). The notion of Korean hip hop carrying American hip hop’s DNA is interesting in that it questions the roots underlying its conception and development. Born Kim’s answer adds another layer in looking at this question: My father didn’t grow up with hip hop and my grandfather didn’t grow up with hip hop. [Korean hip hop] is different from birth. If we think about it that way, it’s right to say that hip hop is rooted in Korea as music first [rather than culture]. It’s hip hop that’s become modified. I think it’s also wrong to take something that reads just like American rap, translate it to Korean, and then call it ‘real’ [Korean] hip hop… (personal communication, October 1, 2014) Born Kim’s notion that we should not take “something that reads just like American rap” and “translate it to Korean” ultimately asks the question of what we can talk about and how we can express it. Naachal explains this further: This isn’t meaning in a negative way, but I sometimes think it was a mistake to emphasize the ‘Hanguk’ in Hanguk hip hop. Did we emphasize ‘Korea’ too much? For me it was this: Of course Korean hip hop has to be different from American hip hop, but what kinds of stories can we share? 59 There is an assumption that we would share stories of oppression: racial oppression for Blacks and oppression from foreign intrusion for Koreans… the so-called resentment called han. But it’s an assumption that makes absolute no sense. For Koreans, the expression of han involves suppressed sounds of agony. We say aigo aigo but we don’t necessarily express ourselves directly. But that’s not the case for Blacks. Our method of expression is completely different from the start. (personal communication, January 28, 2015) As noted by Naachal, the ways Koreans express themselves is fundamentally different because it embodies how Koreans think and respond in sociocultural contexts. He argues that Korean artists need to think about how they can express themselves. What is accepted as social norm or code as a form of expression is ultimately different from American society. The Quiett elaborates: Hanguk hip hop is a term I really dislike. It’s an expression I don’t want to use a lot. Music includes everything we’ve experienced and heard growing up. Every creative standard or habits relies on this. For example, in Korea, the most common music we’ve heard growing up would be ballads. Then the writing style of ballad lyrics would be melted into rap. I tried to break away from that. But it is a common lyrical route that rappers take because it can only be friendlier for the listeners as well. I think these things make up Hanguk hip hop. The Korean lifestyle, the Korean way of thinking, the 60 Korean way of responding, etc. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) For The Quiett, how Koreans think and respond in sociocultural contexts is ultimately embedded in the writing style of artists. Their writing styles are made through an accumulation of what they have heard or referenced throughout their lives, just as Pento’s argument that there is a DNA in Korean hip hop that is tied to American hip hop. What is authentic is fundamentally linked back to what the “original” is. But this is further complicated in that what we say (lyrical content) and how we say (language) is taken into consideration to define the “real.” Scene One of the most important questions in looking at hip hop in Korea is its position in the larger music scene. While hip hop is one of the few genres that survived the indie scene, it is still a minor genre in market size or capital when compared to kayo or mainstream popular music (K-pop). Rap exists in condiment flavors in K-pop or ballad rap, but hip hop also exists as part of the underground or independent music scene. But this boundary is beginning to blur as more and more underground and mainstream artists collaborate and YouTube and social media have accelerated the visibility and circulation of hip hop music. So while the physical underground scene may be relatively small, the consumption of music is proliferated through online digital sales. Most importantly, as JJK explains, hip hop has become largely acceptable and sought after by the Korean public: 61 What’s the difference between the Master Plan (MP) days and today is that back in the day, if you were to compromise you had to do kayo. Or else it was almost impossible for a compromise. But today, kayo has become hiphop-y. Look at G-Dragon or any other pop artist out there. It’s leaning towards hip hop. In America, hip hop could survive as hip hop. Now Korean society is beginning to have that code. The code may not necessarily be hip hop at its core, but more stylistically in terms of style, attitude, or fashion. A lot of it is now melted into pop. In the MP days, hip hop was counter-kayo. If it is kayo, it isn’t hip hop. It was a time when kayo was bashed against [within the hip hop scene]. But now, there are a lot of artists doing idol-like music and handsome guys in the hip hop scene too. So it’s become kayo-friendly. Korean mainstream music is the idol market. Hip hop is growing alongside the idol market and one of the downfalls of that is the disappearance of the underground scene. There should be a co-existence that rests on a balance between the two worlds, but since there is such a desire for [economic] success a lot of people are leaning towards the mainstream market. (personal communication, June 17, 2014) JJK’s notion of compromise is one that distinguishes underground and mainstream/commercial music within the artist community. It is interesting to note that what is considered mainstream or commercial hip hop in America could very well be 62 taken as “underground” in Korea. Dimensions of authenticity in relation to underground and mainstream will be further explored in sections below. Culture Finally, one of the key differences between American and Korean hip hop can be tied to one concerning hip hop as culture. Has hip hop as culture, not just as musical style or commodity, rooted itself in Korea? These differences can be summarized to three threads: 1. ‘Hip hop = rap?’ In Korea, hip hop is largely recognized and understood as rap. Born Kim explains: I am not sure if hip hop as culture is melted into Korean society. Honestly, how many people in Korea see the b-boy scene as the hip hop scene...? Let’s not even talk about graffiti. It never made it this far. In Korea, hip hop equals rap music. So they are definitely looking at it as music. I become confused when we talk about the culture part because it is so different from what we watched on MTV. For example, we should be able to find not only fashion and attitude but a way of life on every and any block. But that’s not the case in Korea. If we were to imagine five to ten years from now, rap will definitely exist, but I am not sure about hip hop as culture. Because it never melted into our society. That’s why I think Meta hyung is amazing. He’s curating Everyone’s Mic [an open mic competition free to all participants and listeners], but he’s also planning something with graffiti, b-boying and DJs. ‘That’s hip hop,’ he said. I 63 think it’s cool how hyung is trying to make our cultural foundation deeper and wider. (personal communication, October 1, 2014) As Born Kim’s answer shows, the hip hop scene in Korea largely concerns the rap music community. Furthermore, there is no creative exchange or active communication between members involved in other elements of hip hop including graffiti, B-boy/girling, and DJing. Many argue that when the elements of hip hop came to Korea, they rooted as tools or methods of expression. As exemplified by rappers, graffiti artists, B-boys/girls, and DJs, the skill or technique as a tool have rooted itself well. When we are talking about hip hop rooting itself as culture, it became clear during my interviews that we were by extension questioning whether or not hip hop will become part of the mainstream culture that is readily recognized, understood, and consumed by a wider public. Huckleberry P’s answer raises important questions on the nature of hip hop and its consumers in Korea: “This is something I am skeptical about because I feel that in Korea, rap and hip hop is very separated. Of course even I am using rap as a tool in Pynodine albums, but I feel that rap is just a genre in hip hop. I don’t know how much of the culture there is in Korea. Because the people who made hip hop are so different from us in terms of race, way of life, and sentiments. I don’t think hip hop will 100% root itself as culture. I think real cool things are enjoyed by the minority. That’s why I first started liking hip hop. I felt special when I listened to hip hop. I don’t think it matters whether or not hip hop in its pure state is understood and enjoyed by the majority of people in Korea” (personal communication, July 24, 2014). 64 2. ‘There are no Blacks in Korea.’ While this is not to argue that hip hop = Black, it is to recognize the need to have knowledge of hip hop’s roots and history. In Korea, there is a general lack in the public’s awareness of hip hop as culture, often reflected in how it is portrayed in the media as violent, rough, or crude. Or by the fact that people consume hip hop simply as a fashion style or trend. Despite a lack of in-depth knowledge, is it right to simply dismiss this and not call it culture at all? For example, Sleeq explains that “If we consider hip hop culture as something from one particular start or beginning, it can never be rooted in Korea. There are no Black people here. But if we look at Korea in 2014, there is hip hop culture no matter how shallow or superficial it is. For example, people are wearing hip hop clothes or holding cyphers on the streets. If we can’t acknowledge that as hip hop culture, we can’t name it at all” (personal communication, November 5, 2014). However shallow or superficial hip hop as culture is in Korea, hip hop still has presence as demonstrated by television reality competition shows as Show Me the Money and Unpretty Rapstar, which incorporate hip hop as the framework of the program. Olltii, who was a contestant on the third season of Show Me the Money looks at the question of hip hop rooting itself as culture in Korean society using this program: Because I went on Show Me the Money, I will answer the question using the program as an example. If we question whether or not hip hop is now mainstream culture, I don’t know what the answer would be. Just because more people recognize me or any other rapper who was on that show, we cannot call that the mainstreaming of hip hop in Korean society. But one thing is certain. I think people are now beginning to see hip hop for itself. 65 For example, they used to misinformed or have prejudices that hip hop is violent or hip hop is about cursing. But now more people are looking deeper into hip hop and breaking those biases. Right now, hip hop is most consumed as entertainment. For it to be carried into the realm of culture, I think it’s up to the artists and their conscience. (personal communication, September 12, 2014) Similarly, Wutan, who was a contestant on the second season of Show Me the Money, calls to the importance of artists and their roles to carry hip hop into a cultural realm: I think nothing is set or stable yet. I think if we were to talk about hip hop, there is just the smell. And you can find that smell in Hongdae. When MP hip hop was popular, hip hop spread like a wildfire and then disappeared cold. I think it never continued in a stable way. I am not sure if it’ll be within our generation. For it to be rooted, I think the role of musicians is that much important like not going on television shows that are simply geared to entertainment or doing ballad rap. It’s very difficult for a culture to root itself. The hyungs and I talked about this: there is no first generation in our country. The first generation has not ended yet, because hip hop has never rooted itself yet—not once. It’s up to our efforts as musicians to do so. (personal communication, October 16, 2014) 66 3. Culture is something that can be passed on between generations or something that can be shared amongst generations. Korean hip hop is just short of twenty years of history and currently lacks this possibility to share and expand upon between generations. Born Kim reflects on this: I am not sure that hip hop culture really exists in Korea. Sure I really love hip hop. But I think it’s right that we approach this as music and make sure that it roots itself firmly as a genre first. For example, it’s so difficult for one genre to sustain itself more than 10 years. Punk has lost its path, techno is long gone. If we do well… right now hip hop has become music that an uncle and nephew can enjoy together. The uncles would be more or less my age; the nephews would be middle schoolers. If we go a bit further, it will become music that a father and son can enjoy together. I think we can begin to think about culture from that point on—when hip hop becomes something that can be passed down by generation. If it roots itself well as a genre first, we can continue to reflect on and respect its history. (personal communication, October 1, 2014) Born Kim also retrospectively traced the short lineage in Korean hip hop (e.g. Club Master Plan, Soul Company, and Illionaire Records) and consequently the lack of its cultural and musical history, especially when compared to American hip hop. Similarly, Illinit’s answer echoes that of Born Kim in that Korean hip hop is very distant from American hip hop in terms of race, culture, and history: 67 [Question asked: Then is ‘real’ hip hop, hip hop done by Black artists?] I think that’s misleading and inappropriate to say. Maybe race doesn’t matter. I feel like culture is something that gets passed on. It’s really hard to forcefully do something. Culture—in its pure form—it’s what your parents pass on or it’s what you saw growing up. It’s generational. [Then do you think when father-son or parent-child begin to share and enjoy Korean hip hop together then it becomes ‘real’?] Yes, I think then it can be considered a kind of real hip hop. [We’re not too far away.] Yeah, not too far away, seriously. It could be really fun. I think if hip hop becomes bigger, it could even shake up our society. Because right now, it’s very very minority. Hip hop as culture… we bow to people we meet for the first time, that’s not hip hop. I don’t know. Maybe that is a new form of hip hop. Has it rooted itself as culture?—I don’t think so. Facade, copy, imitation. But when we follow something, we are damn good at it. I don’t think people understand the core. It’s like foreigners watching a Korean movie with subtitles. Like a Korean movie where a yokchaengi halmŏni comes out. The English subtitle read, ‘You f***ers, eat anything I f***ing give you.’ What the f***? People will say, ‘That’s a mean ass owner.’ But Koreans would say the halmŏni is funny and has chŏng. We know that the halmŏni will give us second helpings. I think it’s like that with hip hop. We’ve gotten to know it through music videos. You never lived in it. You never went to high school with these Mexicans or Black people and freestyled them. You don’t know what it takes to earn respect and how 68 high quality the recent Eminem cypher was with Yelawolf and Crooked I. There are people who of course know it. But there are also those who don’t. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I think it’s just too stressful and it become meaningless. I just ride the flow—we are all going together. And I think that’s kind of sad, to be honest. They don’t know who Michael Jordan is. They never watched him play. But GD oppa wears Jordans. And that’s hip hop for them. Everyone raps well. We’re all so talented skillwise. It’s like having really good hands. That’s why we are good at Starcraft and we make good products. There’s no denying. Skillwise, we are great. (personal communication, November 26, 2014) 7 What Illinit, who spent part of his elementary and high school years in America, emphasizes for hip hop to be culture is the notion of “living it.” For many Koreans, hip hop is something that was not lived, but rather learned (e.g. through music videos on MTV). For those who did not have the opportunity to live in America, hip hop was consumed as choice and by selection. This is well-noted in Double K’s answer below. Double K attended The Governor’s Academy and Ohio State University. During his OSU days, he spent a lot of time with his friend Baby Bird, an African American who happened to rap. Double K recalls going to recording studios and open mic nights at a bar called Bernie’s, where Baby Bird would help pass the mic to Double K: 7 Yokchaengi halmŏni is an old lady who cusses. This figure is a stock character used in popular culture for moments of comic relief. Halmŏni is Korean for grandmother. Chŏng is a Korean word for affection. GD is short for G-Dragon. GD is the leader and main rapper of the K-pop group, Big Bang. He is also a fashion icon with 8 million Instagram followers (as of February 2016) and is often photographed in the front rows of fashion shows including Chanel, Lanvin, Saint Laurent, Jeremy Scott, and Rick Owens. 69 There are a lot of differences between hip hop in America and Korea. The biggest difference is that in America, hip hop is a culture and way of life that is naturally a part of life from an early age. In Korea, we chose hip hop because we liked it. In America, it’s not really about personal choice, but more the life chose them. It’s commonly said that a way out of the ghetto for African Americans is to be a basketball player or a rapper. I think that’s the biggest difference between Korea and America. I’m not saying one is better than the other. I think it depends on the person’s choice and how we act upon that choice. The similarity is that both we both talk about our own lives. Of course, there are rappers who are fake and there are always haters too. There are politics, manipulations, and crooks. But that’s not just the rap game, but every industry. (personal communication, February 11, 2015) Because hip hop for many Koreans is about “personal choice,” “how we act upon that choice” includes digging deeper into hip hop’s culture and roots—often referred to by artists as “doing research”—and paying respect to it. Ian Condry (2007) explains this through the notion of “doing their homework” wherein “many Japanese artists and fans of hip hop do in fact make an effort to learn about hip hop history and its relationship to black Americans, through books, films and Japanese magazine articles” (p. 469). In Korea, for hip hop to be culture, Koreans should move past beyond simply consuming hip hop as music and style, but pay respect to its history and roots based on knowledge and appreciation. In this context, I argue that hip hop offers a rare opportunity to 70 negotiate race in Korea—a nation which has not only historically called but prided itself as danil minjok meaning ethnically homogeneous and racially distinctive—where race is not necessarily subject to public’s attention or interest. In the following section, I explore this further by looking at how race and blackness is understood and negotiated by Korean hip hop artists. Black & Yellow: Negotiating Asian Identities in Hip Hop 8 Interconnected from a musician’s voice and body to the listener’s ears and experiences, music cannot be separated from racial identities or histories. From race music to rap music, American popular music is one that is deeply tied to the notion of race and embedded in the history of slavery. It is also one that is tied to the many travels, languages, cultures, and voices of ethnic communities and groups that have immigrated to America. As Josh Kun (2005) writes, in American audio-racial imagination, “there is no way of separating the histories of U.S. popular music from the history of ethnic and racial formation in the United States, and vice-versa” (p. 26). Hip hop began in the 1970s in the postindustrial city of New York as a “cultural form that attempts to negotiate the experiences of marginalization, brutally truncated opportunity, and oppression within the cultural imperatives of African-American and Caribbean history, identity, and community” (Rose, 1994, p. 21). Imani Perry (2004) locates key characteristics of hip hop, including the use of African American vernacular and its socio-political ties to black society. Under these characteristics, for Perry, “even 8 While the subheadings for the following two sections borrow from Wiz Khalifa’s (2010) “Black and Yellow” and Ice Cube’s “Black Korea” (1991), the development of the paper does not necessarily encompass the content or intention of the original songs. 71 with its hybridity, the consistent contributions from non black artists, and the borrowings from cultural forms of other communities, [hip hop] is nevertheless black American music” (p. 10). Rap music, as one element or practice in hip hop culture, serves as “a public and highly accessible place, where black meanings and perspectives—even as they are manipulated by corporate concerns—can be shared and validated among black people” (Rose, 1994, p. 17). Rap also offers a textual space where hip hop serves as “a process of inscription whereby social relationships are reiterated . . . [and returned] to a public sphere” (Murray, 2002, p. 18). As hip hop travels across geographical boundaries to become rooted in the musical, social, and cultural landscapes of many cities and countries, these spaces also become occupied by non-black bodies, both inside and outside of America. Hip hop thus serves as a site where racialized bodies are found in constant tension, struggle, and coalition not just in the context of musical and cultural authenticity, but also in identification for a global hip hop community. Harkness (2012) looks at race as a form of subcultural capital in creating boundaries that distinguish between in-groups and out- groups within hip hop. Thus, race as a construction of realness “identifie[s] and regulate[s] who should or should not participate” (Harkness, 2012, p. 289). As Todd Fraley (2009) argues “hip hop renders visible the complexities of racial identities, exposes spaces of racial hybridity, and reveals difficulties involved in the struggle to dismantle essentialist notions of race in favor of more fluid and unstable racial categories, or what Kitwana (2005) referred to as ‘the new politics of race’” (p. 39). In his study of race, class, and conflict in hip hop, Jeff Chang (1993) notes that “For Asian Americans, it is no longer (if it ever was) enough to claim similarity and 72 solidarity with African Americans, difference and divergence must be acknowledged” (p. 103). In similar vein, for Oliver Wang (2007), “non black rappers, especially Asian Americans, face a dilemma since their racial difference does not meet the standard of black authenticity held by rap fans and music executives alike” (p. 37). This brings a self- perpetuating paradoxical cycle where “there are few Asian American rappers in the mainstream because most record labels are wary of signing them out of concern for their commercial viability” (Wang, 2007, p. 37) wherein “the continued absence of Asian American rappers within mainstream media contributes to the perception of their inauthenticity, which further hinders their chances of finding commercial support” (Wang, 2007, p. 38). But this is not to say that Asian Americans’ experiences in hip hop are bound only to that of conflict and contestation. In “After Sa-i-ku: Korean American hip hop since the Rodney King Uprising,” Mina Yang (2008) argues that “the future of race relations rests on the shoulders of the hip hop generation, on those who have grown up taking for granted their fragmented and multihued environment and have devised new idioms with which to communicate across social and spatial boundaries” (pp. 118-9). Recognizing the binary framework of black and white racial identities that informs a large majority of histories and analyses of American popular music, Yang finds equally important work in the exploration of “intertwined trajectories of popular music and race relations” that are neither black nor white (p. 119). As one interaction, she identifies the production and consumption of hip hop as a site where “Korean Americans exhibit the tensions and contradictions attendant in ‘becoming Asian American,’ that is between a racial identification with other nonwhites and an ethnonational affiliation to the diasporic Korean community, and 73 between the desire to assimilate into mainstream America and to retain ethnic distinctiveness” (p. 125). 9 Not disregarding the existence of the multiple layers within Korean American identities, including class, gender, and sexuality, Yang finds certain commonalities in their experiences, such as the Rodney King riots. In looking at these sites, Yang locates two models of understanding immigration and race that apply to the reading of Asian American hip hop: (1) “ethnic American model, patterned after European immigrant processes of assimilation” and (2) “racial minority model, gleaned from the experiences of African Americans and other ‘colonized minorities’” (pp. 125-6). Yang speaks in conversation with Ellie Hisama’s notion of hip hop’s potential to offer polyculturalistic practices and Deborah Wong’s argument that hip hop is used by “Asian Americans [to] move self-consciously toward ‘Blackness’ and unequivocally away from ‘Whiteness’” (p. 126). Asian Americans and their engagement with music draw from these frameworks as they are “neither fully assimilated nor fully racialized” (p. 126). Similarly, Deborah Wong (2000) proposes two metaphors in exploring the racialization of bodies in music that are traditionally constructed racially as African American (jazz and hip hop): seeing and hearing race in the performing body (p. 65). For 9 While diasporic Koreans like Korean Americans are considered “Korean,” when they pose a potential “threat” to the “nation,” they quickly become understood as “American.” This is best exemplified in the case of Seungjun “Steve” Yoo, a Korean American singer who undoubtedly had one of the most successful careers in early K-pop history. Yoo debuted in 1997 with an album titled West Side. Because Korea does not recognize dual citizenship, Yoo was in a position to choose between holding either Korean or American citizenship. Choosing Korean citizenship meant he would have to fulfill mandatory military services. Yoo, who during his career had repeatedly stated and expressed his wish to go to the army, chose American citizenship. This was not looked favorably upon in the Korean public eyes and the government considered it as an act of desertion. In 2002, they deported Yoo, permanently banning him from entering the country. He now leads a music career in China. 74 Wong, race is “a constructed sign of historical injury that must be productively maintained and refashioned over time” (p. 87). Wong’s concern is looking at how the performing bodies “necessarily enact historical memories of subjectivation and injury” and “to rescue those memories by refashioning their labor as cultural work” (p. 67). Wong sees Asian American rappers move toward Blackness as “a self conscious movement away from Whiteness” (p. 88). In doing so, the artists are involved in a “lateral transit” where the “laboring body [discovers] that it is engaged in class-conscious cultural work of social and political transformation” (p. 89). Wong’s argument could perhaps be extended to the understanding of Asian artists outside America. For example, Korean rappers refer to seeking or having “black” souls, “black” hearts, or “black” sensibilities as a point of reference and respect to the history and legacy of hip hop in America. Ian Condry (2007) writes that in one sense Japanese hip hop is “an imitation working within a genre of music. . . and also part of an emerging global movement taking up issues of economic oppression, government injustices, diverse forms of racism, and other important political battles, alongside, more playful and innocuous productions” (p. 648). The “double-bind” also exists for Korean artists, in which they are “expected to respect the African American roots of the music while also producing something uniquely authentic and original” (Condry, 2007, p. 646). In this context, how can music offer spaces and opportunities for coalition between racial identities and redefine understandings of the cultural authenticity and racial histories in a global context? More so, how can hip hop offer a productive space to talk about race and ethnicity in a society that has long concerned itself a danil minjok? 10 10 For more studies on how race and ethnicity is negotiated in Korean society and culture, 75 Yellow Skin, Black Hearts: Race and Korean Hip Hop Artists For Korean rappers, creating a tie to Blackness is crucial in identifying themselves as hip hop artists. This is referenced by many artists in their lyrics (e.g. having a black heart, black mind, black soul). This tie comes in many forms including (1) questions on Blackness, (2) historical and cultural ties to African American communities via hip hop and (3) understanding hip hop within the Korean society and context. Ian Condry, in his study of Japanese rappers, argues that “Japanese rappers, by drawing alliances to African American rap; engage in what might be called ‘a new cultural politics of affiliation’” (2007, p. 640). Japanese rappers contribute to “a new cultural politics of affiliation” that allows for ways of thinking about transnational connectedness among groups relating questions of race, power, and racial identity. Condry looks at “yellow noise” as not so much the binding ties of Japanese (or Asian) cultural expressivity but asserting a Pan-Asian racial identity (2007, p. 667), where understanding “hip hop as global culture that may be defined by not only shared ideologies (‘we are all hip hop’) but shared burdens and shared practices (‘what will it take to move hip hop forward’)” (2007, p. 666). please see Gi-wook Shin’s (2006) work on ethnic nationalism, Jae Kyun Kim (2015)’s study on the absence of race in Korean historiography through an examination of pre- colonial and colonial history of race and the empire, Dong-Hoon Seol (2010)’s work for a historiography on the discourse of immigrants in contemporary Korean society, Ji-Hyun Ahn’s (2014) work on Hines Ward and racial politics in Korea, Iain Watson’s (2012) notion of “paradoxical multiculturalism” (pp. 234-235), and Gil-Soo Han’s (2014) examination of celebrity blackface in K-pop as a form of “nouveau-rich racism,” where “Koreans’ economic status has significantly improved and they not only use their capitalist production systems to exploit foreigners, they feel they have the right to discriminate against others economically and beyond” (p. 2). 76 In Korea, hip hop artists’ understanding of Blackness is juxtaposed to Koreanness and not necessarily Asianness. To put it simply, it has more to do with being Korean and understanding themselves within Korean society than being Asian or placing themselves within Asia. As Oliver Wang (2007) states, “There is no equivalent to latinidad, let alone blackness, within Asian American cultural discourse. While the very ideas of blackness, latinidad, and Asianness are reflective of imaged communities, with Asianness in particular the ties that bind different Asian communities together are far more tenuous” (p. 40). Or as Rhiannon Fink (2006) notes “as authenticity is globalized, genuineness will become relative to each genba, to each ‘true site’ in the hip hop diaspora” (p. 206). For example, P-Type explains: The most critical question I’ve had for a long time lies in my first album Heavy Bass. The first verse of “Hip’aptaun Hip’ap [Hip hop that is Hip hop],” goes like this: “I question: The stripes of our leather can never be the same. I can only sigh.” No matter how black I design my rap flow and rhyme or no matter how I dress in the most trendiest labels and know what the hottest brands are, my skin will never be black. We need to clearly address this issue and face it. I think there needs to be a lot of thinking and reflecting on this matter. As I told you before, there are no slums or streets in our country. Where are the streets in our country? In that respect, there is no clear alternative to these terms or concepts. I think the closest we have to this are the many crews and labels around Hongdae that identify themselves as hip hop and share this lifestyle and culture. It is those communities of people that make hip hop. There is no “street.” There’s no 77 one who can shout “the street life,” because that would be cosplay. (personal communication, June 1, 2014) For those whose “stripes of our leather can never be the same,” there is a continuous questioning of what hip-hip can mean in Korea. Nina Cornyetz (1994) writes that “hip hop style in Japan is not a dialogue between Japanese and African American youth but a plundering of an empowered body image. Most of the interaction between Japanese and African American youth is indirect (because there are still so few African Americans in Japan)” (p. 121). Similar to the conditions that Cornyetz (1994) describes in Japan, Korean youth and society is also largely removed from direct interaction with African Americans. Most interaction relies on a mediated communication. Furthermore, this question can manifest into how hip hop is interpreted and reproduced in the Korean context (e.g. “I know we are not black, but I would love for us to have mŏt [coolness] like them. To have the mŏt that anyone can identify as hip hop” (Don Mills, personal communication, October 22, 2014)). Or as JJK explains, “If I were to pick one common value amongst Korean rappers, I would say there is a shared love for hip hop? But even then, it’s ironic that if you ask what hip hop is then everyone has different opinions. I guess we can say that people like hip hop that is popular in America. We like what is considered ‘good’ in America. Whether it is mainstream or underground hip hop, whatever is accepted in America, you can assume everyone in Korea likes. But if you reinterpret it and make it into something new in Korea, the results are all very different. I think it’s inevitable for those doing hip 78 hop in Korea. It’s destined fate because we are not Black. We cannot escape from that psychology of admiring and following [them]” (personal communication, June 17, 2014). The notion of having admiration can be shown in how rappers name themselves. For example, Paloalto recalls his first rap name as Kŏmŭnai [literal translation would be “Black Child”]. “Since hip hop music is black music, I thought I’d be called Kŏmŭnai. But then, it was too simplistic so I changed my name to Paloalto” (personal communication, September 4, 2014). Even the name Paloalto comes from a city in America where Paloalto lived as a child and has fond memories of. Like Paloalto, many rappers have experiences of living abroad, most often in countries where English is used like America, Canada, and Australia. Many went due to their parents’ jobs or were sent abroad to study English. It is most often during this stay that they are exposed to hip hop in an everyday context and they begin understanding hip hop and its embeddedness in race and culture. It is also during this time that race is lived and experienced in a different manner than in Korea. For example, San E, who lived in Georgia explains: Where I went to school there were a lot of white people. White students didn’t mix with black students. Black students grouped by themselves. Hispanic students, however, got along with the Asian kids. I think it’s because we did ESL together. We used to play soccer together. The neighborhood I lived it was dominated by Black and Mexicans though. And that environment still continues to influence my music today. Georgia has a lot of Black people and black music. So it was easy to get access to that. I wasn’t out looking for it necessarily, but it was there and I could experience it. In America, Koreans say “I’m an American,” but American 79 people they don’t give a f---. You are a f---ing Asian. They don’t even know you are a f---ing Korean. They are just going to call you Chink or Chinese. You are Chinese. It doesn’t matter whether or not you were born in America. If they see you, they would be like “DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?” And I think it’s worse in the South. I am sure it’s better in New York. (personal communication, November 14, 2014) For San E, his experiences of living in a black neighborhood in Georgia fundamentally shaped how he understands hip hop and influences his music even today. Or for Illinit, living in America taught him of his Asianness and how it operates in hip hop. “[Living in America], this was my opportunity because I thought I could do hip hop in America. But there was a handicap to being Asian. It’s just not enough to rap well. You had to be physically intimidating too. I was at a public school and there were a lot of Mexicans. Not many Blacks. A lot of Vietnamese too. It wasn’t a dangerous neighborhood or anything, but kids had a lot of pride and to survive, being good at rap had nothing to do with it. You had to look it. I started exercising a lot. I’d hang out with the bad crowd and when I go home I’d be a good son again” (personal communication, November 26, 2014). Illinit’s notion of being a good son resonates with Korean social and cultural norms. For multiracial artists, their identity is also one that is complicated in Korean society. For example, Maniac, a rapper of African American and Korean descent, describes his days in Busan as “stick[ing] out like a sore thumb” (personal communication, August 14, 2014). Maniac explains, “That’s the problem I always had 80 with my image in Korea, especially when Koreans weren’t comfortable with multiethnic, multicultural. It’s okay around the [American] military base but once you go out into the city, they look at you like something out of the zoo. Anyway, I actually try to use that to my advantage. People they see me and remember me, so I’m going to use it to my advantage. And it worked for me. Once I went on stage, I started getting call backs. Everybody was like ‘There is this half-Black, half-Korean, sat'uli [regional dialect] speaking rapper.’ So that’s what helped me out” (personal communication, August 14, 2014). He continued to explain that people never approached nor avoided the color issue in that it was never discussed up front. In a follow-up question, I asked Maniac how he identified himself. His response, “Never Korean. Never got accepted as Korean in Korea so never. I never really thought of myself as a Korean artist. When I am on stage I think as an artist because that’s what I like to do, not because I am Korean or Black or whatever. The music that I made until now I think it’s more of an American feel and Black hip hop feel. When I started, Koreans weren’t really used to that which is one of the reasons it didn’t get me anywhere. Even now, I’m not trying to be a Korean rapper. Like MC Sniper, I guess he can’t speak English so he’s a Korean rapper. I can’t do it” (personal communication, August 14, 2014). Racially speaking, being half black helps authenticate Maniac as a rapper. But this also places him outside by separating him from other Korean rappers. In looking at blackness and race in Japanese hip hop, Dawn-Elissa Fischer (2013) uses an example from a pioneer artist who relates “the experience of anti-Korean discrimination in Japan to anti-Black discrimination in the United States” to highlight that there was a responsibility to address these issues within the Japanese hip hop community 81 (p. 146). For Fischer, this demonstrates how hip hop “offer[s] something that youth who are politically marked as ‘other’ couldn’t find in government policy, national media or other popular culture. Hip hop offered them a starting point for a conversation about pride, acceptance, humanity, harmony, and unity” (2013, p. 146). In looking at Koreanness, Hae-Joang Cho (1998) argues that “Koreans had to generate a powerful and totalizing discourse on a fixed identity and historiography” as a strategy to defend the nation or home. This is largely in part of a nationalist discourse in a time of Japanese colonialism and Westernization (p. 89). “The ideology persists that Korean blood, citizenship, and national boundaries must be intact and that national identity must supersede all the other aspects of identity, such as gender, class, generation” (Cho, 1998, p. 89). Consequently, Cho’s call for a “space for culture, language, communication, and reflexivity” to negotiate Koreanness as it transforms (1998, p. 89) could perhaps be manifested in hip hop as Fischer (2013) describes. In the last decade, Korean society—a nation which has not only called but prided itself as danil minjok—has been transitioning from a homogenous country to a multicultural one. This is largely credited not just to the non-Korean [read Western] workers in business and education sectors in the cities, but more to the increase in two specific types of migrant groups in the rural and agricultural areas outside of the cities: factory laborers and migrant brides from Southeast Asia. Marriage immigrants in Korea have quadrupled in number from 34,710 in 2002 to 111,654 in 2010 (Yoon, 2011, p. 5). International marriages comprise 11% of the total marriages in Korea and this number translates to about 33% of the marriages in the rural areas. (Yoon, 2011, p. 5). Within a decade, two of every ten students in the Korean elementary school system will be from 82 these multicultural families (Choi, 2008). Because migrant brides are “recognized as legal permanent residents who are part of ‘our [Korea’s] national family’ as opposed to temporary sojourners [like foreign workers]” (Yoon, 2011, p. 95), multiculturalism becomes a key issue in (re)defining the national identity of Korea. Migrant brides play an important role in Korean society not just as wives of Korean husbands, but more importantly as mothers of Korean Asian (Kosian) children. The coining and circulation of the word “Kosian” is at once troubling as it conflates and makes invisible the cultural and ethnic identities of the mothers. (c.f. Mary Lee’s (2008) work on mixed race people in the Korean national imaginary and family). When mothers’ identities are lumped as “Asian,” it pushes us to think is Korean also not Asian? Why not recognize Korean Vietnamese, Korean Chinese or Korean Thai? Why Kosian? Kun’s (2005) call for “reading and listening for audiotopias” asks us to (1) “to focus on the space of music itself and the different spaces and identities it juxtaposes within itself” and (2) “to focus on the social spaces, geographies, and identities that music can enable, reflect and prophecy” (p. 23). In a society that is destabilizing in terms of racial, ethnic, and cultural traditions, how can we recuperate the different identities of Kosian children in music? Will Kosian children rap using the languages, voices, and sounds of their mothers and fathers? How will their music be made visible and audible as they negotiate their histories and identities manifested in racial, ethnic, and cultural pulan? Furthermore, how will it let us (re)imagine and (re)listen to hip hop in Korea or question the Hanguk in Hanguk hip hop? 83 Authenticity in Korean Hip Hop Kembrew McLeod (1999) looks at claims of authenticity within hip hop, as African American culture, as it is threatened with assimilation by mainstream popular culture. By categorizing semantic dimensions that are used to distinguish between realness and fakeness, McLeod examines socio-psychological, racial, political-economic, gender-sexual and socio-locational concepts that help organize notions of authenticity and identity within hip hop culture as outlined below: Semantic Dimensions Real Fake Socio-psychological Staying true to yourself Following mass trends Racial Black White Political-economic Underground Commercial Gender-sexual Hard Soft Socio-locational Street Suburb Cultural Old school Mainstream Table 2. Semantic dimensions for authenticity in American hip hop as outlined by McLeod (1999) While McLeod’s framework is useful in thinking about authenticity within American hip hop and culture, it does not fully translate or converse when discussing hip hop in the context of Korean society. Thus, in looking at Korean hip hop, I propose an alternative framework to discuss hip hop and its musical, economic, and cultural flows. While recognizing that thinking in dichotomies is often self-binding, I find important meaning in not only locating contradicting values but also finding productive ways of placing these in conversation. My goal in discussing these semantic dimensions of authenticity is not to define one value as the most “real” or “fake.” Rather, it is to open a discussion of how we can understand the multi-layered process and flow in which hip 84 hop—as commodity and culture—took root in Korea. Moreover, how are notions of the original, authentic, and real negotiated by the cultural producers, most notably rappers? How is it circulated and consumed by fans and media alike? The notion of producer and consumer become further complicated in this debate, as most producers of Korean hip hop started as avid consumers of American hip hop. Semantic Dimensions Real Fake Political-economic Underground Overground Spatial representation Hongdae Television (Self) Positioning Artist K-pop idol Creativity Freedom System Use Hip hop as hip hop Hip hop as a formulaic element used in rap dance, ballad rap, etc. Knowledge Understanding hip hop’s cultural roots and histories Following hip hop as a mere trend Table 3. Semantic dimensions for authenticity in Korean hip hop * Language: Korean <-> English ** Sound: Following American hip hop / resistance to incorporating Korean traditional sounds As part of the promotion for the release of his third full length album, Deepflow commissioned banner advertisements on city buses #760 and Mapo #16 that read, “The real hip hop you can't see on television. Deepflow 3rd LP. Yanghwa.” Both buses pass through a region in Seoul called Hongdae. The official press release for the advertisements reads, “Deepflow is better suited for buses that go through Hongdae than advertisements for cosmetic surgery or language education institutions . . . You won’t be able to see this on television, but you can see in Hongdae!” As seen through the banner, 85 “real hip hop” is juxtaposed to what you see on television. This can serve as a reference to a number of things including: (1) mainstream hip hop in the form of rap dance, K-pop, and ballad rap, (2) hip hop as represented in reality television shows like Show Me The Money and Unpretty Rapstar. Both are cases where elements of hip hop are used or borrowed as a so-called “condiment”: (1) rap segments in dance music or ballad songs or (2) hip hop as entertainment. What is missing from both is a tie to hip hop’s history and cultural roots. “Real” hip hop is then understood to be something “you can't see on television.” For Deepflow, this exists in a cultural region in Seoul called Hongdae. Hongdae, a cultural region in the northwestern part of Seoul, is an informal name designating the area around Hongik University. From its inception in the 1970s, Hongik University’s College of Fine Arts has become one of the most prestigious art institutions in the country. It is particularly for this reason that the region was able to emerge from the late 1980s as an arts and culture district with clusters of artist studios and cafes that could easily be transformed as performance spaces. Hongdae—as part of a larger district with four of Korea’s biggest university institutions—has come to symbolize a fertile ground particularly for youth subcultures. Since its emergence as an indie music scene in the mid-1990s, Hongdae has become not only the birthplace of Korean hip hop and rock, but also served as a contested space between authenticity and commercialization. Hongdae, as an indie music scene, is understood in a language and subculture that juxtaposes mainstream, commercialized music. By offering an “underground” space, this scene also brings forth important spatial and temporal considerations in creativity, authenticity, and subcultural capital. The concept of the underground (thus read as “real”) is continuously challenged, established, and negotiated by both artists and fans of Korean 86 hip hop. The “underground” also exists as a symbolic place that distinguishes itself from the “overground” or mainstream music scene. Artists like Dok2 claim that he is neither under[groud] nor over[ground] but “thunderground” claiming a liminal space that exists outside these two divisions (Song, 2014). The mid-1990s is a significant time in Korean popular music history in that it is a period where entertainment companies started producing teen idol groups. The training system of K-pop idols—where young hopefuls are recruited and put through years of rigorous education including voice, dance, speech, and acting—was implemented during this time, most notably by SM Entertainment. K-pop idol productions are organized, promoted, and distributed by large companies that work closely with media and entertainment subsidiaries of Korean chaebol groups (family-owned conglomerates) that own newspaper and television networks. K-pop idol productions do not solely rely on music, but extend to other media platforms including television dramas, entertainment programs, reality shows, and films. K-pop idols function as an all-in-one type of entertainment that is meticulously produced by a team of experts. Often compared to a factory line production, K-pop idol groups execute everything from sugar-coated lyrics and highly militarized choreography within the strategic planning of its producers. It is impossible to say that underground Korean hip hop exists in completely separate or clashing worlds from K-pop. In fact, Hongdae is able to sustain itself as “underground” because of K-pop. It becomes clear that Hongdae does not only exist as a tangible place, but also extends to an intangible imaginary established through creative artistic practices. 87 The binaries between Hongdae as authentic underground and mainstream as commercial become further complicated as this imaginary is used in the authentication of K-pop stars. The creative brand associated with Hongdae is flexibly applied and used in the artistic positioning of K-pop idols. A key example of this is how both Jay Park and Zico perform in underground hip hop concerts in Hongdae or collaborate with independent artists to legitimize their skills as rappers. Jay Park, former member and leader of the K-pop group 2pm, actively collaborates with artists from one of the most successful independent hip hop labels based in Hongdae today, Illionaire Records. After leaving 2pm, Park has continuously strived to establish himself as an “artist” as opposed to an “idol.” As a solo artist with one of the biggest K-pop fandoms, Park uses an effective strategy by continued collaboration with Dok2, the co-founder and co- CEO of Illionaire Records. This partnership is significant in that it is a doubly profitable relationship. Jay Park’s endorsement of Illionaire Records, exemplified through shout- outs in his songs or sporting an Illionaire hoodie in a segment of Saturday Night Live Korea, has allowed international promotion of the independent hip hop label. While Jay Park was able to “prove” his skills as a rapper by being part of the “underground” scene, the “underground” artist Dok2 is able to achieve proliferated exposure through Jay Park’s global fandom via Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube. In 2013, Jay Park, who was signed under SidusHQ (one of Korea’s largest management companies), created his own independent hip hop label called Above Ordinary Music Group (AOMG) and called for his fans to “follow the movement,” which undoubtedly expanded the potential audience for Korean hip hop. 88 Like Jay Park, Zico is another K-pop idol who continues to authenticate himself using the Hongdae platform. Zico is the leader of the hip hop group Block B, created by one of the first mainstream rappers in Korea, Cho PD. In 2011, Cho PD announced that he would be spending $1.4 million USD to create Block B, labeling it as “Korea’s Eminem Project.” In the training that went to make this group, Cho PD wanted members, particularly Zico, to perform in underground Hongdae clubs, claiming that this will allow the group to move between stardom and artistry. This notion of flexible mobility is reflected in Zico’s verse of “Breathless (remix),” where he proclaims that he is “half-star, half-musician, hybrid man.” Zico is also a member of Do’main and Buckwilds, both underground hip hop crews. It is interesting that Jay Park and Zico are one of the few rappers in K-pop who write their own rap lyrics. It is well known that most rap segments in K-pop productions are written by professional writers, many of them rappers in the Hongdae scene. Perhaps Jay Park and Zico’s writing credentials also allow for an easier and comparatively more welcomed mobility between the mainstream and underground worlds. Park’s credentials as a member of the Seattle-based b-boy crew Art of Movement (AOM), the name which his label takes after, also legitimizes and extends his “street” identity and authenticity. Almost all of the rappers I interviewed positioned and identified themselves as “artists” who had the freedom to create music they wanted guided by their own choices and means. This juxtaposed idol rappers—members of K-pop idol groups that rap—who work within a controlled system. It is noteworthy that more and more groups are given a level of creative freedom to write and compose their own music as a group’s career grows and the company works to transition a group from “idol” to “artist” (e.g. Big Bang 89 from YG Entertainment). The hostility and resistance in calling rappers from idol groups rapper lies in the production logic behind these groups wherein members who do not have the vocal ability or dancing skill are given rap segments. This common precedent is well echoed in interviews where rappers “confess” the reason they were assigned this position is because they cannot sing. It is only within these last few years that the term idol rapper was labeled and widely circulated in Korea. With this, many groups now emphasize the fact that their members write their own verses and are “serious” about rap which reflects the diligence that is expected and required by hip hop artists. This often regulates who can be considered “real” or fake” in hip hop. For example, Illinit explains: I used to think of hip hop as a love/hate relationship. Nowadays, it’s the culture I grew up with. I didn’t live 100% in hip hop culture. But without it, I feel naked so I have to have it on. Like even when I am wearing a suit, I need my pants pulled a bit down to feel like myself. It’s the culture I am in. It’s the culture I met in this life. I didn’t have it when I was in Wisconsin, but I met it when I was in Korea and it was completed when I lived in California. But I was never live for hip hop, die for hip hop. I wasn’t born in a black community or in America. But I still think about the question: What is real hip hop? Where is real hip hop in Korea? Sure there is heepop, but not hip hop. We are real, but we can’t even pronounce real so we say ‘re-all.’ I think that’s a bit of a gimmick. But I don’t look down upon those people. I used to back in the day. But I don’t dislike those people. I understand. It’s inevitable. You don’t know what you don’t 90 know. I think it’s better to explore what you do know and make something productive from it. At least be diligent. (personal communication, November 26, 2014) While acknowledging that using binaries as semantic dimensions is oftentimes restricting and less conducive to discussions; in this case, they offer an interesting look into how hip hop is perceived, circulated, and consumed in Korea. These binary terms are frequently employed by both artists and fans alike. While they do not offer a definitive answer to what is “real” or “fake,” they give us a glimpse into how hip hop is understood within artist and fan communities, and more so how these discourses are circulated by and within media and popular culture. While I categorize these dimensions, I want to emphasize that notions of authenticity and fakeness are always in fluctuation and tension between the artist community, fan community, and media. It is one that is also largely influenced by the growth (or decline) of the music market and the so called “piece of pie” that hip hop holds within that market. For example, at the point I am writing from, hip hop has “outgrown” Hongdae. We can no longer say “real” hip hop only exists in Hongdae. Paloalto, a veteran in the scene and the CEO of Hi-Lite Records, explains: For me, since last year [2013] there were far more times when I performed outside of Hongdae like in Ax-Hall, cities outside of Seoul, university campuses, etc. I think this reflects how hip hop has grown in Korea. I am sure for less known artists; they will probably perform more in Hongdae. Because hip hop is booming these days, we are given the opportunity to 91 perform outside of Hongdae. I think many artists are still living in Hongdae though. There are many labels including Amoeba Culture and Illionaire Records whose offices are located in Hongdae. Many artists also have their studios there. It was always a dream of mine to extend our performance to spaces outside Hongdae. I am proud that this is now a reality for Korean hip hop artists. (personal communication, September 4, 2014) It is now a reality for Korean hip hop artists to perform outside of Hongdae. This is significant in that even the bigger venues in Hongdae can only host up to about 700 people, whereas venues like Ax-Hall or Blue Square hold around 2,000-2,500 people. But as Chaboom notes, the symbolic significance of Hongdae is not diminished as hip hop grows bigger: It’s now a period where the concentration in Hongdae is breaking apart. I think it’s clearly moving over to Gangnam or Itaewon. Almost every indie culture or subculture started in Hongdae. It’s only natural that as it gets more popular or mainstreamed, those who created the culture leaves. It’s been awhile since they started leaving. I think Hongdae will be like Garosugil. A more commercialized Garosugil. But I don’t think the symbolic significance of Hongdae will disappear. ‘It started there.’ That’s how people will remember it. Meta hyung wrote the lines, “The hip hop rhythm that’s paved from Hongdae to Sinchon.” That will never disappear. I am 100% sure that while Hongdae’s symbolic significance will last, the 92 equation hip hop = Hongdae will disappear. It only mattered because all the performance venues were here. Now there are venues outside of Hongdae and performances don’t have to be here. (personal communication, June 1, 2015) 11 Finally, I am cautious to include dimensions that concern language and sound in this list. There were certainly heated debates on the authenticity of lyrics written in English in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Today, these debates have become less common or current. Many reasons lie behind this including the fact that Korean rap is now fully established in terms of linguistic and rhythmic making using the Korean language. While an indiscriminate use of English is frowned upon, most artists and fans accept a moderate and sensible use of English words in lyrics. They also recognize that the use of a certain language over another also largely depends on the history of an artist and his/her familiarity with languages. In terms of sound, I also stay away from debating what is considered more real or fake in Korean hip hop because there is no sound yet that is uniquely recognized or tied to Korean hip hop. 11 Korea Tourism Organization (KTO) describes Garosugil as follows: “Adorned with ginkgo trees, Garosugil stretches less than a kilometer in Sinsa-dong, but is still considered a main area within the greater Gangnam area. It’s true that Garosugil boasts splendid scenery in the spring and fall with golden ginkgo trees, but it dazzles visitors mainly due to its collection of quaint stores and its unique bohemian atmosphere. Garosugil housed art galleries in the 1980s and small shops in the 1990s. During the last decade, modern stores began proliferating the streets, alongside a number of interior design shops. Its current makeup came from an increased number of stores run by designers, artists, and stylists who studied abroad and came back in throngs in the late 90s, early 2000s. The array of open studios, ateliers, cafés, restaurants, bars, fashion shops, and prop shops blend together for a chic cityscape. While other streets in Gangnam are said to be fancy and modern, Garosugil presents a fascinating dichotomy of the old and the new, the coolness of modern city life and the warmth of days gone by” (KTO Garosugil). 93 Chapter 2 | From Hongdae to Sinchon: Space and Place in Korean Hip Hop Towards the end of 1996, my mother bought a computer for me. A Sambo computer that cost 290 man wŏn. The hardware had 30 megabytes. There was no Internet. It was the first time I learned about personal computer communication services through a friend who knew about computers. Of course, the very first thing I did was to search for “Black music.” The first item that popped up was “BLEX Community, Kŏmŭn Sori” [BLEX Community, Black Sound]. There were three categories within the community: Dance, R&B, and Rap. Dancing, I loved; Singing, I loved; Rap, What is this? I got curious. I had all these imaginations inside my head. I clicked and saw that they were having a chŏngmo [regular monthly meeting] in October 1997. Let’s go. It took a lot of courage for me, especially with my personality. I feared the stage, particularly if I wasn’t on it. The notice said they were meeting at Club Master Plan in Sinchon. So I went. Everything went according to how I had imagined. There was an R&B stage first and then a hip hop stage followed. People were doing covers of Warren G, Tupac, and Biggie. There were a couple of original tracks too. Everyone used a sachasŏngŏ [four syllable proverbial idioms] for their song title. For example, one song was called “Changyuyusŏ” [Elders first]. The hook went like this “chang-yu-yu-sŏ, chang-yu-yu-sŏ.” It wasn’t impressive at all. At the end of that stage, Meta hyung came out and said, “We’ll now start open mic.” My mind was completely blown away. It was crazy. It was like someone had hit me in the back of my head. 94 Come to think of it, I didn’t know what flow design or rap making was back in those days. But I knew enough to know that the cover songs and the performances that took place beforehand were awkward and somewhat artificial. It wasn’t hip hop. When people started freestyling, it was completely different. There was a rush of energy and freedom. This was hip hop. On my way home, the only thing on my head was: I’m going to be on that freestyle stage. (Naachal, personal communication, January 28, 2015) Naachal of Garion recollects the very first time he logged onto a personal computer in search for black music fan communities. This led him to visit a place in Sinchon called Club Master Plan. Here, he would meet his musical partner and other half of Garion, MC Meta. Here, Naachal would hone his musical skills onstage and form friendships and networks offstage. His narrative and recollection of how he utilized personal computer (PC) community groups is not one that is uncommon in that it largely represents how fans of American hip hop music fans began to actively participate, engage, and consume music in Korea. Fans of hip hop joined PC communities like BLEX, Dope Soundz, and Show N Prove (SNP) to share Korean translations of English lyrics, swap imported cassette tapes and CDs which were rare and expensive at the time, and discuss the meaning of rap and hip hop in Korea. Participants of these communities began to meet offline by holding regular monthly meetings called chŏngmo. From these meetings, networks were established between those with a creative drive to make music. From these networks, hip hop fans 95 grew into hip hop musicians. In Korea, hip hop did not start on the streets. It started in the rooms—more specifically PC community spaces—and moved to the streets and performance spaces near Sinchon and Hongdae. In this case, as Adam Krims (2011) argues, place becomes “something like the geographic equivalent of ‘identity.’ Referring to a discursively constructed notion (or, for those more enamored of agnostic models, sets of ‘contested’ notions) defining a locality in some way” (p. 141). The second chapter will examine how hip hop as music and culture travelled across sociocultural, linguistic, and geographical boundaries from America to Korea. In doing so, it will look at the notion of space and place in Korean hip hop. The title of the chapter is inspired by the opening verse in “Yet Iyagi” [Old Story] from Garion’s first album, Garion (2004). In this verse, MC Meta rhymes, “The hip hop rhythm paved from Hongdae to Sinchon / The faith from us three made that rhythm.” While Hongdae is the informal name designating the region around Hongik University, this area neighbors Sinchon. The Hongdae-Sinchon area hosts four of Korea’s largest universities including Hongik University, Yonsei University, Ewha Womans University, and Sogang University. This is one of the reasons why the region is known for youth subculture and consumer culture. Hongdae, specifically as a site of music production and consumption, also becomes a place where the “authentic” (re)branding of Korean hip hop takes place. I argue that Hongdae not only functions as a site where creative labor—producing and performing music—is authenticated as the “real” Korean hip hop, but through this process a community space is built based on the recognition of the space as the “real.” Furthermore, the notions of creativity and authenticity become “sticky” and incorporated into the discourse of mainstream Korean popular culture. 96 First, this chapter will focus on the role of technology in the process, in which hip hop communities were formed in online personal computer spaces called “PC communities” then localized to offline places in Seoul, Busan, and Daegu. I will look at the notion of place in Korean hip hop by focusing on a specific area in Seoul called Hongdae. To understand the formation of Korean hip hop, this chapter examines specific points of musical clashes, exchanges, and interactions for artists by looking at them as both consumers of American hip hop and producers of Korean hip hop. What does the notion of creating a hip hop “community” symbolize in the making of Hanguk hip hop? How is Hongdae perceived in the performances, lyrics, and communities of Korean hip hop artists? What role does Hongdae play in the making of this hip hop community? In doing so, I will look at the changing nature of Hongdae’s significance in Korean hip hop to argue that Hongdae functions largely on four levels: (1) Hongdae as a space that represents the real and underground, (2) Hongdae as a tangible place for creative production and consumption, (3) Hongdae as a community playground for musicians, and (4) Hongdae as an imaginary kohyang [hometown] for artists. This study draws largely on artist interviews but is also informed by participant observation of hip hop shows in Hongdae and a survey of hip hop music videos, lyrics, and concert posters that utilize Hongdae. Located in Sinchon, Club Master Plan (MP), originally a indie rock band club called P'urŭn'gullyangshikchang, is often regarded as the birthplace for underground Korean hip hop. Starting in 1997, MP continuously offered a stage for rappers to perform until it closed in 2002. Because Korea was deplete of stages or venues for hip hop performances, MP gave many first generation rappers their debut stage. For second 97 generation rappers, MP is largely remembered as the venue they visited to see performances, the stage they freestyled on during open mic, and the place they built their dreams of becoming a rapper. For third generation rappers, MP is only known through the stories and memories of older rappers who had the opportunity to visit the venue. Currently, Korean hip hop is said to be in its golden era as noted by artists, fans, and media; yet, it remains homeless in the sense that there are no hip hop clubs or venues that host shows or open mic nights on a regular basis where rappers can perform and return to each week. Because of the absence of a physical place that ties artists and fan communities, there are conscious movements like Everyone’s Mic, a bi-weekly open mic competition hosted by Garion and hip hop music critic Bong-Hyeon Kim. While I would not necessarily call Everyone’s Mic the home to Korean hip hop today, it does offer a very meaningful space for young hopeful rappers to cultivate skill and form communities. In the final section of this chapter, I examine space and place in Korean hip hop using Everyone’s Mic as a case study. With this, I also engage in the notion of kohyang or hometown for Korean hip hop, or more specifically, Everyone’s Mic as an alternative space to creating artist communities and hometowns. From PC Communities to Club Master Plan While there are only a handful of studies that look specifically at Korean rap and hip hop (Morelli, 2002; Shim, 2006; Strohmaier, J., 2009; Lee, J. S., 2010; Lee. J. S., 2011; Strohmaier, J., 2011; Yang, W. S., 2012; Song, 2014), Hae-Kyung Um’s (2013) article is noteworthy in that it explores the ways in which Korean hip hop took root in Korean popular culture through means of appropriation, adaptation, and cultural 98 reterritorialization. Um examines how Korean hip hop became a “national(ised) cultural product” through “combining and recontextualising Afro-American and Korean popular musical elements and aesthetics in its performance and identification” (2013, p. 51). Rap becomes a site of “cultural hybridization [where] local cultural agents and actors interact and negotiate with global forms, using them as resources through which Koreans construct their own cultural spaces” (Shim, 2006, p. 38). Particularly important in the recontextualisation of hip hop in Korean society is the role of technology. Um explains, “Following the introduction of the Internet, the popular music scene in South Korea and its associated culture industry have come to rely heavily on this new communication technology. Underground hip hop in Korea is also closely linked to the web-based fan clubs and blogs which are run by the amateur rappers, DJs and beatboxers, using Korean web servers such as Chôllian, HiTel, Daum, Nate and Naver, all of which provide free web-based emails, messaging services and forums” (2013, pp. 58-59). While Um (2013) associates multiple Korean web servers with underground hip hop, a distinction must be made between Chôllian and HiTel with Daum, Nate, and Naver. This separation not only stops the conflation of personal computer communities with Internet (www) based ones, but also marks important moments and shifts in Korean hip hop history. The two groups operate in different sociohistoric moments in Korean society. Um also associates the use of the web-based fan clubs and blogs with amateur rappers, DJs, and beatboxers. While these online spaces offer amateurs an outlet for self- promotion, it is equally important to recognize that these spaces have also functioned as starting points for many established artists today. 99 For example, JJK elaborates, “When I was starting out [in Daegu], I tried to build my own territory online using Millim. I used the Internet to connect with people in Seoul. I also met people in Daegu through Millim. Although I lived in Daegu, I was far more connected with people in Seoul via Internet” (personal communication, June 17, 2014). JJK’s experience of connecting with people online echoes Um’s argument that “the Internet hip hop scene offers an inclusiveness to all who see themselves as members of the hip hop community in Korea. The consumption of Internet technology creates a space for it. In this way, the online hip hop community mutually supports and shapes the real community of Korean youth culture” (Um, 2013, p. 60). Internet communities and websites offer spaces for self-promotion via uploading songs and connection between those who want to create music. For the purposes of this chapter, I am less interested in examining online fan communities in which the Korean youth consume hip hop. I am more interested in communities that are tied to the desire to create music. For example, spaces like Millim [Music in Life, Life in Music] provided JJK, who was an amateur rapper in the early 2000s, a chance to upload and share his music and connect with creative networks inside and outside of his city. These spaces and networks were critical in the birth and growth of Korean hip hop, especially in the late 1990s to mid 2000s. Online communities still occupy an important role in the circulation and consumption of hip hop; yet, there are fewer artists that “make it big” by using these spaces and networks today. JJK’s story also highlights an important aspect in the making of Korean hip hop: creating communities that cross regions and cities within Korea. Because sites of cultural consumption and production like recording studios and 100 performance venues are concentrated in Seoul, online spaces are able to create and offer opportunities for creative exchange and collaborative practices (e.g. getting feedback on lyrics, accessing beatmakers, exchanging information on performance opportunities, etc.). For example, MC Meta describes such conditions in Daegu and his consequent move to Seoul in the mid 1990s: Daegu is quite a conservative place and there wasn’t a lot of culture there. In the 90s, there was a lot more activity through the personal computer community bulletin board system (BBS). There were a lot of users, including me, and it was a place where lots of activities took place. The first community I actually joined was the animation club. After I came back from the army, I really wanted to go to Seoul. I applied for graduate school and I ended up coming to Seoul for my masters in mechatronics at Hongik University. I came to Seoul with my father on December 16th, 1995. If you look at our second album, I talk about this day. When I first came to Hongdae, I didn’t know what Hongdae was. Not long after I had moved, all the punk bands that used to play at a club called Drug came outside to perform. It was the first time they performed in the parking lots of Hongdae. I was shocked. What was this place? I found out later that Sinchon was home to many clubs. It was the center of culture. In 1996, I learned of BLEX. It was a personal computer community specializing in black music and we met to share hip hop albums we loved. We met once or twice a month for listening sessions. It was a time where there were no MP3s, so we had to find another route to listen to new album releases. For 101 example, someone’s father could have been on a business trip to New York or someone’s relative could be visiting Korea from America and we’d be able to get a CD. Literally 100-200 people came just for the opportunity to listen to that CD. We’d rent a cafe or club during the day. Everyone paid a small fee towards renting the venue. Students didn’t have to pay or if they did it would be just several thousand won. Adults paid 10,000 or 20,000 won at maximum. We would rent the space and listen to music together. It took more time to listen to whole albums, so a lot of the times we listened to singles releases or selected tracks from albums. If someone had VHS, we’d also watch music videos together. (personal communication, July 2, 2014) 12 What is interesting about MC Meta’s recollection is (1) the rarity of hip hop cassette tapes and CDs in Korea and (2) activities that community members gathered to do because of this rarity. As Straw (2011) argues, “Music arrives in our lives propped up by multiple forms of material culture: instruments, scores, recordings, media technologies, concert halls, bodies, electronic gadgets, and so on” (p. 227). In so, “it is through its material extensions that music is encountered in cultural life” (Straw, 2011, p. 236). Because of the rarity of music, listening becomes a communal activity rather than a solitary one (Katz, 2010). With easy access to music online today, it is almost impossible to think that 100-200 people would meet just to listen to an album. While artists today hold listening sessions for new album releases, even this is rare in today’s economic and 12 Currency is always in fluctuation. For a rough estimate, it is reasonable to see 1,000 Korean won as being equivalent to $1 US dollar. 102 cultural climate and somewhat different from the purpose of listening sessions during the PC community era. MC Meta goes on to further explain how community members started meeting offline: We used to only communicate online and we decided to meet offline. I went with a lot of expectations but of course there were only guys (laughs). There were six men and everyone had serious faces. We talked and it turned out that half liked to listen to music while the other half enjoyed making music. If we liked Dr. Dre, we would find sources with similar musical textures. We’d make similar beats and patterns. It didn’t require a lot of musical knowledge or theory. It was more instinctual. There was a friend who was good at that. His name was Seung-Kyu Park. He knew how to beatbox too. His PC community ID was Malcolm. It was very hip hop. As we got to meet more offline, he became the sysop (system operator) and I became the vice-sysop. We ran the community together for a couple of years. Since there was a person who could write songs, we could really rap. The only kind of rap we would see in popular music at that time was Seo Taiji’s “Nan Arayo” [I Know]. This wasn’t really a song based on a hip hop beat. It was rap dance. In 1995, Seo Taiji sang “Come Back Home” and this had a much more hip hop vibe to it. It was a time when we were listening to American hip hop and what was so-called hip hop in Korea was very different from gangsta rap, g-funk, or the heavy sounds from New York. We couldn’t accept it. We didn’t like the fact that it was referred to as hip hop when it wasn’t hip hop. The beats were 103 different and what they were rapping about was different. We couldn’t understand or interpret American hip hop completely, but we could connect on LAN and browse on Netscape. We’d look up lyrics and print slang dictionaries. I used six toners to print everything from our laser printer. We used to stay up all night and do that. (personal communication, July 2, 2014) One of the biggest reasons for PC community users to make their own music was not only their creative drive but also the sheer difference in what was being labeled as “hip hop” in Korea. They could not tolerate that what was being called “hip hop” was actually something else with a completely different sound, attitude, and style. One other notable aspect about this period was the amount of “research” that users put into learning about American hip hop culture whether that be in the sounds, lyrics, or history (c.f. Condry, 2006). Most artists from this time recall how much effort they put in individually and collectively to learn about a culture they loved so much and yet were very removed from socioculturally and geographically. Many also lament the fact that younger rappers and hip hop listeners in Korea do not put in as much effort in learning about hip hop because everything is much easily accessed and consumed via Internet and YouTube. MC Meta goes on to describe the very first album the BLEX community made together, marking their transition from listener to musician: We could make songs so we wanted to go for an album. We spent the next few months making Kŏmŭn Sori, Ch'ŏtpŏntchae Sori [Black Sound, The First Sound]. Since we couldn’t press CDs, we released our album in the 104 MP3 format. It is recorded that Cho PD released the first MP3 album in Korea. But from my memories, we released ours a couple of months earlier than Cho PD (laughs). Our album was only released through our community boards, unlike Cho PD who did a lot of nationwide press for his album. We had about 4000 members in our community and at least 100-200 people came regularly to offline meetings. So we decided to put on a concert. We got to rent a place called P'urŭn'gullyangshikchang. The owner was a woman and it was a venue where a lot of rock bands performed. We got a lot of good feedback from our concert. We were prepping for another one when we got found out the owner of the club had changed. This time it was a man named Jong-Hyun Lee and he wanted to try new things like hip hop and techno. Following the new year, the club’s name got changed to Master Plan. We had originally performed each week under our community name, BLEX. Lee thought that because the performing members changed each time, it didn’t look professional. So he suggested that we pick the regular performers and also come up with stage names. That’s how we named our team Garion. Each week, we’d go through auditions to get on stage. (personal communication, July 2, 2014) The birth of Club Master Plan is significant in that it was the first and perhaps only venue that offered rappers a stage to return to each week during the formative years of Korean hip hop. Club Master Plan offered many established rappers today, including Garion, a chance to hone their skills, perform on stage, and make a name for themselves. 105 Deegie, who returned from his studies in Canada when IMF broke out, also remembers Club Master Plan: It’s funny because hip hop music only existed in Gangnam back in those days. It only existed at Sang-A Record [a record shop located in Apkujŏng that specialized in imported music]. They sold Tupac albums at 70,000 won. It was really expensive. It’s still expensive. You could only find hip hop gear at Itaewon or Gangnam. It was the music of yuhaksaengs. That’s how I knew it. When IMF broke out, I was forced to come back to Korea. I asked a hyung at a hip hop clothing shop at Itaewon, ‘Where do people perform in Seoul?’ He answered: ‘Somewhere in Sinchon.’ Remember these were still days when we had to look up phone numbers in the telephone book. I called and they told me to come in for an audition. I had to get out Sinchon Station Exit #8, pass Nonghyup Bank, pass a club called Rolling Stone, pass the Samsung Plaza Building and find Club Master Plan. So I went and found a really typical underground club filled with heavy cigarette smoke. Garion was there. Joosuc was there. I wore a durag to the audition. Durags were something I’d always seen on BET when I was in Canada. But the people at the club were surprised. I was the first to wear a durag in Korea and six to seven month later everyone wore it. I have pride in that. The very first song I performed sampled our national anthem. It had a lot of social criticism in it. (personal communication, August 22, 2014) 106 While Deegie descriptively remembers his first visit to Club Master Plan, his answer also reminds us that hip hop, during its formative years, was also tied largely to Gangnam (e.g. Yun’s (1997, May 13) article “Gangnam is Hip hop, Gangpuk is Retro” in Dong-A Ilbo). This is reflected in the fact that Gangnam youth were widely consuming hip hop fashion while those residing in the northern part of the Han River (or Gangpuk) dressed in disco/retro. Many of the imported cassette and CD shops were also located in the Gangnam area, including Sang-A Record mentioned in Deegie’s answer. It is also interesting that hip hop was associated with yuhaksaengs or those who studied abroad. As Um (2013) writes, “Since its inception in the early 1990s, South Korean hip hop has always been associated with the middle-class, educated, moderate and religious (e.g. Christian) elements of society” (p. 58). While I would not necessarily associate Korean hip hop with religion, I agree that during its formative years, hip hop was largely tied to the middle-class and educated because (1) one’s access to hip hop was easier if one had experiences studying or living abroad or if there was family/relatives abroad, (2) one’s understanding of lyrics was easier if there is knowledge of English, however minimal, and (3) one’s consumption of hip hop music and fashion was easier if one had the financial means. While these conditions are not necessary in consuming and understanding hip hop, they were undoubtedly helpful for young Koreans. Locating Hongdae In December 2012, Smirnoff Korea launched a marketing campaign called “Smirnoff District.” Included in this campaign was a series of online commercials— 107 particularly spotted via YouTube—and onsite marketing under the slogan “Hongdae or Itaewon. What is Your Choice?” This campaign targeted potential consumers in their 20s and 30s by utilizing two symbolic areas in Korea that speak to the so-called young, hip, and urban crowd: Hongdae and Itaewon. The now internationally famed Gangnam area lies to the south of the Han River that cuts across Seoul. Gangnam represents an affluent area, particularly of excessive luxury and privilege. Unlike Gangnam, Hongdae and Itaewon—both located north of the Han River—represent “the subcultural sensitivity of minorit[ies]” in Korea (Ahn, 2009, p. 334), particularly of youth. While the residents of both areas are not necessarily considered economically affluent, the visitors or consumers of Hongdae and Itaewon are known to have cultural capital, particularly pertaining to a more artsy, creative, and subcultural sensibility. Itaewon, a neighboring area to the American military base in Seoul, represents a highly politicized area deeply embedded in U.S.-Korea military trauma and socially tabooed desires of homosexual and queer identities. Itaewon is not only the mecca of international cuisine and culture in Seoul, but its narrow alleys are also home to Korea’s gay and transgender clubs (c.f. Eun-Shil Kim (2004)’s study of Itaewon as alien space or Elisabeth Schober's (2014) study of Itaewon as a place of militarized masculinities). On the other hand, Hongdae—part of a larger district with four of Korea’s biggest university institutions—has come to symbolize an arts and cultural region particularly for youth subcultures. Hongdae is not only the birthplace of Korean rock and hip hop, but as an underground, indie music scene remains a contested space between authenticity and commercialization. 108 Because the concept of the underground is continuously challenged, established, and negotiated by both artists and fans, it is one that is constantly (re)created and (re)imagined. Its cultural economic existence is continuously redefined within the spatial and temporal politics of the place. While online communities and spaces allowed both artists and listeners to share discussions of this imported genre, Korean hip hop as music and culture localized and (re)produced itself in the cultural and regional space of Hongdae. In looking at Hongdae, I am less interested in tracking the changes of the region whether they are economical or related to district or city policies. These changes may very well affect the conditions in which artists carry out their daily lives and music (e.g. rise in studio rental costs or venue fees). Rather, I am interested in the perceived changes of what Hongdae represents for the artists, many of whom define themselves as underground or independent or have started their careers in the Hongdae scene. How does Hongdae function as the symbolic birthplace and cradle for Korean hip hop? How are notions of underground, real, and authentic associated with Hongdae? What are some ruptures that manifest today, a time where Korean hip hop is “suffering from a fever called success”? Korean hip hop’s first two decades can be read and understood as an embryonic stage for a musical style and culture to cross many boundaries and plant roots in a completely different soil and territory. Hongdae as Underground Space The underground hip hop scene in Korea is rooted in a cultural region in the northwestern part of Seoul referred to as Hongdae, an informal name designating the area 109 around Hongik University. Shin (2011) writes that the informal designation of the name Hongdae itself draws on the identity from the people who live or spend time there— college students (p. 151). From the late 1990s, a concentration of clubs began to emerge in Hongdae with venues where various types of music such as rock, techno, and hip hop were played and consumed. The notion of community space (Lee, 2004) allows hip hop artists to not only establish their identities through lyrics and performances, but also connect with the audience in a shared space that is both temporal and physical. It is through this community that an “authentic” hip hop experience is created. Club performances and tours around major cities in Korea like Busan and Daegu become important sites of interaction in which artists are able to share music, form communities, and engage with the audience. Similarly, Georgina Born (2011) borrows from Straw’s scene theory in which scenes capture music’s capacity to create “affective alliances,” to argue that “scene points to the significance and autonomy of two planes of sociality produced by music: the immediate socialites of musical performance and practice—which Straw portrays through the engrossing corporeal activity of the dance floor—and the diverse musical publics conjured into being by musical tastes and experiences” (p. 266). In Korea, underground has been understood as independent artists who are largely based in the Hongdae scene. Today, the notion of underground is very unstable within the Korean hip hop scene itself. This is particularly so because of how hip hop is portrayed and circulated within Korean media and popular culture. Through programs like Show Me the Money, the media largely portrays the “underground” as a stepping stone before coming to the “overground.” In this portrayal, a sense of artistry, creativity, and freedom 110 is erased in the discussion of underground. Rather, the distinction is made on the visibility of the artist. Interestingly enough, the boundary between under and over become further blurred and destabilized as there are rapstars emerging from the independent scene. These are artists who do not necessarily go on weekly televised music chart shows or make songs that can be played on radio; yet, they are also those who do well in digital sales and whose success consequently attracts collaborations with mainstream musicians. Because hip hop is thriving, what is once counted as “underground” is borrowed and rearticulated in the mainstream scene. This sentiment is echoed in Don Malik’s answer to the question that asks about the media and underground scene, “I think the real underground has just begun. Many rappers and newbies crowd in hopes to capitalize on under-quality shows like Show Me The Money. If we think about it, we used to be all together in one place before. I think back then there was no need to say ‘underground’ or anything. In that sense, I think the real underground has just begun. Simply put, it is a place that has less capital or investment and a place that gets less attention. Instead of looking for a new vision or future in the underground scene, I think important to make a vision for myself” (as cited in Cha & Ko, 2015). Olltii echoes Don Malik’s sentiments in the urgent need for having “a new vision or future”: Hongdae, to be honest, is a place where people who want to become celebrities come. I remember seeing these photos of Hongdae: street cleaners were cleaning up after all the trash people had left and at the end there was a picture of street art that read ‘Was your day well spent acting as if you were an artist?’ It really struck me. For many fanboys or rap kids 111 my age that grew up listening to Korean hip hop and want to rap, they need to have their own perspective. But they are lost and busy shaking their heads looking for someone to pay attention to them. (personal communication, September 12, 2014) Hongdae as Tangible Place In Hip Hop Japan, Ian Condy (2006) examines different locations and places like recording studios or nightclubs where Japanese hip hop is made, performed, and consumed. These locations, or genba, is “a place where something actually happens, appears, or is made” (p. 120). As a site of production, genba also “focus[es] musicians' energies and provide[s] a particular measure of their skill and success” (Condry, 2006, p. 121). The physical spaces of Hongdae clubs are comparable to that of genba for Japanese hip hop. Unlike the nighttime performances that Condry explores in the Japanese genba, most hip hop concerts in Hongdae take place in the afternoon or early evening before the clubs open for the night (Song, 2014). This also reflects the young age group that primarily consumes hip hop in Korea where they are not allowed access to nightclubs. In “The Success of Hopelessness: The Evolution of Korean Indie Music Scene,” Hyunjoon Shin (2011) argues that “there is no definite relationship between the musical style of Hongdae and the space known as Hongdae” (p. 152). The reason behind this, Shin notes, is because there is no conscious effort on the artists and fans to connect sound with place. His reasoning is based on the fact that location and musical diversity has only recently emerged in Korea. For Shin, Hongdae is not a “fixed, bound place for community-based cultural production and consumption,” but a “flexible space for 112 communication networks, information flows, and collaborative creativities” (p. 152). He argues that musicians and artists in the Korean indie scene do not intentionally associate themselves within certain places but “conceptually construct and rationalize their relationship” (p. 162). While Shin is correct in saying that there is no distinct sound that can be defined as or tied specifically to Hongdae, I would like to challenge the notion that artists do not associate themselves to places. In the case of Korean hip hop artists, Hongdae becomes not only a place of reference in their music, but this reference serves as a connection to their authenticity and identity. As Antoine Hennion (2011) argues, rap offers “another definition of musical truth: where you live, where you hang out” (p. 257). For example, in “Where you at?” (2010), B-Free starts the first verse, “Born in Seoul, raised in Hawaii / Now I live in Hongdae, better tell yo mama / … / before you get old, come visit Hongdae.” In the second verse, R-EST continues, “I am a Gwangju representer, living in Hongdae.” Finally, in the last verse, Minos raps, “I was born in Daegu, raised in Daegu / … / The place I am at is hip hop, it is rap. / Passed Youngdeungpo, Mapo, Hongdae, Sangsu. / That is where my feet take me. / The notebook and pen that records fantastic stories never stops / … / The little corner inside a Hongdae café in front of my house / The thick smoke that rests there, if you can hear my rap, I am there. / Okay, raise your fist. There, nonfiction lives.” In this song, Hongdae is not only referenced in the verse of each artist, but becomes the very place where identity is defined, negotiated, and understood. It is a place where creative labor—writing lyrics, recording music, performing shows—takes place. It is also a tangible place where artist communities are formed and maintained. What is 113 interesting about this particular song is the importance of travel and mobility. For B-Free, R-EST, and Minos, their physical move to Hongdae marks an important point in their artistic careers. For them to pursue hip hop, they must come to Hongdae. Each artist moves from Hawaii, Gwangju, and Daegu, respectively, to be a part of Korean hip hop. Similarly, Pento notes the significance of Hongdae as a place, especially for a rapper who started outside of Seoul, “When I was beginning my career, it was a dream to perform in Hongdae: For me to take stage in Hongdae as a rapper. That was the dream. I never got to go to Master Plan because I was living in P’ohang. I have some resentment about that. If I were living in Seoul, I would have seen it and had those histories recorded in my memory.” P’ohang, a city in North Gyeongsang Province of Korea and a main seaport in the Daegu-Gyeongbuk region, is a “desolate wilderness” for Pento when it comes to culture (personal communication, October 8, 2014). In such, “cities do not dominate music production, however, simply through the concentration of major recording companies. They also dominate music production as target professional (and residential) preferences for aspiring musicians; as hosts to densely interconnected network of workers in allied industries such as film, Web design, television, and advertising; as target work and living locations for the educated young, childless workers seeking the amenities and variety of metropolis; and, perhaps most elusively but also most centrally, as formations of taste, originators, and most importantly disseminators, of trends” (Currid, 2007 as cited in Krims, 2011, p. 147). Interestingly, the music video to “Where you at?” also displays this travel and mobility. The video starts in the morning, inside B-Free’s chach'wipang. 13 As the camera 13 Chach'wipang is a type of living accommodation popular with Korean university 114 walks out, we are taken into the residential areas of Hongdae. These areas are characterized by three to four story buildings in narrow alleys. From here, B-Free takes us to a street fashion clothing store in Hongdae. There we meet R-EST who takes us to the bigger streets of Hongdae. Finally, in the scene with Minos, we are taken to the commercialized areas of Hongdae also known as the restaurant/café streets. It is nighttime and Minos is joined by a group of hip hop artists who walk alongside him. In the final scenes, we are taken back to B-Free’s chach'wipang. The music video is characterized by the artists walking in/through the streets of Hongdae. Walking scenes are also juxtaposed to scenes where artists rap in front of graffiti walls. The idea of walking through and singing about Hongdae is largely representative of their effort in establishing and claiming their identity as independent, underground hip hop artists in Korea. To be a part of the hip hop scene, one has to move to Hongdae as JJK explains: Today’s Sinchon Livehouse Geek used to be Master Plan. And that’s the mecca of Korean hip hop. It’s like New York for hip hop in America. Everything starts in Hongdae and every performance takes places in Hongdae. Rappers from other regions also come to Hongdae to start something. From Busan, Daegu, Gwangju, etc. Everyone comes and lives in Hongdae. They live and work here. From Sangsu to Yŏnnamdong, a large majority of rappers live here. If we were to find a countermovement, students and people early in their work careers. Characterized as one-room studios, they are concentrated near university campuses and large commercial areas. Most are paid month-to-month. A literal translation of the word from Korean to English means “living alone room.” In Korean culture, it is common for people to live with his/her parents until marriage. Those who live in chach'wipang are typically individuals whose school or job is far from their home. 115 it would be Itaewon but Itaewon is bigger in EDM culture than hip hop. It’s not even in competing modes. There are no collaborations either. I think Hongdae is more of a rap-based hip hop and Itaewon is more based in DJing and partying culture. Itaewon is much stronger in a beat-based hip hop. (personal communication, June 17, 2014) Figure 1. Poster for B-Free & Okasian Concert (2012) 116 This notion of Hongdae as a tangible place for performing and building communities also becomes visually evident in the concert poster above. In the poster promoting B-Free and Okasian’s concert held in October 2012, we see a simple image of B-Free (left) and Okasian (right) standing outside the door to Rolling Hall. Rolling Hall is a popular performance venue in Hongdae that holds about 400 people at full capacity. Once you enter the doors, you are led down a very narrow staircase that leads to the ticket booth, then to the hall located in the basement floor. The staircase is so narrow that two people can barely pass at the same time. The simplicity of the artists standing right outside the closed doors almost evokes the idea that they are somehow the gatekeepers to the Korean hip hop scene. If we imagine the poster without B-Free or Okasian, it is plausible to say that most people will not know that hip hop concerts take place at Rolling Hall. It is only through the closed doors and down the narrow stairs that a temporal space is opened up for creative production and consumption of hip hop. 117 Figure 2. The audience waits for the show to begin inside Rolling Hall. (June 23, 2013) Performance generates meaning not just as a “reproduction of a text” (Cook, 2011, p. 184), but offers temporal spaces for artists and audiences. This does not mean that creative production and consumption is limited to these temporal spaces: we are repeatedly reminded of the possibilities located in Hongdae as providing creative, authentic spaces through the reference to Hongdae in the lyrics and music of hip hop artists. Echoing Condry’s (2006) notion of energy made in genba, it is interesting to note that the audience also play an important role in dually making this energy as quasi- official recorders of the performance, each from the position of where they are standing in the crowd. Resonating Henry Jenkins’ (2013) notion of “spreadable media,” audiences’ active engagement of posting and uploading photographs and videos of performances 118 online further enhances the value and visibility of the artists and their work in a sociocultural and economic context. Hongdae as Community Playground Because so many performance venues, recording studios, and independent label company offices are located in the Hongdae region and because many artists reside in the area, it is natural that many artists view Hongdae as a community playground. Playground is a symbolic metaphor as there is also a physical site in Hongdae called Hongdae Norit'ŏ [Playground] where many indie musicians busk and rappers hold freestyle cyphers. Jolly V, a female rapper who had just released her first full length album at the time of our interview, explains the significance of Hongdae for many hip hop musicians today: I think it’s the hub for K-hiphop. A lot of shows are here. A lot of oppas live here. Their work spaces are here and it’s really funny because a few weeks ago and I was with another rapper tongsaeng [younger sibling or friend]. We were chilling around and we were talking about Ugly Duck and we bumped into him. We were talking about how we like Ugly Duck’s tone and we wanted to hear more music from him but that he doesn’t put out a lot of his stuff and that’s a pity. And we bumped into him. That happens a lot. I think it’s a social hub. Some people might not like it. It’s not like they are antisocial or anything but they like being alone and need their space. Those oppas go towards Mangwŏn, a bit farther away 119 from Hongdae. Hongdae is a good place for K-hiphop people to chill and gather. (personal communication, July 14, 2014) While Jolly V views Hongdae as a social hub for Korean hip hop, The Quiett remembers Hongdae as a “base center” when he was starting out as a rapper in the early 2000s: Hongdae for us starting out was like our playground. It was our base center. But it’s no longer that. I think there are a lot of reasons for it. The biggest being that hip hop used to be a genre that can only be found in Hongdae. All the shows used to be here at V-Hall or Rolling Hall. When we were younger we used to perform at a smaller venue called Spot. Nowadays, there are many shows outside of Hongdae. Up until 2011, it was extremely rare for hip hop shows, especially underground hip hop shows, to be held at Ax-Hall. The farewell concert for Soul Company was probably the very first. One of our goals in setting up Illionaire Records was to hold concerts at Ax-Hall. Now our hip hop game has gotten bigger that it’s not uncommon to see concerts at Ax-Hall or Blue Square. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) While hip hop used to a genre that could only be found in Hongdae, The Quiett points to recent growth in hip hop which is reflected in the size of venues for hip hop concerts. Artists can now hold concerts in venues that are larger than ones in Hongdae like V-Hall or Rolling Hall, which holds at maximum 400-700 people. While this points 120 to the overall growth in the consumption of hip hop, it also signifies a dispersed scene from a concentrated one. The Quiett explains further: [Do you think we need a physical place, a sort of mecca, for Korean hip hop?] Yes, I do think we need one. For us, we’ve already had that. Our generation [2nd generation], we are already established so we don’t need to go out to the streets. From my memory, 2008 was the time when there were the most number of rappers in Hongdae. It was a time when we were all struggling and a time where all of our shows were there. Even when we didn’t have shows, we would go to Hongdae and meet friends. Or we would just roam around and bump into someone. Hongdae was like a meeting place. I think it was an important meeting place, so it is necessary to have that for younger rappers. I don’t know if it is possible today for younger rappers to have that kind of meeting place. I think a lot has changed and younger rappers don’t gather like that. [Are there generational differences?] I think the biggest change for Korean hip hop within the last five years is the lack of communication. In the past, we were all gathered in one place and that was Hongdae. I think Soul Company’s disbandment also played a symbolic role; everyone is now for themselves. There are no opportunities to see one another. Everyone is doing their own thing. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) 14 14 Newbies in the scene call themselves third generation rappers. If we were to think about generations in Korean hip hop, each cycle only lasts about five years. Many established artists shared their discomfort in separating generations, claiming that it distances the first generation from second and third generations. This distance cuts communication between artists in the scene. This is especially worth noting since Korea 121 What The Quiett is pointing to is the fact that while the market for hip hop music has grown significantly larger, its growth consequently has brought the dispersement of a local scene. It is no longer concentrated in one physical location to bring artists together. While many artists recognize the need for a physical location, they do not necessarily tie that place to Hongdae. It can be anywhere and it would be better if there were many anywheres. For example, Sool J explains: I would think the best playground for hip hop as culture would be Hongdae. Many musicians will play, fight, and form friendships in Hongdae. But before I started answering this question, my immediate gut feeling was that hip hop does not have be tied to Hongdae. This feeling can be tied to my own career of being a nomad travelling across the country or even to the sorrow of having lived in a provincial region as a middle and high schooler where access to cultural activities wasn’t readily available. Hongdae can definitely be a place of envy, but I want to argue that anywhere can be just as equally cool. (personal communication, July 15, 2014) As Sool J argues, hip hop does not have to be tied to Hongdae. While its symbolic importance holds, it would be better if hip hop can be found outside of Hongdae as well. is already a very hierarchical one, where age plays an important role in society. Strict formalities are often employed in language depending on one’s age and position. Out of the 33 artists I interviewed for the dissertation, MC Meta is the oldest (1971) and Olltii (1996) is the youngest. Whilst this is a generalization, the most active and influential rappers in the scene today are those born between 1980 and 1990. 122 This is especially true for not only those consuming hip hop, but also making music. If there are “playgrounds” outside of Hongdae, it would help the scene and culture grow. P- Type’s answer explains this further: [At the beginning of the interview you said that you thought hip hop was impossible in Korea. Do you think hip hop is now possible today?] I think one possibility that I found was that during the time I was away from the scene, the scene was not lost and continued to grow. If you look at the second verse of “Love, Life, Rap,” the friends who participated in the album or friends like Deepflow, Jerry.k, Minos, Rhyme-A-, Hi-Lite Records, Illionaire Records… They all kept the scene going. What’s more important is that they made it grow. I pay my respects to them in the “Love, Life, Rap” verse and that’s where I found possibility for hip hop in Korea. If hip hop is to be localized in Korea, then it would be represented by this Hongdae scene. If it were to be represented by this Hongdae scene, then we should build our virtues well and make this scene grow healthier. I think what we most urgently need is to spread this scene. It is way too concentrated in Seoul. I’m making a campaign soon in hopes of doing that. (personal communication, June 1, 2014) As a rapper with more than fifteen years of music career under his belt, P-Type launched the Do the Right Rap (DTRR) campaign in March 2015 in hopes of spreading hip hop across the nation. With the campaign, a competition was held where anyone could send in their lyrics to any one of the five beats donated by producers. In their verses, 123 participants would have to define what “right rap” is for them. The five winners of the competition [one winner per beat] would tour across Korea with established rappers. All concert proceeds would go to charity. What the campaign emphasized was (1) to think about what hip hop/rap means in Korean society and (2) to spread hip hop culture in cities outside of Seoul, like Daegu, Gwangju, and Chuncheon. Likewise, what campaigns like DTRR points to is that Korean hip hop needs more “playgrounds” or gathering places for artists and fans alike where hip hop can be enjoyed, produced, and consumed. Walking Through the Streets of Hongdae In Authentic TM : The Politics of Ambivalence in a Brand Culture, Sarah Banet- Weiser (2012) untangles the intricate relationship between art, commerce, branding, and the imagined authenticity of ‘the street’ (p. 92). In doing so, Banet-Weiser unweaves three important strands in today’s brand culture: “the branding of creativity, the newly imagined creative city, and the individual entrepreneur artist” (p. 97). Banet-Weiser describes the ways in which the histories of creative artists become codes that have the potential of being seen as “creative” and “authentic” where the very association with the street allows for this reading (p. 112). Banet-Weiser writes that “crucial to the convergence of creativity and commercial culture is, ironically, the maintenance of a distinction between authenticity and the commercial” (p. 120). She argues that this distinction is important in “crafting a personal identity that is expressed as ‘freedom’ from state power” (p. 120). This argument could be further applied to the conditions of Korean popular music and culture if we imagine “state power” with another type of power: commercial brands 124 and large entertainment companies. Sleeq locates the change in the Hongdae where “bigger power and bigger money” infiltrate cultural scenes: I think very soon hip hop will no longer be concentrated in Hongdae. We need to find another place soon and I wish it were my neighborhood (laughs) but that will never happen. In the past, when I visited Hongdae my heart would pound and I’d get excited. There would be older men passing by all very hip hop. I’d be like ‘WOW! That’s so cool’ because you can never see that in my neighborhood. Or there would be cyphers going on or a group of people dressed in hip hop talking amongst one another. A lot of that has disappeared now. Hongdae is now just a place where fashionable people come to see shows. When a movement or flow is made, something always tries to intercept and take control. I think it’s that kind of transition period now where bigger power and bigger money are coming and saying, ‘Let me in, let me have a piece.’ People who made the culture don’t like that. I think that’s why a lot of the hip hop shows in Hongdae aren’t doing so well. I think it would be good to have a mecca for Korean hip hop. For the players, it’s nice because everyone who likes hip hop will come together voluntarily. Right now, we don’t have that so everyone is dispersed. I think there are much fewer people who come to Hongdae for hip hop culture. If we were to have a mecca, people will come so it’ll be much easier to hold concerts and for the culture to grow. (personal communication, November 5, 2014) 125 Hongdae, for many like Sleeq, has lost the “scent of hip hop” (Wutan, personal communication, October 16, 2014). At this point, I would like to return to the Smirnoff campaign referenced earlier in the chapter. The first part of the commercial focuses on Hongdae, represented by The Quiett, and the latter part shows Itaewon represented by Dok2. It is interesting to note Dok2 was chosen to represent Itaewon because of his multiethnic identity as Korean-Filipino-Spanish. Figure 3: In the campaign, “Smirnoff District,” The Quiett rhymes: “The neighborhood where I accomplished my dreams, people call it Hongdae / 365, the streets are filled with passion, freedom, and youthful energy” As shown in Figure 2, the segments portraying Hongdae are visually represented using the “street.” Hongdae is about the bustling crowds, walking from one location to another. On their way, people pass by street performers, dancers, and artists. They walk past graffiti walls. The portrayal itself is very much a reflection of the description of Hongdae as provided by the official site of Korea Tourism: 126 Hongdae-ap (the area in front of Hongik University) is a neighborhood known for its youthful and romantic ambience, underground cultures, and freedom of self-expression. Unique cafes, cozy galleries, accessory stores, fashion shops, live cafés and clubs, art markets, and gourmet eateries make this a popular hang-out for locals in their 20s and 30s and a fascinating place to walk around. (KTO Hongdae) As outlined above, Hongdae is a district to walk around. It is the streets. Many streets in Hongdae are closed off to cars. It is not an easy area to get around in cars. In fact, the only way to experience the “real” Hongdae is by walking. Oftentimes, people will note how “confusing” or how easy it is to get “lost” in the streets of Hongdae. It is particularly this aspect of Hongdae that attracts young consumers looking for new experiences. It is this nature of Hongdae that is recognized as creative and authentic. It is interesting when this concept of street is applied to Korean hip hop as freestyle cyphers are known to be held in the streets of Hongdae, particularly at Witchandari Kongwŏn. For Korean society, “street” also carries a different meaning than America. For example, Olltii, a rapper known for freestyling on the streets as a member of ADV (Andreville) crew explains: If we look at the meaning of ‘street’ in America, it may be very rough, brutal, and masculine. In Korea, there is no concept of hood or ghetto. There are very little differences in regional cultures too. We are all Korean, so I don’t think there is a strong difference or meaning that ‘street’ carries. 127 I think ‘street’ can be translated to just rapping in streets. We don’t need to make some grand definition of street. I am a rapper that started by rapping in the streets. I think ‘street’ can be interpreted as the literal streets people rap on. They rap in the streets of Hongdae, the intersections of the old City Hall in Gwangju, in the underpasses of Busan University, etc. These are the streets in Korean hip hop. (personal communication, September 12, 2014) Olltii’s notion that the street is simply street in Korea is interesting in that it highlights the erasure of the hood or ghetto in Korean hip hop. While there are certainly economically impoverished areas in Korea, race rarely plays a role in this segregation nor is this disparity regularly talked about in rap. It is also interesting that Olltii expands the notion of streets from Hongdae to different locations in Korea including those in Gwangju and Busan. This not only echoes artists like Sool J but also extends the possibility of many community “playgrounds” existing across Korea. Hongdae as Imaginary Kohyang [hometown] Finally, one common thread that emerged in my conversations with artists is looking at Hongdae as a kohyang or hometown where they were born as musicians. This echoes David Hesmondhalgh (2011)’s notion that “music can heighten people’s awareness of continuity and development in life” (p. 371) which is tied to memory, public spaces, nostalgia, and attachment. Hesmondhalgh also goes on to argue that music enhances our sense of sociality and community “because of its great potential for 128 providing shared experiences that are corporeal, emotional, and full of potential meanings for the participants” (2011, p. 371). This was especially true with first and second generation rappers who were largely based in Hongdae when they started their careers. Furthermore, they have witnessed the change that Hongdae itself has endured. Whether they appreciate or disapprove these changes, Hongdae remains a nostalgic “home” so to speak. MC Meta explains: When we met with the directors of CJ E&M, they asked what was needed in our scene. We told them two things: stages and festivals. After Master Plan closed, we have become nomads searching for stages to perform. If we could have this, many people with energy and passion will come out and the culture will grow. It’s good to have rap superstars, but there should be a common base and culture everyone can enjoy. We had many meetings. We even met with the Vice President of CJ. She’s apparently really into hip hop and she enjoyed watching Show Me The Money. Since they had the capital, one of the suggestions I made for them was to buy the old Master Plan. Our dream was always to return to Master Plan. Naachal and I would run the place and just like how we grew in Master Plan, we’d hold weekly auditions for hopeful rappers. It would be a place where people who dreamed the same dream would gather. We’d eat meals together; they’d prove their skills and find the wings to fly. It would be a kohyang. We no longer have a stage to call kohyang. I was born on stage. Since we don’t have a kohyang, our history is lost. There is no future 129 either. For us to have a future and connect our histories, we desperately need a stage. (personal communication, September 21, 2014) Ultimately, what makes Hongdae a hometown for the rappers is the stage. It is the stage that provides rappers a place to grow, gather, and return to. It is because Hongdae is home to many venues that rappers are able to call it their hometown. It is interesting to note how Hongdae’s streets and corners carry many memories for rappers. These memories, in turn, become basis for lyrics and music. For example, Wutan notes: I don’t know if there is an absolute thing that can be called Hanguk hip hop. But at the same time, I do think it’s something that’s coming out of Hongdae. What’s important for me are the lyrics. We are writing lyrics that are a reflection of our own stories. In that way, it can never be similar to American hip hop. Our lyrics are our stories, Korea’s stories, and Hongdae’s stories. . . I’ve been in Hongdae from 11th grade, so it’s been almost nine years. We call Hongdae a space of ‘f---ing relief.’ It’s a place we are sick and tired of, but also where we feel relief and at home. Can you imagine the number of after parties there must have been and the number of streets we’ve passed over and over again? I think each corner carries the scent of hip hop. Sure it can be a dirty and notorious space, but there is a sense of relief that Hongdae brings. We’ve been to other places like Gangnam for work, but it just doesn’t feel the same. I think I am Hongdae even down to my blood. (personal communication, October 16, 2014) 130 For Wutan, the streets and corners of Hongdae fundamentally give meaning to his life as a rapper. While he distinguishes Wutan from Yu-Chun Park (his real name), Wutan notes he works to narrow the gap between the two identities by writing lyrics that are true to his life. He clearly recalls frequently visiting Purple Record in Hongdae and buying CDs including Nas’ I Am and Illmatic. He remembers the first time he visited a Hongdae bar called Junko with his then idol Deepflow. Wutan would later go on to create a crew and label with Deepflow. At Junko, Deepflow would ask Wutan to rap on spot and Wutan would oblige to the request by doing a copy rap of “New York State of Mind.” Many episodes like this, all taking place in Hongdae, mark important moments in Wutan’s life and career. Through these experiences and memories, Hongdae becomes Wutan’s home away from home [Ilsan], a second home or musical kohyang. Everyone’s Mic Located just a few steps from Mapo-gu Office Station Exit 5, the basement office of Pbro Sound is the home to Everyone’s Mic. The official webpage describes the event as “open for any underground MC who needs a stage. Rappers with talent, skill, and passion has the support from Everyone’s Mic. Anyone who wants to do, listen, and enjoy rap should join the stage!” (Everyone’s Mic). Everyone’s Mic is a free open mic competition that is held every other Sunday from 7 pm. There is no fee to participate or listen. Each event is composed of two rounds. For Round 1, participants must rap 16 bars to an instrumental played by the DJ. The top fifteen contestants from Round 1 move 131 onto the next round in which each performs a full song of their choice. A winner is chosen based on the scores by Garion (20%), hip hop music critic Bong-Hyeon Kim (20%), a guest mentor who is an established artist in the scene (20%), and audience voting (40%). Each point is cumulative for one year which counts as a cycle or season. Winners of three points can use it towards performing on the Everyone’s Mic stage for 30 minutes. Five points will get you a guest spot on Bong-Hyeon Kim’s podcast. For seven points, you may be the opening act for Garion at their annual concert. Nine points will get you a digital single produced by Dok2 and The Quiett of Illionaire Records. Finally, ten points will give you an opportunity to feature on a track in Garion’s full length album. From the start of Season 2 on June 8, 2014 to the end of the cycle on May 24, 2015, I attended a total of eighteen Everyone’s Mic competitions. Figure 4. DJ Noah sets up to play at Everyone’s Mic. Contestant names are written on strips of paper that are taped onto the mirrored wall. There is one microphone placed on a small wooden platform that the contestants perform on. (September 15, 2014) 132 In “Open mic: Professionalizing the rap career,” Jooyoung Lee (2009) examines a hip hop open mic in South Central Los Angeles called Project Blowed. Through his study, Lee traces the changing meaning of Project Blowed to argue that “[it] represents a place where aspiring rappers hone their skills and compete for the respect of their peers, but at a later stage it becomes a symbol of not making it in the music industry. . . At the same time, some rappers continue attending Project Blowed after they develop professional rap dreams. They frequent Project Blowed because of the lasting friendships and collective life they enjoy there” (2009, p. 492). Similar to Lee’s description of Project Blowed as a place where hopeful rappers cultivate their skill, Everyone’s Mic also provides a stage where amateur rappers learn how to move the crowd. Unlike Lee’s description how the stage can also become “a symbol of not making it in the music industry” (p. 492), Everyone’s Mic is different in that it operates in a point system where continued appearance on stage will increase the chances of getting an opportunity to further their music career. In short, there are merits for returning to and conquering the stage. For example, in the second season of Everyone’s Mic, I witnessed up-and-coming rappers Mansu score nine points to win an opportunity to work with Illionaire Records and Skilleto take seven points to get a chance to open for Garion’s end-of-the-year concert. Needless to say, these opportunities do not come easily, especially for rappers who are starting out their careers. With that said, it is important to note the voluntariness of those who make Everyone’s Mic possible. From the judges and resident DJ to the event staff, everyone voluntarily comes to Pbro Sound to make this event happen. Even the space itself is sponsored by Garion’s management company, Pbro Sound. There are no fees to 133 participate or to watch the stage; everyone is invited to come. This is something reiterated by MC Meta at each event. MC Meta also emphasizes that he was born on the stages of Master Plan and that he hopes that Everyone’s Mic will become that kohyang [home/hometown] that rappers are born in. It is interesting to note that almost every guest judge, who is an established artist in the scene, echoes MC Meta’s sentiments of reminiscing home or the stage they debuted on. Each artist is given the opportunity to offer words of wisdom to the hopeful rappers. Some of these include: (1) Come out to the stage and stop being a pangkusŏk laep'ŏ [bedroom rapper], (2) Respect history and do not relentlessly follow trends, (3) Stay original and stay true to yourself, and (4) Practice never betrays. Practice, practice, practice. Almost all guest judges also spoke of the energy they recieved by watching rappers who are starting out. It gave them a moment to reminisce about their past and “re- kindle” their passion for hip hop. This energy is ultimately tied to the temporal connection that is made on stage between the performers and audience. It is this type of energy that sustains the “realness” in hip hop. For example, Zizo, a guest judge, remarked “Mnet is not hip hop; Everyone’s Mic is hip hop” (March 15, 2015). What is interesting about Everyone’s Mic is the familiarity its participants share. It is not uncommon to see regular participants hug one another, share handshakes, and ask each other about their week. During breaks, participants form small groups to freestyle together or share music they have recorded. Participants also give shout-outs to their local music crews or cities they represent when they perform as a way of introducing themselves. 134 Everyone’s Mic not only provides a stage where participants can hone their skills, but also provides a space for community building. It also becomes a place where participants return to on a regular basis. It is interesting that Everyone’s Mic starts at 7pm and ends around 9pm, which gives enough time to return home, especially for people who have traveled from other cities. This also echoes the necessary move many striving artists have to make to Seoul in order to participate in the scene. This is a common theme that many participants incorporate in their music. For example, Mansu raps on the theme of sangkyŏng [moving to the capital]. “I want to go to Hongdae, I want to go to Seoul / I’ve never been to Harlem, but I want to do hip hop” (Mansu, March 15, 2015). One other important emphasis that Everyone’s Mic places is on the role of the DJ. MC Meta regularly reminds the audience why the DJ is there: “The reason we invite the DJ to Everyone’s Mic is because hip hop is culture. There are MCs because there are DJs; there is an audience because there are MCs” (November 9, 2014). Using Everyone’s Mic as a platform, MC Meta also hopes to expand this project to include DJs, graffiti artists and b-boy/girls (e.g. Everyone’s DJ). Thus, for a society where hip hop is largely understood as rap, these conscious movements led by artists offer an opportunity to expand it to a cultural level. In the very first Everyone’s Mic of the season, MC Meta noted why the open mic competition was created, “It is sad to think of our scene as having no alternatives than going on entertainment shows like Show Me the Money to gain recognition. It is sad to think Show Me the Money as the only outlet to earn a living as rapper in Korea. That is why we made Everyone’s Mic: to offer a stage for up-and-coming rappers” (June 8, 2014). The longevity and durability of the series as culture is important, or as Bong- 135 Hyeon Kim writes, “The seeds that Everyone’s Mic have sown will eventually reap. As we are preparing for Season 3, we are planning many things. Everyone’s Mic cannot immediately offer something as big as Show Me the Money. But the day Show Me the Money suddenly disappears for whatever logic or reason, Everyone’s Mic will most likely be quietly but firmly keeping its position” (Kim, 2015, May 25). 136 Chapter 3 | 2 Chainz & Rollies: Hip Hop as Self-Development Text in Neoliberal South Korea Approximately two thousand fans watched in hushed excitement as music began to play behind the closed curtains of AX-Korea. As the curtains opened, DJ Wegun's table stood center stage in between two cars: a white Rolls Royce Ghost to the right and a white Lamborghini Murcielago to the left. Each car was adorned with custom designed license plates that read Illionaire and YKYB [Young King Young Boss]. With the opening lines, “muhf---a, I’m ballin,” the curtains fully opened to reveal rapper Dok2 seated on top of his Lamborghini. Decked out in an all black attire, gold chains on his neck, and a gold Rolex on his wrist, Dok2 made a never-been-seen-before entrance to his solo concert titled, “Dok2 Gonzo 26th Birthday Celebration with Illionaire.” In his opening remarks, Dok2 explains, “I had gotten the two cars on this stage tatted on my chest two and a half years ago. I was able to buy both during the short time. The only thing I did was rap. Yes, I did gain visibility through Show Me The Money. But I didn’t participate as a contestant; I starred as a producer [judge]. There are many jobs in the world. Out of them, I chose to be a rapstar.” In this opening song, Dok2 rhymes, “I only write what I want to write in my rap / You do kayo and still make less money than I do / I do real hip hop and make money” (Dok2, “ChiGiChaGaChoGoCho,” 2014). As the self-proclaimed “first rapper in Korea to buy a Rolls Royce,” Dok2’s economic success is symbolic in that it can be read as a self-development text in neoliberal South Korea. 15 His success is emphasized through not only hard work and determination, but also an 15 While concepts like entrepreneur and entrepreneurship are utilized in understanding American hip hop and society; for the purposes of this dissertation, I will use “self- development” (or chagigyebal in Korean) as this is more commonly used and circulated in Korea. 137 unwavering belief in himself. Most importantly, this success is reframed and reinterpreted through the lens of hip hop which has never been done before in Korea. Figure 5. Dok2 walks from his Lamborghini to the center of the stage. (March 29, 2015) Hess (2004) identifies three key dimensions in negotiating realness for hip hop artists including (1) autobiographical truth, (2) personal sincerity, and (3) integrity of performance. “In hip hop, money equals power, and making money is celebrated as long as it happens on the artist’s own terms” (Hess, 2004, p. 635). The story of rags-to-riches, much reflected and rooted in autobiographical truth, is persuasively used to build credibility, even for the wealthiest of hip hop artists. In this story, overcoming socioeconomic disadvantage is highlighted. Hess argues that hip hop lyrics also focus on the artist’s role in production and circulation of music which is something that musicians have traditionally distanced themselves from. “In making their business roles visible, artists reclaim such work as creative and frame themselves as hip hop emissaries to the 138 corporate world. They claim to have maintained the integrity of hip hop culture while at the same time producing a marketable product” (Hess, 2004, p. 636). Hess’ analysis applies well to Dok2 who aligns himself lyrically and musically with American hip hop artists rather than Korean ones. Dok2’s story is one that challenges the accepted norm or route to success in Korea on multiple levels as will be demonstrated in this chapter. Through his success, he is not only able to maintain control of his musical choice and integrity, but also assert realness in doing so. As a co-CEO of the independent hip hop label Illionaire Records, he is able to access musical territories, both underground and mainstream scenes, with easy mobility. As if to prove this, Dok2 calls for a space of his own called thunderground (Song, 2014). In “Labor after neoliberalism: The birth of the insecure class in South Korea,” Yoonkyung Lee (2015) looks at Korea since the late 1990s. This is a period characterized by the implementation of neoliberal policies in a post-democratized society. Neoliberalism as described by David Harvey is “a theory of political economic practices that proposes that human well-being can be best advanced by liberating individual freedoms and skills within an institutional framework characterized by strong private property rights, free markets, and free trade” (as cited in Banet-Weiser & Mukherjee, 2012, p. 9). Lee argues that under these conditions, the Korean labor market became “fragmented, stratified and marginalized” (p. 184). In what Lee calls an “insecure class,” irregular workers and low-income self-employed people operate under “precarious labor conditions, bare social protection coverage, and frail organizational, political representation” (2015, p. 184). 139 Lee’s insecure class also largely echoes Woo & Park’s (2007) pal-ship-pal-man- won-sae-dae (or the 880,000 Korean Won Generation). Coined by economist Seok-Hoon Woo and journalist Kwon-Il Park, the 888,000 Korean Won Generation refers to Koreans in their 20s and 30s today. The number 888,000 Korean Won comes from the average that a person makes in his/her twenties doing irregular work. While this figure translates to roughly $880, it is barely enough to cover monthly transportation and meal costs alone. For this generation, only the top 5% will enjoy the benefits of having full time employment, while the other 95% represent those who can be terminated from work at any time. The problem of youth joblessness is two-fold: on the macro-level, the dimensions of labor demand including labor market policy and oversupply of overeducated youth; and on the micro-level, household characteristics like family income and parent’s socioeconomic status (Lee & Kim, 2012). Youth joblessness and unemployment work in complex webs of factors that are both external (e.g. job market conditions, social expectations) and internal (e.g. personal choice, individual circumstances). Likewise, the current job market in Korea for university graduates is devastating to a point where the college experience becomes a four-year prep course to enter the job market. For young people without a college degree, the chances of securing a full-time job with insurance benefits is almost non-existent. The college experience is fueled on the notion of raising one’s “spec.” Widely used in Korean popular culture discourse, spec as the shortened form of the word specification, refers to specific numbers that are quantifiable like GPA, standardized tests scores, language proficiency tests, aptitude test scores, etc. In Korea’s 140 job market economy, one’s spec becomes the barometer in evaluating the value and potential of the individual. The term also extends to include one’s height, weight, appearance, age, and even family background. Spec not only quantifies the individual, but acts as a quick measurement that filters job applicants against minimum scores that the spec itself is compared against. Yoon (2014) looks at transnational youth mobility in neoliberal economy by studying Korean youth who work abroad in Canada. Yoon argues that “global experience through working holidays was eventually pursued for self-development through which the ‘true self’ was found (by individualization) and the ‘better self’ was constructed (for social mobility). Thus, the two meanings of global experience—the pursuit of the ‘true self’ and spec-building (CV enhancement)—overlap with each other in the narrative of ‘self-development’ (chagigyebal)” (2014, p. 1023). Self-development, or chagigyebal, becomes crucial for Korean youth today. For Abelmann, Park, & Kim (2013), the “burden of self-development is borne variously, according to differences in the ‘brand capital’ of the students’ universities, gender, and family background” (p. 101). In Korea, “the discourse of self-development is all the more easily celebrated because of the ironic historical conjuncture between neoliberal and post authoritarian/collective liberal transformations” (Abelmann, Park, & Kim, 2013, p. 123). Thus, this pushes youth to become “new model students” who are “an autonomous student-consumer who [are] responsible for managing his or her own lifelong creative capital development” (Abelmann, Park, & Kim, 2013, p. 105) in the name of “individualized project of human development” (Abelmann, Park, & Kim, 2013, p. 123). 141 In this socio-economic climate, being a musician by profession does not necessarily guarantee a steady income. For many rappers in Korea, having a “two job hustle” is common. Examples include taking on rap lessons, translation jobs, and music consulting projects. For Illionaire Records, its mantra includes “no two job hustle” and embodying the true “rapstar life.” Illionaire Records’ success is unprecedented on sociocultural and economic levels allowing terms like rapstar to circulate in Korean society. In this chapter, I argue that the success of Illionaire Records is understood as a new type of self-development text in neoliberal South Korea. While there may certainly be mainstream rappers who have accumulated more wealth than Illionaire Records, the lifestyle and visibility of Dok2 and The Quiett is incomparable. For the purposes of this chapter, I look at Illionaire Records from its establishment in 2011 to 2015 as a case study of what hip hop symbolizes in Korea’s economic pulan. Although Beenzino is part of Illionaire Records, I purposefully concentrate only on the two co-founders and co-CEOs of the label, Dok2 and The Quiett, as the two actively steer the company’s image and identity. While Beenzino is arguably the first iconic rapstar who topped music charts without one single television appearance, he is also distanced from the two co-CEOs in that he forges a more artistic image garnered from his background in fine arts (sculpture). This is exemplified in the song “Profile” where Beenzino claims, “I have two majors because my creativity knows no boundaries / My friends are brushmasters, sculptors, it’s f---ing cool.” Beenzino also leads his own art group IAB (I’ve Always Been). In this chapter, I outline Illionaire Records’ success as anchored by two preconditions: (1) staying true to oneself and (2) working hard. By emphasizing these two 142 values, their success story allows hip hop to become a self-development text, one that manifests in the accumulation of fame and wealth through hard work and honest labor. Their success is twofold: (1) doing music that was not accepted or thought of as possible in Korea and (2) maintaining “realness” in doing so. Two intertwining socioeconomic conditions also provide the context for this reading: (1) rise of self-development texts in neoliberal South Korea and (2) success as viable and measurable through material consumption. This chapter draws largely from in-depth interviews conducted with Dok2 and The Quiett. The interviews as oral history detail the lives of Dok2 and The Quiett from their birth and childhood to their music careers leading up to 2015. They also provide insight to the values and visions the two artists share in not only their music but also their lives. By using individual histories of Dok2 and The Quiett, the chapter demonstrates how success is envisioned and demonstrated through music, particularly hip hop. The chapter is also informed by lyrics, television, radio and podcast appearances, and artist interviews with various media outlets. On the term rapstar, I use Dok2’s explanation to understand what a “rapstar” is and how the rapstar can be placed within Korean popular music and popular culture discourse: First off, I hated the title yŏnyein [entertainer]. And almost every Korean rapper has yŏnyeinpyŏng [“entertainer disease” where people think they are important or famous]. They also love being friends with yŏnyein. The concept of yŏnyein only exists in Korea. In America, you are either a celebrity or musician. In Korea, even singers are called yŏnyein. They don’t like people to be professionals. They look for a variety of things. I 143 didn’t like that. I am a rapstar and that’s my occupation. That’s why I emphasize that I am a rapstar. Second, there is no one who became famous for rap in Korea. Even if they become famous, there’s little recognition that s/he is skilled at rap. That was a shame for me. I wanted to emphasize ‘rapstar’ for the first time in Korea and I worked hard to do so. I released the South Korean Rapstar Mixtape because no one had done that before. Sure there is Epik High, Dynamic Duo, and Leessang, but they are recognized as hip hop musicians or entertainers, not rapstars. (personal communication, March 7, 2015) Consumption and Identity in Korea In Measured excess: Status, gender, and consumer nationalism in South Korea, Laura Nelson (2000) looks at the intersections of gender, class, and consumerism in the decades of 1980s and 1990s. For Nelson, these decades mark an important change in Korean history as it is a period of transformation from a poverty-stricken country to a major economic force. Nelson places the start and growth of consumer culture in Korean “nuclear households, urban dwellers, service and manufacturing workers, growing prosperity, along with the consumer good output of growing chaebol and the inflow of products and images from abroad combined with the shifts in historical memory as the colonial generation is aging and a youthful generation, in which few have experienced real deprivation, comes to maturity” (2000, p. 27-28). Nelson contextualizes her work within the historical background of Korean attitudes toward consumption: frugality. The tension between ethical values and 144 prosperity has brought highly ambivalent attitudes on new wealth. The government campaigned against excessive consumption (kwasobi) and called for frugality as patriotism. Nelson identifies keeping appearances as part of the social motives for consumption. For example, “there were clear standards for choosing car models appropriate to one's social position” (Nelson, 2000, p. 99). Housewives who failed to teach their children to be frugal were seen as threats to the stability of the nation. This included public condemnation of overweight children, and those who favored western food over Korean. In this context, frugality is considered as “participation in the development of a healthy national economy formed the basis of a renewed discourse of economic consumer patriotism” (Nelson, 2000, p. 135). Since the 1990s, young people have become representatives of kwasobi, much like the middle-class housewives that Nelson describes in her study. This generation has freely enjoyed the fruits of economic development and rapid modernization which in turn has brought an unprecedented growth in consumer culture. Today, Koreans’ attitude toward consumption is ambivalent in that while kwasobi is still frowned upon; materialistic wealth is deemed an invaluable symbol of success. Self-Development Texts in Korea From the 2000s, self-development texts that deal with success have become a bestselling genre in Korea. Beom-June Lee (2010) locates this growth in the changed social climate post-IMF where individuals are thrown in endless competition and economic pulan. Along with the rise of self-development texts, psychology books and 145 self-healing literature have also risen to popularity. Lee (2010) argues that while books dealing with success and self-development have been important in the 1990s, the difference is in the exponential growth in the number of these books and the fact that they now rival literary texts in sales. Lee also finds differences in the content of self- development texts post 2000s in which the focus is shifted from a reflection on one’s life or looking for real happiness to a detailed advice-oriented text on communication skill or economic investment. With this comes the critique that success is linked to materialistic gain for which individualism is encouraged. Whereas in the past, personal success was tied to the success of the nation; post IMF, success becomes personal and individualized. This shift is even reflected in children’s literature where historical biographies are replaced with “personality literature” (Seo, 2009, p. 216). By “personality literature,” Seo refers to autobiographical texts written by celebrities, athletes, or entrepreneurs. These autobiographical texts—which include interview collections and essays—have become popular texts for not only adults but also children (Seo, 2009, p. 216). For Seo, one of the biggest differences between biographies of historical figures and autobiographical personality literature is the emphasis of the self. For biographies, the person demonstrates how well s/he is in harmony with society’s values and norms. Autobiographical personality literature, on the other hand, strives to demonstrate uniqueness. This is achieved through a constant show-and-prove of one’s “difference” (Seo, 2009). In order to show this difference, the character must constantly make a choice and work to fulfill that goal as an individual. Personality literature strives to achieve a rich and affluent life that overcomes challenges (Seo, 2009, p. 217). 146 Mr. Independent 2: A Rapstar Born Without One Single Contract Illionaire Records was created on January 1, 2011 by two established solo artists in the rap game: Dok2 and The Quiett. In December 2010, The Quiett announces that he will be leaving Soul Company which he had helped grow since its establishment in 2004. Soul Company is a symbolic label in Korean hip hop history and The Quiett built a prolific career as the main producer for this label. The Quiett partners with Dok2 who had become independent following a rather hindered career in the mainstream music scene due to issues with label contracts. The start of Illionaire Records is no different from any other independent hip hop label in Korea. They set up their offices in Tonggyodong which is in the vicinity of the Hongdae area. They did not set up a separate recording studio but kept to their method of home studio recording. On June 5, 2011, Illionaire Records reveals Beenzino as the first signed artist under the label. By having Beenzino, the hottest newbie in the scene, Illionaire Records completed its trifecta. To this day, Illionaire Records only has three artists to the label (Dok2, The Quiett, and Beenzino). During this period, Dok2 also establishes a musical relationship and personal friendship with K-pop star Jay Park. Through collaborations with Park, Illionaire Records garners a larger fandom and visibility, highlighted through the naming and use of hashtags like #AOMILLIONAIRE. In one television interview, Park jokingly claimed that he wanted to be a part of Illionaire Records but was rejected because the label could not handle Park’s status as a K-pop idol. This shows the strategic positioning of the label as independent. Although Dok2 and The Quiett’s previous success was measurable in the indie scene, it is not until they established Illionaire Records that their success became economically visualized. Illionaire Records’ 147 discography also reflects their continued drive for economic success as exemplified below: 1. Dok2 - Hustle Real Hard (2011) 2. Dok2 - South Korean Rapstar Mixtape (2013) 3. The Quiett - AMBITIQN (2013) 4. Illionaire Records - 11:11 (2014) 5. Dok2 - Multillionaire (2015) On March 27, 2011, Dok2 celebrated his 22nd birthday with a concert titled “Birthday Swag Show.” This was a prelude to his first LP release in April 2011. Its title Hustle Real Life reflects the decade of music career that Dok2 led since twelve. In January 11, 2013, Dok2 releases his mixtape South Korean Rapstar. His hustle is reflected in this 2CD album (22 tracks). The title South is used to dually symbolize South Korea and Southern hip hop. On February 12, 2013, The Quiett releases his mixtape AMBITIQN. The eleven tracks on this album record his ambition and success. In 2014, Illionaire Records releases its first label compilation album. The central thread to the album—money, cars, and girls—is visualized in the album cover that features a simple black background to highlight three Rolex watches placed in the shape of a pyramid. 148 Figure 6. Album cover for the Illionaire Records compilation album, 11:11 (2014) John L. Jackson Jr. (2005) argues that in hip hop, “the real self is still partially figured mathematically, through assessments of financial gain. The more cars and jewelry and cash one has, the more real one can purport to be—even and especially if the rapper can also claim a Horatio Alger trajectory that mixes the right measure of bling-bling success with clear remembrances of where s/he came from” (p. 192). Much a reflection or testament of Jackson’s (2005) argument, Dok2’s LP titles are particularly interesting where he grows from Hustle Real Hard in his first to becoming a Multillionaire in the second album. In so, “authenticity models the real on what is observable, empirical” (Jackson, 2005, 195). 149 It is also important to note that the first song Dok2, Beenzino, and The Quiett rap together as Illionaire Records is titled “Mr. Independent 2” featured on Dok2’s first LP album, Hustle Real Hard. The Quiett leads the second verse: 10 years in the game, I’m finally here / I say good-bye to my past / There’s no stopping, only going stronger / It’s us who started lonely at the bottom / It’s Illionaire baby, put your hands up in the air baby / My rap, it started simply as play when I was in 10th grade / It changed the game, yeah the game’s changed / I don’t know the last time I played / I worked that hard / The result, every day is now payday / That’s my hustle, I hustle real hard / So you should also work hard / Now everyone can recognize my style / Skills and money, living like a fiesta / People will remember me / The Quiett, a rapstar born without one single contract (The Quiett, “Mr Independent 2,” 2011) In the final verse of the song, Dok2 rhymes: Music is my occupation but I’m a rapper who doesn’t come on television / I’m an independent musician and I’m proud of it, I feel incredible / I’d rather walk slow than to run awkwardly / I’d rather earn slow than to be a quick burnout / Gutter to the top, I made nothing to something / No one can deny, yeah I’ve been working and working / Keep writing and writing my rhyme in my notebook / Studio to venue where all the microphones at / I’m everywhere like Wifi daytime to nighttime / . . . / I’m on my own, the 150 self-made Illionaire / . . . / I don’t sign contracts, I don’t listen to nags / I make 100% my story, my way (Dok2, “Mr Independent 2,” 2011) In this song, a common narrative that runs through is the notion of making it in the music scene without signing to a label. By becoming CEOs of their own label, Dok2 and The Quiett are able to claim a sense of freedom that may not be guaranteed when signed to a company. This freedom is directly related to (1) having musical and lyrical control over the songs they make as artists and (2) not making forced television or media appearances as means of promotion. Having musical control and freedom translates to the notion of staying true to oneself. In Korean hip hop, “staying true” is oftentimes also read as not following mainstream K-pop or other musical styles where rap is utilized as a condiment such as rap dance or ballad rap. In the case of Dok2 and The Quiett, this operates on two levels: (1) being real hip hop and not kayo [mainstream popular music] and (2) aligning their music with American hip hop and not Hanguk hip hop. Dok2 and The Quiett distinctly make their music so that it is a readily identifiable as that which is popular or trending in America. The Quiett explains: Hanguk hip hop has been encoded in a very Korean way so everyone accepts it. There were many examples of non-hiphop aspects in Korean hip hop. Why do we need to think and make music like other singers? We are trapping ourselves by saying the Korean music industry is like this or Korean people like this kind of music. I really hated that from the beginning. Although people will criticize me, I promised myself that I will only do real hip hop from now. To be honest, as time went on everything 151 we made at Soul Company became futile for me. It was completely different from the hip hop I grew up with. I didn’t grow up listening to Korean hip hop. In one sense, what I made with my friends—although it was based on our inspirations and I don’t think of it as wrong music— became a personal scar for me. It’s undeniable that Soul Company created the framework for “Hanguk hip hop.” This is something I told my colleagues a number of times and one of the things I thought most about when Soul Company dispersed. As I listened to what we had made, although we had been the number one hip hop label for seven years, we didn’t make hip hop music. That is my conclusion at least musically speaking. As for Illionaire Records, there is no compromise in that aspect. I know that this can be a disadvantage to us. I don’t make music to send a certain message or to change the world. Looking at it from afar, I am just doing it because I really love hip hop. I think Dok2 would share a similar perspective. And I think that’s why we look like we are oddly obsessing about the hip hop lifestyle. I don’t think it’s necessary to label it as music from a certain country. There is of course great meaning that it’s from Korea. I am Korean and I was raised in an average Korean home. That is all melted into my music. For example, I grew up in Gwangmyeong city, a very ordinary middle-class neighborhood. It’s a city without any celebrities or well-known people. For a young boy living in Gwangmyeong and listening to my music, if he could see that someone from Gwangmyeong made it this big then my work is done. I will tell my 152 story through the language of hip hop. Of course that language comes from America and will have the vibe that even Americans may enjoy. It might be unfamiliar to the people in our country, but I am sure that one day will come when it gains value.” (personal communication, December 10, 2014) While the sounds of Dok2 and The Quiett’s music can be more identifiable as American hip hop, so can the content of their lyrics. The content of Dok2 and The Quiett’s lyrics is largely based on money. This is a direct shift and contrast from lyrics the two artists wrote before establishing Illionaire Records. Noting this change, it is not uncommon to find The Quiett’s fans wishing him to go back to “the old The Quiett” whose lyrics had a more emotional appeal and sentiment. In this vein, flaunting or boasting money has a disconnect in Korean society. Koreans traditionally favored and valued frugality and modesty as values people should have. Thus, both sounds and lyrics of Dok2 and The Quiett become distanced from what is commonly known and accepted in Korean society and even within Korean hip hop. Because “there are no [musical] compromises,” Dok2 and The Quiett’s success become even more noteworthy. For example, The Quiett raps: Do your own thang. Don’t mind other people’s eyes / If you are going to be like that, don’t come here / Your pop rap only amassed debt piles / I buy Louboutins and ride a two-seater Benz / Who cares if the rap is fast, there’s no rhythm / The fans have no faith in your lyrics / My money talk is real. Even if you can’t relate to it, it’s more real than your fake break-up 153 stories / My rap is the highest in Seoul like Namsan / I’m gon flow forever like the Han River / Underground king. I don’t need no crown. (The Quiett, “Tomorrow,” 2013) Here, The Quiett points to his “realness” that operates on two different levels: (1) not being “pop rap” but hip hop and (2) not using typical themes such as break-up love stories that are prevalent in Korean music (especially ballad rap). While “money talk” may not necessarily be something everyone can relate to, The Quiett asserts that because this is “real,” it is something that authenticates his music. Likewise, Dok2 touches on similar themes in his work: Don’t just talk, do you / F--- hip pop disco, songs without roots / It’s all sand that will disperse in three years / Rap, dance, vocals, whatever it may be, do it right or get your pussy ass out here / This is music, soul and the passion / This is hip hop culture nation / Y’all just tourist, get your f---ing ass out / You don’t belong here boy, this is the last station (Dok2, “Realest Shit Ever,” 2013) Their money and success become valuable because it is garnered under disadvantaged circumstances. Looking at career trajectories, Dok2 started in the mainstream music scene where his career was hindered largely by contracts and failures of music labels that went bankrupt and were not able to support Dok2. This is largely reflected in Dok2’s criticism on existing music entertainment systems as shown below: 154 It’s all business, those eyes that aim for the back of my head / Is there anyone out there? The door that never opens / Here exists no dreams, only reality / To talk of resolutions, everything changes each minute / This system is a national mockery made by those who call themselves adults / For those who want to be stars / What you must pour are drinks / If you don’t want to, get your mom to bring cash (Dok2, “I Am What I Am,” 2011) The system that Dok2 criticizes is also one largely dependent on the capital and power of entertainment companies. By being an independent artist, Dok2 is free from “[paying] money to be on television” and “[making] money from pop and calling it hip hop” (Dok2, “100%,” 2013). Dok2 is not just critical of the mainstream music scene dominated by large entertainment companies, but also of those artists who “following company’s orders, do a couple songs and add hip hop here and there” and “when your album goes flop, you come back / Saying it was all to live and make a living / Your excuse doesn’t excuse you from your choice / . . . / Before you give rap lessons, get some lessons / . . . / Hip hop is always hip hop, don’t you ever f--- around (Dok2, “Realest Shit Ever,” 2013). For Dok2, his music is “different from your hip hop play where you sell your soul” (Dok2, “It’s Gon Shine,” 2011). This is largely reflected in the fact that he makes music in the way he wants to do, without pressures from a company, music scene or even the notion of what Korean hip hop should be like. For Dok2, he takes pride in that he made hip hop possible in a country where hip hop was once seen as impossible: (1) Hip hop as music was always considered a minority genre and thus not economically 155 viable and (2) Hip hop’s cultural sensibilities were always considered to have a disconnect with Korean society, even amongst rappers. For example, Dok2 explains: A lot of Korean rappers are dissatisfied with the conditions we have in Korea. For example, ‘Korea is a country where hip hop is impossible.’ The cultural feelings or sentiments don’t match well with hip hop. In my opinion, I think the two go very well together. The weather in Korea really suits hip hop. For example, Atlanta and Seoul have similar weathers. So does New York. It’s really humid in the summer and snows a lot in the winter. Korean traffic is as bad as in Los Angeles. I think Itaewon streets are just as dangerous as the streets of LA. There are always cops there. There are also a lot of similarities between black people and Korean people. They are family oriented, they love to boast, they are talkative, etc. So I don’t think Korea is necessarily far removed from hip hop. People just presume and conclude so. I never said ‘I can’t make it in Korea, I’m going to make music in America.’ It’s even harder in America. The land is much bigger and it’s harder to release an album there. If we think about it that way, Dumbfoundead and Kero One should all have bigger careers and make more money. But that’s not the case. I think it’s important to make the best of what you’ve got. To make the best of the environment you are in. Thus, as a self-development text, the lyrics and music career of Dok2 and The Quiett is significant in that as “Mr. Independent,” they have made themselves a rapstar 156 without being signed under an influential entertainment company. With minimal media exposure—although their appearance as judges on Show Me the Money has exponentially escalated their visibility—the two have also made a name for themselves not just in Korea, but outside of Korea most notably through their ties with K-pop idol Jay Park. More importantly, Dok2 and The Quiett’s success story has allowed hip hop to become a self-development text in that they have succeeded even as they remained “true” to “real” hip hop by not turning to rap dance or ballad rap. Finally, how they display their success can be coded and read as “hip hop.” Closely tied to this is the notion of being self-made, which will be examined in the next section. Came from the Bottom: A Self-Made Multillionaire The lyrics of Dok2 and The Quiett have consistently emphasized staying true to oneself and hard work as the two pillars of their success. Hard work overcomes limits and restrictions including socioeconomic and educational spec. Through their autobiography, the two artists emphasize a “you can do it too” attitude which is common in self- development texts. Born into a middle-class family, The Quiett was raised in Gwangmyeong, a city located in Gyeonggi Province. Gwangmyeong borders Seoul to the north and northwest. The Quiett recalls his childhood as an average one. His father was hardworking and things were getting better for the family until 1996. Financial problems began to escalate and in 1997 his family suffered from his father’s fatal mistake: underwriting someone’s debt. The Quiett explains, “From 1994, we lived in the newest apartment built in Gwangmyeong city. We had lived there for about two years when it happened. In 1998, 157 we moved within Gwangmyeong but to the poorest neighborhood. We lived there for more than ten years, so it really impacted me growing up” (personal communication, December 10, 2014). The Quiett, who was a middle-schooler at the time, began seriously listening to hip hop as a personal haven. However, this was not possible without the financial support from his best friend. His friend had also moved in 1998, but to Cheongdamdong, an affluent area in Gangnam. The Quiett’s friend could afford to buy imported CDs which were quite expensive and rare at the time. The two began to listen to hip hop together. The Quiett recalls this period: It wasn’t the age of MP3s or listening to music online. There were only a few stores in Seoul that sold hip hop CDs. The most famous of those was Sang-A Records. We would go everywhere in Seoul to buy CDs. We didn’t know anything at first, so we would listen to a CD and follow the voices of those we liked. I researched using PC communities and it was a complete shock that Tupac and Biggie were dead. My friend spent a lot of money buying CDs. We would buy 10 CDs at a time. I remember we started collecting during the summer of 1999 and by winter that year, we had 100 CDs. We not only bought them but listened repeatedly and very carefully. We studied everything. We couldn’t understand everything but we used PC community bulletin boards to find translations and I could translate some of the lyrics myself. I used to print the lyrics and practice. That’s how we started. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) 158 The Quiett’s modest upbringing is a common thread throughout his lyrics from being “Gwangmyeong city’s hometown rap hero” who “Came from the Bottom” (2011) to purchasing “2 Chainz & Rollies” (2013). As exemplified above, The Quiett’s success is largely removed from the shadows or legacy of his family. His wealth is not something that was passed down from his parents. In fact, the economic hardships his family had to endure allowed The Quiett to “c[ome] from the bottom . . . from G Shock to Rolex” (The Quiett, “AMBITIQN,” 2013). Having achieved economic success, The Quiett internalizes and visualizes this success through hip hop: I had never worked for success, but now I choose to chase success. I’ve come a long way and from a certain moment I’ve consciously realized that I must see it to the end. I want to test where I can go and I think that will be meaningful for others as well. For example, not only musically, but overall, I want to show how good of a life those who make hip hop music can live. In one sense, that is a completely different story from music. Because when we were young, there were successful rappers but they couldn’t live well. I am not saying they didn’t make money. They did make money and they were famous. But they couldn’t utilize or interpret it the hip hop way. Dok2 and I have really thought about that. We talk about it a lot. For the last few years, the way we have purchased cars or our lifestyle as a whole reflects that. What we want to show is happiness. In the past, many rappers have saved their money to buy an apartment and such. We are not saying that this is wrong, but for us it is not what a rapper would do. As a hip hop fan myself, I am not inspired by that. Of 159 course, to buy a car may seem like an extravagance in the public eyes. Or wearing gold chains. Of course, we could buy an apartment with the money we bought our cars. But we are rappers. And this is hip hop. There is a certain energy that hip hop has. That’s what we grew up watching too. Everyone said it was impossible in Korea. That we would never get the money to do so and even if we did no one would spend it like that. And that we shouldn’t spend it like that because that’s not what our parents taught us to do. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) For The Quiett, it is not simply enough to achieve economic success. This success must be internalized, visualized, and read in a way that is “hip hop.” For example, in Korean society one of the most symbolic purchases that a person can make is an apartment. Depending on the size and location of the apartment, it may take several years or even decades to purchase an apartment. But this may not necessarily be read as “hip hop.” Visually speaking, super cars or jewelry may very well be more “hip hop.” Thus, these are the purchases that visualize Dok2 and The Quiett’s success as rappers in a society where hip hop was seen as impossible. Being self-made also justifies not only why they spend the money, but how they spend the money which is different from “what our parents taught us to do” (e.g. being frugal and modest). While The Quiett started seriously listening to music as solace when his family suffered financially, for Dok2, music became a serious business and means to make money when his family went bankrupt: 160 I started making music in 2002 because my family went bankrupt. My family ran a restaurant in Busan and we were completely bankrupt. I wanted to make money, so I started making music. 2007 was the hardest year for me in my life. But it was also the year I started making money. It wasn’t a lot at first. Just a couple thousand dollars a year. But from nothing, it was something. I just really loved hip hop from a young age. From a young age, I was serious about hip hop. The company that I had signed with when I was twelve went bankrupt. It suddenly became merged with a comedic talent management company. So musicians got kicked out to trailer boxes. Trailer houses have kitchens, but this box didn’t even have a bathroom. It was just a simple container that was put on top of the company building rooftop. So I lived on the rooftop of a seven storey building in Sŏch'odong for about eight to nine months. I lived with my hyung. But he was an adult at the time, so he would go out a lot. I was only twelve, thirteen. There was a lot of time I spent alone. I couldn’t go out. I had no money to go out. The company kicked us out again so we ended up living with our parents. My dad was working at a hotel at the time and they gave us a small room. It was a really small room, much smaller than your average hotel room. It’s one of those rooms janitors rested. The four of us lived together in that room. (personal communication, March 7, 2015) 161 Trailers boxes are not commonly found in Seoul—a concrete forest of apartments—except at construction sites: “I told you I was came from the bottom, I’m different from those rappers with full stomachs / Home sweet home, I called a trailer you would see in a movie / My age twelve, I quit middle school, my family’s business failed and they couldn’t send me to school” (Dok2, “Came From the Bottom (G-Mix),” 2013). In the album cover for Multillionaire, Dok2 visually expresses his success from coming from trailer boxes to his penthouse in Seoul’s financial district of Yŏŭido. What is interesting about this album cover are the two Dok2s. The Dok2 from the past holds a bottle of water and looks up at the sky. The Dok2 in the present sits on top of his Rolls Royce with a bottle of Moet Chandon. It is interesting that Dok2 himself does not drink or smoke, which is often emphasized in his lyrics. Situated in the background are trailer boxes, while his four cars are placed in the forefront. Under the blue skies of Seoul, Dok2’s unprecedented success as a self-made rapper at a young age becomes clear. 162 Figure 7. Album cover for Dok2’s Multillionaire (2015) Dok2’s success story is retold through a self-development text lens: In 2007, I produced for Drunken Tiger, Leessang, and Buga Kingz. Up until then, I didn’t make a cent. Sure there was a contract advance but that was about $3,000 or $5,000. It’s money that is spent quickly. There was no steady income. I started making something from 2007 and have been earning well since then. Before this time, I was very negative and you can see this in my lyrics. There were a lot of dark stories. It was a time I even thought about death. In 2007, I come across a documentary called The Secret. I can’t read books. I never got a formal education and my attention span just can’t handle books. I can only read magazines because I like 163 looking at photos. I saw the documentary and it was really interesting. I’m really simple when it comes to stuff. It looked fun so I wanted to try it. I started writing lyrics in a positive light. Things started to change for the better. It’s been seven, eight years since then and it has really helped a lot. I thought if my music is worth $100, I would work ten times as much and make $1,000. Back in the day, there were a lot of underground rappers whose goal was to make $100,000. I decided I would do it. If a mixtape or album does well in the underground scene, you sell about 2,000 to 3,000 albums. If you do shows here and there, you can earn about $20,000 to $30,000 with an album. So I set a goal that if I did this five times in a row, then I would have my $100,000. So I released five albums in one year and I really earned $100,000. (personal communication, March 7, 2015) In his answer, Dok2 mentions The Secret, a self-help documentary film and book by Rhonda Byrne, which was an immensely popular in Korea. The main argument in The Secret is that positive feelings and thoughts can attract positive experiences and results. For Dok2, this became a mantra which he continues to carry through Illionaire Records. Dok2’s lack of a formal education is also important in understanding his success. Dok2 explains: Hip hop is something undeniably big in my life. It’s like a religion almost. It saved me. If you look at me I have the worst spec in Korean society. Even amongst rappers, I have the worst spec. I am mixed. Koreans disrespect mixed [race] people. I didn’t go to school, I am short, my skin 164 is dark, I have tattoos, I am not soft spoken, etc. I have everything Koreans hate; yet, hip hop made me into someone they like. Because of hip hop, I am able to make more money than any other businessman. I’m sometimes at awe of what I have accomplished because no one else has come this far. Even when I travel, more people recognize me in LA than in Korea. (personal communication, March 7, 2015) As Dok2 acknowledges, there are many qualities of Dok2 that may put him at a disadvantage in Korean society, including his multiethnic and multiracial identity being born from a Filipino-Spanish father and Korean mother. His “spec” is insignificant by taekiŏp [large conglomerate] standards as he stopped all education at the elementary school level. Dok2 often mentions this in his lyrics: “My street knowledge over your f--- ing prestigious college degree” (Dok2, “2 Chainz & Rollies,” 2013). Dok2 is able to overcome what may very well be his disadvantage by utilizing hip hop to “make [him] into someone they like.” Dok2 also establishes himself as “Rapstar, I don’t stamp contracts / This song, this place, this is my occupation” (Dok2, “So Real,” 2013). What is interesting about Dok2’s lyrics is the message of “If I can do it, you can do it too.” This message is consistently echoed not only in his lyrics but also interviews. Dok2 and The Quiett label their success as the Illionaire way (= hard work and positive energy = self-made success). This success is not limited to Dok2 and The Quiett but everyone, “Never give up, only stand up / Don’t give up people / If you can raise your chin, the victory is ours” (The Quiett, “Came from the Bottom,” 2011) or “You just need to live life the way you want / Cuz you already know we got 1 life 2 live” (The Quiett, 165 “All About,” 2014). Finally, what separates their story from any other self-development text narrative is that the two utilize hip hop as their guidance. Interestingly enough, both Dok2 and The Quiett describe hip hop almost as a religion using words like “savior.” Through this narrative, hip hop, at once, becomes a positive energy and light that drives them to success: Hip hop for me is so important I can’t define it. I think that’s why that I’ve had this success. For me, hip hop was a devoted and desperate existence that came to me as a savior when I was young and suffering. I have a sense of duty for hip hop. Because hip hop saved me and directed me to a brighter way, I want to take hip hop to a good place. I can’t deny that it’s happening but I hate when hip hop is used for pop. If I had to define it, hip hop is life. It is a savior. But I think even that is taking it too lightly. It is my everything. There has never been a moment when I separated myself from hip hop. For example, a lot of rappers perform as a rapper on stage and when they come off stage, they go back to leading normal lives. I am not like that. That’s where Dok2 and I have a lot in common. We don’t end there. We are living hip hop at home. (personal communication, December 10, 2014) While Dok2 and The Quiett’s lyrics of proclaiming their own success is not something that is necessarily of Korean sensibilities, their actions are recoded into Korean ones. The biggest of which is hyo or filial piety. Traditionally, “the creation of an industrial work ethic, emphasizing both the national and personal need for modernization, 166 served as a chief attribute of [Korea’s] remarkable economic success. While nationalism served as the foundation of Koreans’ commitment to labor, Confucian ethics provided the ideological rationale for labor harmony and subordination to authority. In other words, while nationalism informed Korean workers why they should work, Confucian precepts explained how they should” (Kim & Park, 2003, p. 39). Likewise, Confucianism pervades the consciousness of Koreans much reflected in “Korean hierarchical social relations, such as those between ruler and subject, parent and child, and husband and wife” (Park & Cho, 1995, p. 118). Out of many Confucian values, filial piety is a pervading principle in Korean society. Describing filial piety as the first cardinal value of Korean society, Steers (1999) locates this value as the origin of familism today. Steers argues that “special emphasis placed by the family on education and continual self-improvement as a means of aiding in the development of oneself, one’s family, and one’s community. Each individual has an obligation to maximize his or her contribution to the family” (1999, p. 20). This obligation is oftentimes translated into respect, responsibility, sacrifice and sympathy for parents including “forming a harmonious family around parents, desire to repay the debt to parents, compensation for undone things by caring parents, religious belief in filial duty, community harmony, saving family face and maintenance of family continuity” (Sung, 1995, p. 242). Interestingly enough, Dok2 fulfills his obligation of filial piety by giving his mother a monthly token of thanks by offering her 20% of his income. Providing or caring for his parents is continuously mentioned in his lyrics and interviews. Having achieved full economic independence at a young age, Dok2 displays hyo as a 167 dutiful son. This fulfillment can also be translated and recoded as success in Korean society. Hip Hop as Occupation? I am very skeptical when it comes to the Korean hip hop scene today. I can’t sum it to one word, but what I do want to point to is that it is a place where selfish desires are endlessly cluttered and patched on top of one another. You can’t scrape it off because it is so messy. Simply put, it’s the desire for success—success in a very limited sense—a very Koreanized version of superficial success. No one is willing to sacrifice for music anymore. In the past, people just wanted the bare minimum and they could continue making music. Nowadays, it’s all about success. There are very promising models of success. Everyone is going mad over it and the media is encouraging it. (Ignito, personal communication, November 3, 2014) Ignito paints a very bleak picture of the hip hop scene today as one where many selfish desires are patched and collapsed on top of one another. It is undeniable that current hip hop scene is drenched in the success of Illionaire Records. Their success has always been tied to a type of energy and mantra of “If I can do it, so can you.” As dangerous and easy it is to simplify their success story to (1) If you are a rapper, you should tell your own story and (2) If you follow your own dreams and do the music you want to do, you will succeed, it is this narrative that drives many including both amateur 168 and established rappers. The so-called “Illionaire Way” has fundamentally shifted how hip hop is perceived and read in Korea. Many newbies and artists alike have re-interpreted and re-created Illionaire Records’ use of car, bling, and money swag in their lyrics and music. But none have yet reached post-Illionaire Records’ iconic status. The success story of Illionaire Records warrants caution. While it offers a self-development text that can be visibly read and recognized as success, it also can be subject to a proliferation of careless musical and lyrical imitations. For example, Defconn, a first generation rapper and now television personality, criticizes this indiscriminate proliferation of money swag lyrics: Mess up the track with lyrics that make money, flow that makes money / Rather than houses, you change cars, you post to boast / Rolex, white Bentley, if you can’t have these before you turn 40, you’re a loser / . . . / Money means status, status means power, power makes money / This scene succeeds like this, shitty hip hop (Defconn, “Frankenstein (Dirty Rap City),” 2015) As Defconn describes, “this [hip hop] scene succeeds like this” in which money swag becomes a norm. With Dok2’s success also comes the occupationalization of hip hop: I work on weekends too all day / This rap game I don’t play / I’ll be everywhere except for pop programs and television studios / The fakes are never there except for pop programs and television studios / . . . / I have achieved every rapper’s dream, I don’t need no contract / I don’t need to 169 go on television, I’m a mother f---ing Illionaire CEO bitch / . . . / It’s good life to earn 150 million won just by saying what I want to say / It’s good life to drive the new CLS / It’s good life to travel every three months ah shit / I’m a rich man headed towards chaebol / . . . / I never do two jobs . . . / This is me, I am Korea’s one and only rapstar / This is a new occupation / I don’t get judged like audition shows, I don’t do tear dropping dramas (Dok2, “Rapstar,” 2013) By labeling rapstar as an occupation, hip hop has become a viable option for success. P-Type places the attractiveness of hip hop for youth in the failure of the Korean society where university education itself does not secure a stable job and life: Out of the three to four thousand rappers who stand in line to audition for Show Me the Money, how many are really living hip hop? I think this shows how deformed Korean hip hop is. It’s deformed in that hip hop is just large in market size. It hasn’t developed in culture or way of life. Koreans live their elementary school, middle school, and high school years with the one goal of going to a prestigious college. One must get into a good school to be able to get a good job in a large conglomerate. This will provide the basis for marriage and a stable life. The problem is that this success system is no longer possible. Today, getting into a good college does not guarantee employment or success. Because this formula is broken, students begin to question “Why go to college?” They started asking “What can I do to make a living?” They do not ask themselves 170 “What should I do to be happy?” Hip hop has become a viable option as an occupation. ‘That person has tattoos on his body, swears in his lyrics, wears designer clothes, and didn’t even go to college.’ We can exchange hip hop with any other noun. If we exchange it with celebrity or K-pop, it still makes sense. Hip hop shouldn’t become a job. Of course, hip hop can be read as a musical style, but those who enter the scene should see hip hop as more than just having swag or technique. Meeting a good rap tutor, going on Show Me the Money, and making money for parents should not be a formula for success. (as cited in Choe, 2015, April 6) As P-Type points out, having a college degree no longer translates to securing a job in Korea. Just like Deegie’s notion of Korean hip hop being born in pulan, insecurity becomes a vicious but inevitable circle that rappers operate within. In fact, the 880,000 Korean won generation suffers from economic pulan even for those with a university education. What is also interesting about P-Type’s answer is the notion of having a rap tutor. One of the most prominent aspects of Korean education is the prevalence of hakwŏn [private learning institutions] and tutors. Korean students depend on both hakwŏn and tutor system for not only “keeping up with school,” but also for advanced learning. Attending hakwŏn or getting tutors operate largely within an economic class system in which wealthier parents and families are able to offer better services to their children; thus, this highers the chances of getting into prestigious universities. Korean society and its notoriety when it comes to education is reflected in government policies where koaek kwaoe [high priced private tutoring; tutors who are in high demand cost 171 anywhere between $1,000 to $10,000 for four to eight sessions] is made illegal. Reflecting the Korean education system, hip hop becomes institutionalized by having a rap tutoring system. Because making music is rarely sufficient in income, rappers take on multiple jobs including that of a rap tutor. Rappers provide 1:1 or group tutoring services to hopeful students by coaching them on how to rap, record, and perform. Rap tutoring becomes a “two job hustle.” It is also noteworthy that there are no established rappers in Korea who took rap lessons nor are there rising newbies in the scene who have honed their skills by taking rap lessons. In fact, taking rap lessons does not help in legitimizing the rapper’s authenticity in any way. For Illionaire Records, their lyrics place an emphasis that they do not need to take on a “two job hustle” and rapstar is their only occupation. By not taking on another job, they argue that they can solely focus on making the music they desire. Hip hop becomes a sole means and ends to earn money (e.g. “rap money”). Illionaire Records’ success has fundamentally changed how money is talked about amongst rappers and within the scene. Paloalto explains that “In the past, artists didn’t really think about money. In fact, there were more times they got mistreated and taken advantage of by management companies and concert organizers. Nowadays, a lot of artists talk about money and it’s become a priority for many. Even those in the underground scene are now more up front in thinking about making money so they can take care of themselves and their families. I think that’s the first shared value amongst hip hop musicians in Korea: For there to be a society where musicians are no longer ‘poor surviving artists’” (personal communication, September 4, 2014). 172 What is interesting about Paloalto’s answer is the positioning of musicians in society. Musicians are not separated from society, but rather as professionals rightfully deserve payment for their labor, skill, and work. Likewise, this role can also be understood as how music functions in society. For example, Kebee elaborates: America is so big that we can talk of a [regional] local culture. Korea, on the other hand, is a very small country and everything is centered toward Seoul. In that sense, there is a fierce cycle of competition. Music should be a process of life, but at the same time it is also a continuous chase of competitions. I think a lot of new emerging rappers’ lyrics reflect that. When I was young, hyungs’ music I listened to had a lot of self-reflection in the lyrics. During Soul Company days, we rapped about our everyday lives and the stories around us. Up until a couple of years ago, I used to feel that lyrics could be read as literature. Nowadays, music is like a self- development text. It’s difficult to say whether or not this is a good or bad change. I think people’s attitude has just changed. It’s the same with writers. A lot of publishers don’t accept literature; so many writers turn to self-development texts so that they can get published. Music is now a recorded competition for materialized success. I think artists should be able to read social trends. If politicians are those who solve problems in present time, artists should be able to spot future problems. In that sense, the success that artists are after can be read as a means of survival and proof of one’s existence. I think it’s fun because it is something that was never done in Korean society. It’s fun to see how people are able to read 173 and accept that as part of a cathartic release. If in the past, people shared their sorrows and worries through music; nowadays, it’s more about pleasure and release. (personal communication, July 21, 2014) What Kebee outlines is the changing nature in the content of lyrics in Korean hip hop. In what he describes as a “recorded competition for materialized success,” hip hop lyrics that boast money can be read as “something that was never done in Korean society.” The reason that it has not been done is largely due to the fact that it was not accepted within Korean sensibilities and social norms. With the change of times, however, what can be accepted or enjoyed as music also changes. Vasco traces this change in his answer by stating that there is a certain “spirit of the times” that is reflected in music: “Let’s say Dok2 wrote his lyrics in the mid 2000s. It would have never worked. Everyone would have despised it. Those were times when people talked about ‘the truth of life’ or the ‘unwavering philosophy of life.’ Nowadays, Dok2 or The Quiett’s lyrics have become the spirit of the times. That’s how much the times have changed” (personal communication, November 13, 2014). While it is certain that Dok2 and The Quiett’s lyrics of economic success have become “the spirit of the times,” it also warrants a cautious reading of what this symbolizes and how it can affect the hip hop scene. MC Meta explains: In the past, rappers who made money and got famous were applauded. But so were other rappers who were going their own paths. Money aside, those other rappers were given that much value and appreciation. Nowadays, those who walk their own paths are regarded as wasting their time. For example, the word ‘swag’: It’s become a code that represents society 174 today. Swag isn’t just about monetary success. It’s also about one’s attitude and the journey to success. For some people, swag might be continuing their musical path and making a fresh album in their sixties. But this doesn’t apply anymore. The students I teach, their lyrics reflect this. Even middle schoolers write about how they will succeed and one day ride a Mercedes Benz. In the end, it seems like they are aligning their lyrics to whatever is prescribed as success by the society. In a capitalist world, only monetary success will bring respect as a human being. It’s the only way to be welcomed by family members and be dutiful to one’s parents (hyo). Hip hop used to follow a different trajectory. But now it’s completely aligned. Success is determined by chart or album sales. If it isn’t shown and proved by this, it’s considered a failure. I think if we look at it like that it is very removed from what was considered as hip hop culture. I can’t tell my students not to follow money or to find a value of their own. Their whole environment is so caught up on that. So I try my best to tell them indirectly. It almost seems like hip hop has become the key to success and that’s what is worrisome. One example is a middle schooler who takes rap lessons from me. His dream is to become Dok2. Looking at Dok2’s history and career, he calculates that he needs to release a mixtape by next year and become famous. He says he is worried about his skills. This scene is suffering from the fever called success. Is there only one type of success? I don’t think so. We need more outlets and 175 multiple ways and perspectives of discussing this. (personal communication, July 2, 2014). As Ignito and MC Meta’s answers explain, the Korean hip hop scene is “suffering from the fever called success.” While Illionaire Records’ success is certainly applaudable, its hyper-visibility and circulation in media also requires “more outlets and multiple ways and perspectives of discussing [success].” What this fundamentally comes down to is understanding how success is read and understood in Korean society. When this success is read through hip hop, there are certain layers that need to be examined including (1) how hip hop is understood in Korea and (2) how musicians operate within society, including conditions of making music and living as a professional musician. Finally, a careful consideration is needed for those who are making music whether or not to emulate Illionaire Records’ lyrical and musical style. Rapstar as the New Chaebol? I’m still from Gwangmyeong city hood / But now I look like a chaebol (The Quiett, “All About,” 2014) About 30 chaebol groups control approximately 40% of the Korean economy (Kurian, 2013). Chaebol by definition is “a business group consisting of large companies which are owned and managed by family members of relatives in many diversified business areas” (Lee & Yoo, 1987, p. 97). Two conditions of Korean chaebol are that “it should be owned by family members or relatives and it should have a diversified business 176 operation” (Lee & Yoo, 1987, p. 97). “Almost every early Korean company was established by a self-made founder. Self-made founders inaugurated and managed their enterprises under great difficulties. These difficulties stemmed from a lack of capital, technology, experience, and education. Political difficulties, especially during the Japanese colonial rule period, also were a problem. Almost every self-made founder has devoted his/her entire life to work” (Lee & Yoo, 1987, p. 120). The history of Korean chaebols go back to the late 1950s when Hyundai, Samsung, and Lucky-Goldstar (now LG) were formed after the Korean War “by self- made founders through governmental support such as preferential allotment of grants, disposal of government-vested properties, and preference in taxation and finance” (Lee & Yoo, 1987, p. 96). The second group of chaebols like Hanjin and Hyosung were established in the 1960s through “foreign loans induced for a series of five-year plans” and in the 1970s, chaebols like Daewoo, Lotte, and Doosan were “formed during the economic boom based on a rapid growth of export and domestic demand” (Lee & Yoo, 1987, p. 96). Today, chaebols, like Samsung, Hyundai, LG, Lotte, and CJ are at the heart of the Korean economy. For many youth, being employed in a taekiŏp [chaebol owned conglomerate] is the ultimate goal and end to getting a college degree. The prestige and security that is guaranteed from working at a taekiŏp is deemed incomparable to other jobs that are available. In their songs, both Dok2 and The Quiett proclaim they are “a rich man striving to be a chaebol.” Whether or not Dok2 and The Quiett's vision and manifestation of rapstar will grow economically to the level of the chaebol is unpredictable and perhaps rather difficult. The American hip hop mogul which Smith (2004) describes as “one of the most 177 visible symbols of achievement in the post-Civil Rights era and of the value of diversity in corporate structures” (p. 672) has yet to be achieved in Korean society. But what is clear is that both Dok2 and The Quiett continue to strive towards bigger economic success through hip hop and this will continue to be read and understood as a self- development text in a society that turbulently rides on economic pulan. 178 Chapter 4 | Idol Rapper: K-Pop and the Production of Authenticity On November 21, 2013, hip hop music critic Bong-Hyeon Kim marked the one year anniversary of his podcast, Hip'ap Ch'odaesŏk, by holding an open recording session at a cafe in Sangsoodong. Invited guests for this special event were independent rappers B-Free, Okasian, Deepflow, and Don Mills and rappers Suga and Rap Monster from the K-pop idol group Bangtan Boys (or Bulletproof Boys, henceforth BTS). During the event, there were heated moments when B-Free directed a series of questions regarding the authenticity of the group to the idol rappers. These moments were recorded by a blogger at the event and then later circulated via YouTube, causing many debates concerning authenticity in hip hop. In the clip, B-Free asks if idols and hip hop go well together, alluding to the notion that K-pop clashes with hip hop on many levels, including freedom, control, and masculinity. Rap Monster (henceforth RapMon) answers, “I know when people think of idols, they think of our make-up and appearance. But if you listen to our album itself, it is very hip hop.” In response, Okasian comments, “Hip hop is not just a genre. It’s bigger than that. So I think it’d be more of a rap album than hip hop.” RapMon replies that he understands their argument and as an “idol rapper” he wants to balance the viewpoints of [underground] rappers and idols. The conversation shifts to hip hop and masculinity when the host asks what the idols think about putting on punchang [stage make-up]. B-Free interrupts and says it is not punchang but yŏchang [males dressing as females]. The conversation escalates as B-Free interjects and asks BTS, “So what is it that you really want to do? You say you understand both worlds and it’s awkward to put on make-up and you don’t like it. What is it that you want to do?” Suga speaks, “For me, I 179 wanted many people to hear my voice and my music. That was one of the reasons I became an idol. If I say this, you might be offended, but I wanted to be the connecting bridge between the underground and mainstream scene. The reason is because when I was doing music in Daegu it was very difficult. There were times when I wrote songs and couldn’t receive a cent. I really hated that reality. I hate smoky eye make-up too. I wanted to continue making music, so I ended up coming to Seoul. My dream was to gain recognition and to do music with the hyungs in my crew. There were times I performed in front of two people. And while I can’t say I hated that, I am happy I get to now share my voice with tens and thousands of people. I am thankful for that.” B-Free notes that everyone faces hardships and the difference is whether or not you are able withstand it until the end. He adds, “Everyone has that sad story. It’s about endurance. We could have walked the same path, but you didn’t resist the temptation.” Suga responds to this by stating he cannot understand why B-Free describes it as a “temptation.” Although the situation was tamed by the host, RapMon soon releases a free cover song called “Too Much” on BTS’ Soundcloud expressing his thoughts: “I just wanted to rap, you said I’m a puppet, f--- I’m not / There are so many thoughts in my head, countless, endless thoughts / I’ll pause and wait, these unceasing waves of past thoughts. / Yeah I’m a monster, once I’ve become a monster, I can no longer be human / I can never be human like you again, even if that is why people diss me / Whether I am an artist or idol, don’t give a f--- this is my life / Whether what I’ve made becomes porridge or rice, this is a meal I made.” In this chapter, I examine notions of authenticity as manifested in K-pop. First, I will explicate the term K-pop and how it is negotiated as cultural industry. By doing so, I 180 juxtapose K-pop and hip hop as seemingly separate but coexisting and codependent music worlds. I also look at how hip hop has been introduced and incorporated into Korean popular music. I examine the relationship between the idol industry and hip hop, particularly through the term “idol rapper.” The term idol rapper is used to refer to members of idol groups who rap and is widely used by media to highlight member’s position within the group. This term is particularly given to those rappers who have heightened visibility and influence in the group (e.g. Zico for Block B, Rap Monster in BTS, Bobby for iKon and Mino from Winner). For the purposes of this chapter, I look at BTS, a K-pop idol group that has consistently labeled and marketed itself as a hip hop group from its debut. I examine the making of BTS from their audition and training to their debut. Because I was not able to gain access to Big Hit Entertainment, I will use secondary data like their official blog which the company has kept prior to the group’s debut and media interviews to get a glimpse of the system from which the group operates in. Second, I look at the 2014 Mnet reality show BTS’ American Hustle Life (a series with 8 episodes from July 24, 2014 to September 11, 2014) to see how the group’s authenticity is negotiated within the program. Finally, I look at RapMon, the leader and main rapper of the group, and his career of releasing solo mixtapes as part of creating an identity of his own. By looking at multiple levels to the making of BTS as a hip hop group, I examine how authenticity—or what I call conditional authenticity—becomes an urgent and vital requisite especially for idol rappers. I argue that authenticity is assumed as non-existent or very minimal for K-pop group members and one that must be earned through a show-and-prove in the public eye, so to speak. 181 K-Pop and Hip Hop A discussion of K-pop cannot be properly articulated without an understanding of the Korean Wave or Hallyu. Hallyu is a term first coined by Beijing journalists in the late 1990s to describe the unprecedented popularity of Korean popular culture—mainly television dramas—in Asia. While the first wave of Hallyu focuses on K-dramas, the so- called second wave is largely credited to the rise in K-pop. K-pop is a term that was coined by Japanese to sell Korean popular music in Japan. This term is juxtaposed to Japan’s own J-pop (Shin, 2005). In this context, Hyunjoon Shin defines K-pop as “a genre of (inter-)Asian pop which is made in Korea, packaged in Japan, and distributed in ‘Asian’ region” (p. 35). Shin positions K-pop in the larger context of Asian pop: Anglo- American pop music with lyrics written in national languages (p. 35). While Shin’s examination of K-pop as Asian pop offers important considerations of music distribution and exchange within Asia, it does not fully capture the development of K-pop from the time Shin is writing from. I find important conversation in rethinking K-pop as popular music that is “made in Korea [often in cooperation between Korean and non-Korean cultural producers], packaged in Korea [and other regions across the globe, particularly in China and Japan] and distributed globally [via YouTube and social networking sites].” In the Oxford English Dictionary, K-pop is listed as “Korean pop music.” Indeed, K-pop is Korean pop music in its most literal sense. Wikipedia offers another widely circulated and accessed definition: “K-pop (an abbreviation of Korean pop) is a musical genre originating in Korea that is characterized by a wide variety of audiovisual elements. Although it comprises all genres of “popular music” within Korea, the term is more often 182 used in a narrower sense to describe a modern form of Korean pop music covering mostly dance-pop, pop ballad, electronic, rock, hip hop, R&B, etc.” Finally, John Seabrook (2012, October 8) describes K-pop as an “East-West mash-up. The performers are mostly Korean, and their mesmerizing synchronized dance moves, accompanied by a complex telegraphy of winks and hand gestures, have an Asian flavor, but the music sounds Western: hip hop verses, Euro-pop choruses, rapping, and dubstep breaks.” It becomes clear from these three definitions that K-pop is a style of pop music that is highly dependent on sounds borrowed from the West, similar to that of Kim & Shin’s (2010) argument that “many national and local pop music outputs are recognized, classified, advertised and consumed in terms of American pop genres, such as jazz, rock, hip hop, R&B and so forth. In this regard, American pop remains the global reference point from which emanates enormous symbolic power” (Kim & Shin, 2010, p. 202). Starr and Waterman (2006) define American popular music as “music that is mass-produced and disseminated via the mass media; that has at various times been listened to by large numbers of Americans; and that typically draws upon a variety of pre-existing musical traditions” (p. 2). Drawing on this definition, K-pop as Korean popular music can include various musical styles consumed by Koreans such as trot, dance, rock, ballad, R&B and hip hop. Billboard now has a “K-pop Hot 100” chart for “the week's most popular songs according to Billboard Korea, ranked according to digital sales from leading download/streaming websites and mobile providers” (“Billboard Korea”). For the week of April 12, 2014, Top 10 positions are occupied by non-idol groups like Sun Hee Lee, Hyo Shin Park, Busker Busker, and LOCO. This further exemplifies the interchangeable 183 use of the term K-pop as both Korean pop music and popular music. K-pop, not only relies on sounds borrowed from the West, but is also a style that is visually dominant. What Seabrook (2012, October 8) is describing through his emphasis on choreography, winks, and hand gestures is pop music as performed by idol groups. Not many— including academics—would argue against the notion that K-pop that is most widely understood, recognized and discussed is idol group music. Similarly for the purposes of this chapter, I use the term K-pop to refer to music of idol groups. Often compared to a factory line production, K-pop idol groups—girls and boys in their early teens—go through six months to six years of training prior to their debut. This training includes not only voice and dance, but also language (most notably English, Chinese, and Japanese), acting, public speaking, and personality making. Idol groups execute everything from often sugar-coated lyrics to highly organized choreography within the strategic planning and managing of its producers. Hyunjoon Shin (2009a) identifies K-pop’s star manufacturing system as a mode of producing “multi-purpose celebrities” through an academy system (p. 509). As a production, K-pop idol groups are profusely featured in weekly music chart shows on major television networks, and also taken apart where members are individually commoditized as stars on reality shows and entertainment programs or actors in television dramas and film. In Korea and perhaps arguably in Asia at large, being a K-pop star offers new measures of success and status through upward mobility and accumulation of wealth (c.f. Ho’s (2012) study on parents whose children dream of becoming K-pop stars). As K-pop becomes produced, circulated, and consumed on a global level, its historical, sociocultural, and economic significance become increasingly important in 184 understanding Korea as a whole. As entertainment, K-pop expands to larger areas of media including television, film, and advertisement. Because cultural products cannot be displaced from history, any discussion of K-pop is intrinsically tied to Hallyu (Korean Wave). Hallyu can also be placed within a historical framework that encompasses Korea’s “compressed modernity” (Chang, 2001). While there are many moments that are crucial in defining Korean pop music—particularly Japanese occupation and U.S. military presence—two moments in Korean history are critical in understanding K-pop today: (1) 1992 debut of Seo Taiji and the Boys and (2) 1997 Asian Financial Crisis. Korea’s history of idol group music started in the early 1990s with Seo Taiji & the Boys who debuted with the song, “Nan Arayo” (I Know). Three young men, dressed in hip hop clothes, broke into the mainstream music scene with a choreographed dance song that had rap segments. This was sensational at a time where popular music was dominated by solo artists singing ballads and soft pop. This style—later referred to as rap dance—is considered as the basic foundation of idol music today (Kim et al., 2008). The 1997 Asian Financial Crisis is another important moment in K-pop history as it restrained many Asian countries in what they could import due to financial burdens. For many Asian countries, Korean popular culture, although comparable in quality, was relatively cheaper to import than its counterparts like Japanese or American television shows. Seeking this opportunity, the Korean government also actively helped promote the export of Korean television throughout the early 2000s. The late 1990s also marks a period in the rise of music production companies including what we call the Big 3 today: SM Entertainment, YG Entertainment, and JYP Entertainment. All three companies are headed by former singers and musicians and would become the driving force in the 185 manufacturing of idol group music. SM Entertainment, in particular, is symbolic in that it systemized the so-called factory line production system. John Lie (2012) argues that cultural globalization brought together a large Korean diasporic population that could be readily used as resource in the form of singers, dancers, and composers. Lie stresses the role of music entrepreneurs who trained the talent pool and found new audience via aggressive marketing and social media technology (p. 354). Korea, whose economy had relied heavily on export (textiles in the 1960s and 70s and electronic goods and automobiles from the 80s), could now actively export culture. For Lie, K-pop as cultural export filled the needs of East Asian youth population who looked for a more regional taste in juxtaposition to American and European pop music (p. 355). In globalized culture, K-pop exemplifies “middle-class, urban and suburban values that seek to be acceptable at once to college-aspiring youths and their parents: a world that suggests nothing of inner-city poverty and violence, corporeal or sexual radicalism, or social deviance and cultural alienation” (p. 355). Similarly, for Sooyeon Lee (2012), the appeal of K-pop is found in an imaginary narcissistic pleasure “lingering in a childish and irresponsible world without societal duties while still enjoying the pleasure of identifying with bodies which are idealistic and competent” (p. 464). Lee also writes that “the function of K-pop seems not so much to be spreading Korean culture as to read the global trend into the structure of K-pop” (p. 466). For Lee, what K-pop has contributed to the pop music industry is an entrepreneurship that “invented the management system through which the entrepreneurs elevate highly skilled singers and performers to the tastes of a global audience” (p. 466). Lee’s argument 186 raises important concerns in thinking about K-pop as Korean culture and as part of global pop music industry. Hip hop is no stranger in the world of Korean popular music. Soo Man Lee, Chairman of SM Entertainment, compares K-pop with J-pop to argue that K-pop is built on black music just as J-pop is built on rock (as cited in Shin Yoon, 2004, October 13). This is clearly seen in the way idol groups incorporate most notably hip hop and R&B both musically and stylistically in their music. Rap has been a staple in the formulaic component of K-pop. K-pop as an industry relies on a system of producing idol groups where members are given specific roles (e.g. lead vocal, sub vocal, lead rapper, sub rapper, lead dancer, etc.). In such, hip hop, or more specifically rap, becomes a necessity and prerequisite for K-pop groups, where one or more members must know how to rap. Furthermore, B-boy/girling moves are also incorporated into choreography. Or as John Lie (2014) argues, “the distinct rhythm of sixteen-beat hip hop—not so much the rapping, scratching, or beatboxing as the backbeat—accentuated the newfound stress on ensemble dancing” (p. 105). Fashion popularized within hip hop culture—like gold chains or Air Jordan shoes—is widely used in the styling of groups. It is impossible to say that the Korean hip hop scene exists in completely separate or clashing worlds from K-pop. In fact, Hongdae, as independent hip hop scene, is able to sustain itself as “underground” because of K-pop. It becomes clear that Hongdae does not only exist as a tangible place, but also extends to an intangible imaginary established through artistic creative practices. The binaries between Hongdae as authentic underground and mainstream as commercial become further complicated as this imaginary is used in the authentication of K-pop stars. The creative brand associated with 187 Hongdae is flexibly applied and used in the artistic positioning of K-pop idols. For example, Jay Park frequently collaborates with independent artists like Dok2. Park’s transition from “idol” as former member and leader of K-pop group 2pm to a solo “artist” has been well demonstrated by the establishment of his own independent label called AOMG (Above Ordinary Music Group) where he is able to freely carry out hip hop based projects. Zico, the leader and main rapper of K-pop group Block B, is a member of underground hip hop crews Do’main and Buckwilds. Zico actively produces his own group’s albums and collaborates with underground rappers for his solo projects. While there are idol rappers who claim that they honed their skills as “underground” rappers before their debut as idols, it becomes clear that underground should not be perceived as a platform for moving onto the so-called “overground” (or mainstream). Nor should the underground be synonymous with having skill or talent. While “underground” often refers to the independent hip hop scene that is largely based in the region of Hongdae, it becomes ambivalent when it is used to legitimize an idol rapper’s career and authenticity. In this context, “underground” is loosely used by entertainment companies to promote a member’s credibility as a rapper. On this note, I caution against the use of “underground” for activities like partaking in hip hop crews or uploading mixtapes, covers, and singles on online community websites as amateurs. The uncomfortable relationship that K-pop and hip hop share ultimately lie in the notion of (1) K-pop idol’s flexible masculinity where men are oftentimes portrayed as cute, girly, or androgynous (c.f. Sun Jung’s (2010) work on Korean masculinities in K- pop), (2) preconception that idols do not have the freedom or control over the music they 188 make, and (3) the positioning of the rapper as someone who is not necessarily skilled or passionate about rap, but someone who took that position because they cannot sing or dance. K-pop idols, as an industry, are more than just music. Idol groups are a culmination of audio and video that extends to contents in music, television, film, etc. In that sense, idols “grow” over time and are not defined simply by what they are in that moment in time, but rather who they become as time grows. Similar to this, I argue that for idol rappers, it becomes almost a quest or mission to prove their authenticity as legitimate rappers through a constant re-envisioning of themselves as someone who (1) writes their own lyrics, (2) understands hip hop culture and history, and (3) appreciates and acknowledges the differences between K-pop and K-hiphop worlds. Thus, for idol rappers, authenticity is only attained when s/he fulfills these conditions. The Making of Bangtan Boys In the September 2013 issue of Arena magazine, Hana Cho writes, “If there are students who study three years to take the Sunŭng [Korean college entrance exams], there are idols who practice three years to get on stage. They fearlessly chose hip hop, a genre that clearly distinguishes between idol and indie in terms of authenticity” (Cho, H., 2013). In this article—titled “Bangtan Boys are Hip Hop”—Cho interviews BTS on the group’s music, identity, and authenticity. BTS is a seven member group—four vocals and three rappers—formed by Big Hit Entertainment. The group debuted in June 2013 with “No More Dream,” a song directed towards teenagers to encourage them to have a dream. In this interview, Suga states: “Our life is hip hop. We don’t do things we don’t want to. We don’t pretend. We are telling our own stories. Our confidence comes from that. I don’t 189 think underground hip hop fans don’t think well of us. But I think it’s up to us now to show and prove our authenticity. We can be loved because we are idols, but there are also times we automatically get depreciated because we are idols. We want to become the connecting link between mainstream and underground” (as cited in Cho, H., 2013). RapMon also adds: “I know what the worries are about us. What separates our team from the rest is that we faithfully tell our story. We want to tell our own story, identify with our peers and express ourselves. We want to do hip hop that can represent teens and twenties. Because we have to add performance to our songs, we need melody and bridge. Everything is made with minute detail calculated like a puzzle. In the current K-pop scene, idol music is a genre of its own. People say it’s impossible to be an idol with hip hop music. But that’s what makes it more fun. When I was in the underground, Untouchable hyungs liked my music and that paved the way to BTS. If it weren’t for hip hop, I wouldn’t have started BTS. Our software is hip hop. Our hardware is idol. It was promised that we’d be able to do what we wanted and that’s how I was able to get through the three-year training” (as cited in Cho, H., 2013). It becomes clear in both Suga and RapMon’s answers that a show-and-prove of their skills and sincerity is necessary in order for them to be accepted as “hip hop.” Their wanting to be the “connecting link” between underground and mainstream partly reflects the two members partaking in the “underground” scene before their debut. RapMon was fourteen when he started writing lyrics in 2007. He used beats from an amateur producer on Jungle Radio (the hip hop community on the portal website Daum) (as cited in Shim, 2015, April 10). RapMon made music under the name Runch Randa and was part of the hip hop crew Taenam Josŏn Hip'ap Hyŏptong Johap. Suga made 190 music in Daegu under the name Gloss. RapMon was introduced to Si-Hyuk Bang—CEO of Big Hit Entertainment—through hip hop duo Untouchable. RapMon’s notion of the group having idol as their hardware and hip hop as software is interesting in that while the group operates within K-pop, they are positioning and aligning their identity with hip hop. Through this move, they are also placing an emphasis on authenticity, which is often at disjunctures with K-pop idol groups. As if to highlight this, the group’s vocal V adds, “The biggest compliment for us is ‘hip hop’” (as cited in Cho, H., 2013). In July 2011, Si Hyuk Bang (aka “Hitman” Bang) opens a nationwide audition called “Hit It Hip Hop Audition” in search for the next BTS member. Two trainees were already confirmed as members when the call was made. In a Youtube video announcing the auditions, Bang states, “I’m looking for those who can lead hip hop culture. There were a lot of hopefuls who participated in last year’s auditions. Unlike last year, this year, we are holding auditions in battle format for rap, dance and vocals. Because hip hop is a culture, we are extending the audition criteria to include dance and vocals, so that everyone can participate.” Regional auditions were held in cities of Gwangju, Daejeon, Busan, Daegu, and Seoul. The final audition was held in Club NB2—Noise Basement 2 which is a culturally symbolic hip hop club—in Hongdae. The audition was limited to “Boys and girls under the age of 23 with powerful energy and talent.” While it took BTS three years of training to debut, the group was continuously grown and built through their official blog (BTS Blog). Blog sections include Video, Audio, Pic, Taste, Writing, and Log. Each member actively participated in the making of the blog to capture moments in their practice and growth as a team. Each member also demonstrated their (non-musical) talents through the blog (e.g. Suga’s photography skills, 191 Jin’s cooking skills, and J-Hope’s dancing skills). Through this, the group demonstrated that they were not “puppets,” but rather individuals who were very actively in control of their careers and the direction of the group’s identity. Another key example of this was their pre-debut mixtapes which included songs with themes of social violence and college prep, which are closely tied to the struggles of Korean youth. Speaking on social themes is rare in K-pop where many songs concentrate on love. For BTS, they are able to show their authenticity by speaking about realities that their peers are going through. But as RapMon comments on the BTS blog, this authenticity is closely tied to their image as a group, “When we put up music on our BTS blog, we had to think more carefully about our debut as a team. As we were starting our career, we had to think about what sort of image we wanted to portray” (as cited in Kim, 2015, March 24). 192 Figure 8. “RapMon Freestyle 3” post on BTS blog—uploaded on March 24, 2013— captures RapMon’s handwritten lyric notes and social security card that shows his date of birth, September 12, 1994. In a 2013 relay interview titled “Idol Maker,” Woo-Jin Cha and Seung-Hee Lee meet Si-Hyuk Bang (CEO of Big Hit Entertainment), P-Dogg (music director), Sung- Deuk Son (performance director), and Sung-Hyun Kim (visual creative team chief) to give a rare behind-the-scenes look into the making of BTS. Each person offers, from his 193 own position, the efforts, expertise, cooperation, and vision put into the making of BTS. For Bang, a renowned pop and ballad songwriter, BTS is the first idol that he produced as the CEO of Big Hit Entertainment. For Bang, the reason he made BTS was because of RapMon. “When I heard RapMon’s rap, I thought to myself, ‘This person should debut.’ We met and quickly signed a contract. The reason behind BTS is RapMon” (Bang on Mnet’s RapMon 4 Things Show). Bang notes that there was not a system when BTS started out, as this was the first idol group under Big Hit Entertainment. Through the trials and errors that went into the making of BTS, the company was able to make a system where when a newbie comes in s/he is put through three months of pre-training to see if s/he can make it as a trainee. Once the pre-evaluation stage is completed, basic evaluation consists of singing and dancing practices. Monthly evaluations take place to check not only song and choreography delivery, but attitude and personality. It is only after a basic evaluation is completed that the “real training” starts. This training is special in that everything is customized individually. Bang himself looks at their progress and decides what to teach them, “They practice and await their debut for an indefinite period of time” (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013a). In the case of BTS, the company’s first idol group, a task force was formed one year before its official debut. The task force met to discuss member composition and replace those members who did not fit well. During these changes, the team’s color was solidified. Video reports were made daily to document choreography and performance practices. In the case of BTS, Bang also gave them “homework” that he checked each day. Professional psychologists were involved during this process to monitor members and their emotional state and well-being. In what was labeled the “Bangtan Project,” 194 systemization was key so that “underdeveloped parts” could be filled using the system (Cha & Lee, 2013a). In Bang’s answers, we see what Yeran Kim (2011) describes as the process of idol making wherein “neoliberal strategies which valorize self-invention, self- training, branding and promotion, and which are operated in calculated regulatory systems under corporate management control” (p. 338). Figure 9. Introducing the members of BTS, their date of birth, and their role in the group. “Boy in Luv” was part of their second EP album, Skool Luv Affair, which was released on February 12, 2014. Bang further explains what he finds as differences between idols and other types of singers, “As a producer, I think idols are close to the service industry. There is a target audience and they have a very clear taste. There are clear virtues that are demanded of idols. When those demands are met, consumption occurs. Of course, all singers need to provide fan service on some level. But for idols it’s more than that. I don’t like talking 195 about singers and idols under the same conditions or expectations. It’s a different industry. It’s like what the public want from Justin Bieber and Lil Wayne are different. The only thing they share in common is that they go on stage to perform. For idols, a song and performance comes together on stage to become a real ‘song.’ When we are writing rap, we also have to think about the dance performance aspect. We need to make choreography to rap. There needs to be something exciting in the rap in order for them to dance to it” (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013). For BTS, their authenticity as a hip hop group must be one that is made within the demands of their target audience. Hip hop must also be manifested within K-pop, for which dance performance is a key component. This is often at odds with hip hop as understood by emcees where dance is not required or necessary. P-Dogg, the main producer for the group, remembers the Bangtan Project starting off with about thirty trainees who were screened and selected. Within the three years of training, the group was left with Suga, RapMon, and J-Hope. P-Dogg explains, “These boys worked on at least one song each week. When we had more trainees, we would divide them into teams and have them work on pop songs and kayo. They would reinterpret hip hop too. We decided that these members worked well together and that’s how we got BTS” (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013b). P-Dogg recalls the difficulties he had as the producer in tailoring the group to hip hop. “Korean mainstream hip hop is more about doing love stories through rap. Or having YG Entertainment’s style of swagger. But you really need to have a lot of money or something to boast about to do that. Our boys didn’t have that. . . There are a lot of difficulties in being a producer for an ‘idol group that does hip hop.’ I spend a lot of my time on hip hop community websites. 196 Within these communities, we can never be recognized [as hip hop]” (P-Dogg as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013b). Limitations come in not only in positioning the group’s identity and getting recognition as hip hop, but in also creating a song that fits this identity. P-Dogg explains: For all seven members’ voices to be featured in the debut single, rappers could only get 8 bars. Normally, rappers get 16 bars. We also had to add melody parts for the vocal members. We didn’t want to work with a non- Korean composer because their originality is completely different. It’s harder to change it into an idol song because its composition is completely different. We were worried we’d lose both the idol and hip hop elements. Then Si-hyuk hyung suggested the members to participate because hip hop is about telling their own stories. We had a lot of meetings with the members. From the theme of the lyrics down to everything. We’d talk about the kind of music they wanted to do. Suga makes his own beats. The cornerstone members of the group spent a lot of time with the other members, so even those who didn’t know hip hop or just liked R&B started changing. They’d also come in and recommend new music to me. I really liked that they started listening to music on their own. (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013b) As can be seen with P-Dogg’s answer, the group is largely invested in placing an emphasis on making music that the members want to make. It is interesting to note that “those [members] who did not know hip hop or just liked R&B started changing.” This not only shows how the group’s identity is fixated on hip hop, but also the requirement 197 from its members to flexibly change their musical taste to hip hop. What is also interesting is the notion of “cornerstone members” or those with higher visibility and influence in the group. For BTS, members like RapMon, as leader and main rapper, take on this role and responsibility. Thus, it is more likely and frequent for RapMon to be called an “idol rapper” than other rappers in the group. With the term “idol rapper,” comes the expectation that they must be skilled and passionate about rap. It is through a show-and-prove that they are legitimized as more than just “members who rap.” For K-pop, the music does not stop at singing or rapping. It extends to the visual elements shown in dancing. As performance director Sung-Deuk Son explains, the choreography needs to consider multiple elements including each member’s main skill whether it is rap, vocals, or performance and where the members are performing (e.g. music video, televised music chart programs, etc.). For example, Son explains, “We have a member named Jimin who specializes in dance, so we can use his talents for that. If you look closely at the stage, when a rap segment comes a lot of the times there are gestures or movements that black rappers do. We added that to emphasize what the rap members can do best” (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013c). During the training period, Big Hit Entertainment also sent Son and a BTS member to train at a dance center called Movement Lifestyle in Los Angeles. “Because BTS is hip hop, we were able to pick up the culture—not just the dancing—but the lifestyle. Like how people walk and talk, their gestures, etc. We only went for a month, but we learned a lot” (Son as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013). His answer warrants caution as the notion of “picking up a lifestyle” in a month raises questions of how far this can be interpreted as real learning or simple copying. 198 Finally, Sung-Hyun Kim explains how the team was visualized in terms of styling by stating there needed to be variation and unification to what the group wears. “In the end, it had to be hip hop too” (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013b). Kim also describes a space called the “Bangtan Room,” where members worked from as trainees. Kim explains, “That space had to be hip hop from every single accessory and interior detail. We bought stuff, but we also custom made the sofa. Although the members knew hip hop music, some members didn’t know how to show that visually. So we had to coach them through wardrobe or working space. We also met with them and listened to what they liked and wanted. I think it always works better when we are able to incorporate their personal taste into our working concept. BTS is a team that strives to be an artist rather than idol, so we really try to respect their opinions” (as cited in Cha & Choi, 2013c). What the relay interviews reveal is a sense of multifaceted efforts in the production of BTS as a hip hop group. In a sense, authenticity is produced and manifested doubly for the group: (1) as individuals who have a sense of control of the music they make and (2) as a hip hop group that has an understanding of its culture and style. American Hustle Life “Basically ya’ll don’t know shit about hip hop. We are going to have some fun, but not now. I’m going to teach you about hip hop but I’m going to teach you the hard way. Take this seriously. This is my life. If it weren’t for hip hop, I’d be dead. I’d be in jail. I’d be in prison. It’s not a joke to me. It’s very serious. It’s my life.” - American rapper Coolio to BTS on the first episode of American Hustle Life 199 In July 2014, Mnet produced an eight episode reality television series called American Hustle Life. This program documented the education of BTS. This “education” was a hip hop boot camp where BTS members were “kidnapped” in Los Angeles to get “tutored” on “real” hip hop, including its history, dance, beatboxing, and songwriting. Mentors included Coolio and Warren G. While many K-pop groups participate in reality shows that document their training, debut, or dormitory life, American Hustle Life is a unique program in that it fundamentally functions in the creation of an authenticity that is tied to hip hop. There are numerous K-pop groups that identify themselves as a “hip hop” (e.g. Block B, B.A.P., M.I.B., Monsta X, Hotshot, etc.). Yet, no other group than BTS has had a program solely dedicated to highlighting and building this identity. In the program, BTS lives in Downtown Los Angeles (presumably near Skid Row) for two weeks under the guidance of three hosts—imagine a camp counselor—who all happen to be African American men. There are guest appearances by Coolio and Warren G who each give the group a mission to accomplish. There are problematic scenes within the program, including the scene where the members get “kidnapped” by black men and taken to an “unknown place” (which ends up being their apartment). This situation is described as “scary” by the members and consequently associated with “real” hip hop. There are also moments in the program where “swag lessons” are given emphasizing hip hop as a style rather than learning about the cultural or political roots of hip hop. 200 Figure 10. The first episode of American Hustle Life where the group is “kidnapped” to an undisclosed location in Downtown Los Angeles to be “reborn as true hip hop artists.” Source: Screenshot captured by @yoogamin In the first episode, Coolio mentors BTS. His observations on the group are that “They are not really into hip hop, except for a couple of them.” Coolio separates the members into three groups and asks each group to knock on doors and perform for whoever greets them. The best group wins a dinner with Coolio. He also asks each group to figure out the answer to the following questions and those who do not get the answers, “punishment will be severe”: 1. Something happened to the 2 Live Crew. Historically and politically, they’ve affected the music business even till today. 2. Who was the first rapper who started rapping in his natural speaking voice? He’s from New York. 3. Public Enemy. Their music was made for a specific reason. Where did Public Enemy draw their musical inspiration from? 201 The members go to Compton where they knock on doors. They give rice cakes to whoever opens the door explaining that it is a Korean tradition to give rice cakes when they move into a new neighborhood. The members end up dancing in front of an African American teenage girl, African American couple, and African American father and daughter. For example, Jin and Suga dance to Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power.” The captions read: “The group expresses anger against racial discrimination.” Coolio responds to the group’s performance, “Ya’ll didn’t have enough. You know. Ya’ll should have been like FIGHT THE POWER. You should have been loud. I don’t believe you want to fight the power. Do you know what fight the power means?” These questions or concerns are never fully addressed and leaves the members baffled. At the end of the episode, Coolio brings the members to a shop run by rapper Tyga. Coolio buys them a gold necklace which is described a “symbol of hip hop.” Throughout the series, the members learn dance from Jenny Kita (e.g. airpose, gliding, six step, krumping, twerking, kick move, locking, popping, and wacking), beatboxing from Faahz, and R&B vocals from Iris Stevenson. In the final episode of the program the members must “Show and Prove” by curating a “Best of Best Hip Hop Performance.” BTS must put on a concert where they are in charge of everything from production to promotion. The group must also showcase everything they have learned in America including lyric writing, dancing, beatboxing, and singing for this final stage. For BTS, the experience of having gone through a hip hop bootcamp is described as “unforgettable” in that the people they worked with were those “who were born in America—home to the biggest music industry and home to hip hop—did not have any 202 prejudices of who they were and treated them without any preconceptions” (RapMon). Here, we also see that an authentication of the group takes place outside the context of Korean society. The group must come to America—where hip hop started—to be able to claim their authenticity as a hip hop group. In one of the key episodes in the program, the group meets Warren G who states, “I’m going to tell you all where I grew up at, where I came from. This is where a lot of it all started. Where we started out. Me, Snoop, Nate Dogg. You in the LBC.” In their introduction, BTS “greets Warren G in a Korean way” by showcasing a perfectly synchronized and courteous greeting that Warren G records on his smartphone. Warren G gives BTS a tour of Long Beach, including the record shop VIP, where Warren G buys each member a Long Beach hat. The subtitle reads, “BTS determined to write a new history in the Holy Land of hip hop.” Warren G continues to give BTS a tour of Long Beach including places he had lived, “This is where we started. They used to pick us up here and we used to go to the rich neighborhoods and sell candy outside the grocery store and stuff like that. . . I used to live here way back in the day. I don’t know if you were born yet.” Warren G gives the members a task to write their own life story to the “Regulate” beat. During this challenge, the members recollect their own journeys as trainees. J-Hope asks Jin, “When the company told you to do hip hop, did you have any resistance?” Jin answers, “There was resistance because it’s a completely different genre. But growing up, my older brother really loved hip hop. So I was familiar to it and it wasn’t too difficult to get use to it.” J-Hope also confesses his struggles starting out as a trainee, “When I first came there were seven trainees who were all rappers. I was the only dancer. I felt distant 203 from them. I wanted to make that distance as small as possible so I practiced rap. When the other trainees were freestyling, I tried even though I wasn’t good at it. I know I had a lot of fear but I don’t know how I did it back then.” Suga reflects that although they proclaim they are hip hop idols, in the eyes of others they could be seen as “produced idols.” For Suga, he wonders whether he should be doing “the music he wants to” or “the music he has to.” The mission offers each member a chance to share their personal life stories. In the course of writing, the members are able to explain why they started music and how they become members of BTS by adding autobiographical truth to their lyrics. Even members who have not yet participated in writing lyrics for the group—as only rappers are expected to write their own segments—are able to demonstrate their sincerity through this challenge. Thus, while the members are able to show their engagement as individuals who are concerned about their development and growth as a group, they are also able to show their lyrical talent by writing lyrics to “Regulate,” arguably one of the most well- known songs in hip hop. Having Warren G as a mentor also adds to the “authentic” experience of living and learning about hip hop in America. In the following episode, the members are asked to “make a music video with hip hop spirit and swag.” Two mentors, Tony and Nate, teach the members a new word called “stunting.” Nate also explains that while BTS’ music videos are “dope,” they are missing “girls.” Tony then tells the members that they will be going out and finding girls for their music video. Nate explains, “The first thing you should know is that you got to go after the right kind of girl. We’re trying to cast girls for a hip hop video. So what do we need? We need girls that care about how they look good, just like how we care about 204 our chains. Nails gotta look good.” The members are excited that they will “never be able to make this type of music video again until they retire” and to be able to “reproduce what they saw growing up.” Warren G directs this video, which is an LA version of their song “Boys in Luv.” In a sense, the group only merely reproduces stereotypes of American hip hop rather than creatively reinterpreting what they have learned through this “bootcamp” using their own sensibilities. The two versions of “Boys in Luv” differ in style. In the original version, the music video is dance-oriented with many shots concentrated on the group’s choreography and dance. The team also wears high school uniforms giving the group a cohesive look. The music video is centered on one girl whom the members give roses to. The entire music video is shot at a high school, with scenes in classrooms, hallways, bathroom stalls, and the gym. The LA version, on the other hand, is not focused on the group but rather on the individual. There is only one short scene with the whole group. The video is largely based around a mansion overlooking the city. There are also shots where the members drive around the streets of LA. Unlike the Korean version where there was only one love interest for the entire group, in the LA version, there are multiracial females dressed in short dresses or bikini tops and hot pants. However, there is very minimal touching or contact involved between the group and girls in the video (e.g. hands placed lightly around shoulders). In one sense while the group works to reproduce American hip hop stereotypes such as having cars and girls, it also keeps to Korean cultural norms where bodily contact between men and women are kept to minimum. It is also interesting to note that the Korean title for “Boys in Luv” is “Sangnamja” which can be literally translated to “Manly Man.” 205 In another challenge, the members are sent to experience the “American hustle life” by working hard and earning money for themselves. The members divide up into teams to work hotel housekeeping and clean airplanes and yachts. Tony tells the members that they will take what they earned to “buy some food and take it to the less fortunate on Skid Row. A lot of the times in the hip hop community, artists take what they make and give back to the less fortunate.” Nate tells the homeless that “[The members] are from Korea and they are trying to learn about hip hop.” The homeless tell the members not to forget where they came from, to never give up, and to stay true to themselves and to their art. RapMon remarks that “it is not as scary or dangerous a place they had imagined.” The group’s “American hustle life” is showcased through hard work and earnestly approaching their duties which triumph the difficulties they faced in language barriers with their employers. What the series of tasks reveal is, however inauthentic or contrived each mission may be as part of reality television, BTS’ authenticity is produced by learning and experiencing hip hop as culture through their “American hustle life,” where they learn that hip hop is in fact not that “scary.” Rap Monster: An Idol, Rapper, and Idol Rapper Despite having a busy schedule, I smile / Cuz in the family called BTS, I’m not an only child / Between friends I’m known as a lonely isle / But I live like I’m not my stupid lies / And I gotta smile, know why? Cuz I’m an idol / I’m just living my life, don’t give a f--- with the title / Never been idle, every day I sweat and rap / On my t-shirt and pants, a pretty Galaxy appears / Living two lives when people only live once, I lived my life 206 twice / How many rappers in South Korea have stood in front of more than 10,000 people and rapped? / I’ve achieved my dreams of becoming famous with rap / I’m going to become someone else’s dreams . . . When I debuted I agonized over major and minor / I measured where I would be situated / With a useless mask on my face, I struggled over the question / Forget them all, it’s a title that the public decides - RapMon (2014) in “Unpack Your Bags (Original)” In May 2014, RapMon was featured in the star documentary program on Mnet called 4 Things Show. The 4 Things Show looks closely at a celebrity by using four people’s perspectives and testaments on the person. Throughout the program, RapMon is shown questioning and exploring his identities as “idol” and “rapper.” At the end of the show, RapMon performs “Unpack Your Bags (Original),” which is produced by one of Korea’s most respected hip hop DJs, DJ Soulscape. As reflected in the lyrics of the song, RapMon’s identity is in conflict as is manifested in his duality: BTS/solo artist, family/only child, idol/rapper, etc. It is important to note that RapMon is one of the few idols who releases solo projects in a mixtape format. For idol rappers, following one’s debut, solo projects are much more likely to be single releases rather than album length units. In March 2015, RapMon releases his first solo mixtape titled RM. In this album, three songs are original tracks while eight use existing beats. 207 Figure 11. The album cover for RapMon’s solo mixtape, RM, shows his duality as idol and rapper In an article titled “What does it mean for an idol to release a mixtape,” RapMon explains the making of his mixtape, “Because I am working in the major scene, if I release a mixtape I can express something relatively without filters or limitations, something raw and by itself. And because the tracks aren’t for commercial purposes, I could chose them on my own. . . The company only took part later in the process of choosing from about twenty tracks. . . 95% of the mixtape I made on my own” (as cited in Park, 2015, May 23). For RapMon, having the power and freedom to make choices in 208 making his music is important. He explains, “I understand the criticism I get from doing smoky eye makeup and acting ‘pretty’ on television. For those who value masculine traits in hip hop, the criticism is legitimate. So I’ve started to separate my identity into two. The reason I have my RM mixtape cover into black and white is to show my duality. I came to the conclusion that I needed to accept the fact that both sides are me. It is through this acceptance I can find my whole self” (as cited in Kim, 2015, March 24). 16 RapMon describes his mixtape as “a dissertation where I’ve self-defined who I am. It’s like finishing Chapter 1. BTS’s music is about youth. It’s concentrating on and representing the worries and thoughts of people in their late teens and early twenties. My music is about myself: the fears, struggles, desires, ugliness, etc. It’s about what’s inside me. All of it. It’s double-sided, ambivalent, seeking to be lonely, being in pain because of the loneliness, yet not hating the loneliness. It’s about capturing the wandering and lost inner soul. I think everyone has a duality. They can be an angel and a demon. Someone who carries this duality is me. I don’t want to hide it and I want to show it through music” (as cited in Shim, 2015, April 10). For RapMon, his duality as idol and rapper is ultimately manifested within these inner struggles. The term idol is differentiated from artist. The two terms are also negotiated with different expectations. For many idol rappers, as visually manifested in RapMon’s album cover above, much of their career is spent on breaking out of and swinging back and forth these two titles. In one interview, RapMon states, “There are two things that Warren G told me that I will never forget. First, hip hop is open to anyone, regardless of one’s race or region. 16 The album cover artwork also brought controversy in relation to blackface and racial politics in K-pop. While recognizing the gravity of this issue, I will refrain from discussing it for the purposes of this chapter as it deserves closer attention in a separate study. 209 It’s always ready to give one corner and space to anyone who loves hip hop, so I shouldn’t box myself in prejudice. The second thing he said was I was doing well and that I should believe in myself and do what I want. I know it’s something anyone can say but coming from him, it really stuck with me” (as cited in Shim, 2015, April 10). Consequently, the term idol rapper is one that is highly contested in terms of authenticity. So while hip hop is “open to anyone, regardless of one’s race or region,” in the case of K- pop idols, its “corner and space” must be earned through conscious and unceasing efforts. Ian Condry (2007) argues a double bind exists for Japanese rappers in which they are “expected to respect the African American roots of the music while also producing something uniquely authentic and original” (p. 646). Described by hip hop music critics like Bong-Hyeon Kim as a possible “third way,” idol rappers—as those whose identity straddles between K-pop idols and independent rappers—have a conditional authenticity which s/he must attain in that: (1) s/he must have legitimate rap skills, (2) s/he must not only have the knowledge and respect of hip hop culture and history, but also acknowledge and appreciate the differences between K-pop and hip hop worlds, and (3) s/he must have the creative freedom or active participation in the making of the group s/he is a part of. All in all, idol rapper is a term that must be earned through a constant show-and-prove of one’s skill, passion, and sincerity. 210 Chapter 5 | Unpretty Rapstar: Gender and Representation in Korean Hip Hop There is a joke amongst Korean hip hop fans that the Top 5 female MCs in Korea are Yoon Mirae, T, Tasha, Tiger JK’s wife, and Jordan’s mom. The joke being that the five names belong to the same person: Mirae Yoon (or better known as Yoon Mirae, Tasha, or T). As an artist of African American and Korean descent, Yoon has lead a diverse music career starting with her debut as part of the mainstream hip hop team Uptown, a female R&B duo Tashannie, and a solo career as one of the most recognized pop/soul/R&B vocalist. Whilst not taking any credit away from her iconic status as the most recognized female rapper in Korea, I purposefully stay away from having Yoon as the center of this chapter because of her hyper visibility. Another reason is also because she does not, for a larger part, write her own lyrics in the Korean language. It is well noted that her husband, Tiger JK, another iconic figure in Korean hip hop, writes the lyrics as Yoon herself is not confident writing in Korean. “Tiger JK becomes me when he writes my lyrics. He goes inside my head and catches what I am thinking. He is my musical comrade” (Yoon quoted in Lee, H., 2007, March 29). Writing lyrics becomes undoubtedly complicated with intricate layers of gender, racial, and cultural sensibilities and deserves further exploration in another study. What this joke also painstakingly points to is the lack of female rappers in Korea, or more specifically, the small number of female rappers who have visibility and influence that rivals or triumphs that of the male counterparts. While this is not uncommon across the world, why is it particularly so in Korea? What makes it hard(er) for female rappers to have their voices heard and seen? Janell Hobson and R. Dianne Bartlow (2008) describe the raced and gendered stereotypes of women as “decorative, 211 fetishistic, manipulative, fragile, or in need of rescuing (or submission) in contemporary popular music lyrics, music videos, music concerts, and movie soundtracks” (p. 3) to argue that these stereotypes also influence how women as lyricists, producers, and performers experience the music industry in America. Hobson and Bartlow emphasize that women in hip hop have “have battled against their marginalization since the genre’s inception. However, their inclusion in this male-dominated music culture has drastically shifted in the mainstream reception of hip hop from their identities as emcees and deejays, who could hold their own against their male counterparts, to their relegation to hyper- sexualized roles as music video dancers, models, and groupies” (2008, p. 3). Figure 12. Yoon Mirae as a member of the hip hop group, Uptown (1997) 212 While Korean hip hop has not seen the rise of female emcees and deejays that can hold their own against their male counterparts, female artists are nonetheless subjected to their sexualities or femininities similar to the conditions Hobson and Bartlow (2008) describe in the American music industry. This is manifested in not only how they operate within hip hop communities but also circulated in wider popular culture and media. During my fieldwork, I had the opportunity to ask this particular question to the artists that I interviewed. What frustrated me was the overwhelming number of answers that pointed to the appearance or attractiveness of female rappers: The reason why there were so few female rappers making it in the scene was because “they are not pretty.” This answer startled me. As the interviews progressed it became clear that a double bind existed for female rappers in Korea: (1) If you are attractive, you have to take extra measures to prove your skills as a rapper or (2) If you have the skills but are not attractive, your appearance becomes a so-called Achilles Heel for your career as a rapper. I was even more struck at awe when Mnet announced in January 2015 that it would launch a new reality competition to called Unpretty Rapstar to showcase female rappers. As if to prove each artist I had interviewed correct, the title echoed what they had said about female rappers lacking in appearance or attractiveness or being “unpretty.” As unproductive and restricting as the double bind becomes, it offers an interesting look into a much needed discussion on gender and representation in Korean hip hop. This discussion is not restricted to the Korean hip hop scene, but more so offers a look into Korean popular music and society at large. In this chapter, I will first share my own reflections as a female scholar in a field that is dominated by men. By doing so, I offer a 213 glimpse of the conditions in which female artists work under. I will then untangle this double bind by first outlining some of the reasons to the question why there are so few female rappers in Korea, including lack of skill, style, role model, and community. Finally, I will examine the reality competition show Unpretty Rapstar (2015) as a case study to see how these conditions are manifested and represented in television and media. In doing so, I argue that the double bind for female rappers is representative of how gender roles and norms are reproduced in the context of Korean popular music and culture. Reflections as a Female Scholar in the Field On a slightly windy and chilly afternoon in March 2015, I arrived at AX-Korea, a concert venue that houses around two thousand and five hundred people at its full capacity. As I was looking for the side entrance to the rehearsal rooms, a lady came up to me with a questioned look: “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she asked. My identity looked even more suspicious as I was carrying a box of freshly squeezed juice in my right hand and a box of churros in my left. It is Korean custom and courtesy to bring food when you have asked for a favor. And in this case, I had asked an artist if I could observe rehearsals as this was an impressive and sizable venue for a hip hop concert in Korea. Although she did not explicitly state this, it was implied with the look in her eyes that I was taken for an overzealous fan in search of her favorite rapper. I explained I was there to see rehearsals and I had contacted the artist beforehand. She bitterly replied that she would have to check if this were true herself and that the artists had not arrived on scene. As I was making my way to main entrance, she chased 214 after me and said that she confirmed with the artist and I should follow her. She led me past the security guard who was manning the iron black gates, through which there were another set of doors, up a set of winding stairs to a very small room. The room was almost bare, with only one desk, a chair, and a clothing rack. The only view from this room was of the grey cemented parking lot outside. I was to wait there until she would come and get me for the rehearsal. As I waited, I could not help but to recall the question I had received earlier: Who was I? What was I doing there? The question is one I had gotten multiple times, especially with artists who questioned my intentions of meeting them. Out of the thirty three artists I interviewed, four were female. While this number represents a mere 12% of the total interviewees, this figure is larger than the actual number of female artists that are actively involved—releasing music and regularly performing at shows—in the Korean hip hop scene today. What this number also represents is the overwhelmingly large influence and presence of male artists in the scene. In navigating through this community, I had to be even more conscious of my identity as a female scholar in a male dominated scene. Two conditions that flexibly (re)positioned my identity were gender and age. Compared to most artists I studied, I am relatively younger which places me in what I want to call a double learning position: (1) as an outsider stepping into the community and (2) as a younger student learning from older insiders. I would also ask the artists to speak in an informal way if they were older. This is a common cultural practice in Korean society. While this helped build rapport, it automatically established a hierarchical relationship. I also cautioned against being conceived as a groupie or diehard 215 fan. I would at times have to prove my knowledge or history as a “serious” hip hop fan. Do you really like hip hop? When did you start listening to hip hop? These are some of the questions that popped up during interviews. My “proof” would often be that I first started listening to [American] hip hop in 1995 with Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise” and that I have a continued passion and interest in hip hop reflected in the fact that I wrote my undergraduate thesis on Tupac, which is rather rare in Korea especially for a female student. There was an interesting moment where one artist professed his surprise that I had listened to his music prior coming to the interview. He said this was pretty unusual. In another moment, an artist asked if I will continue to listen to hip hop even when I am done with my “homework.” These two instances demonstrate the level in which female hip hop listeners are perceived. While the consumers of Korean hip hop are predominantly female, as demonstrated by the overwhelmingly female audience at hip hop shows, its gatekeepers—those who determine who counts as a “real” or “serious” listener—seem to be male. I often imagine what it would be like for a male researcher if he were carrying out the same interviews. I confess that I imagine it would be easier in that he could freely visit recording studios which are often in the homes of artists and participate and observe nighttime activities of creative collaborations. Yes, it is possible for females to also enter and occupy this space. But the opportunities are rare and there may very well be social consequences. Much echoing the female rappers who professed an invisible wall into the heart of the scene, I imagine the same type of difficulties carrying over to the female researcher. One positive aspect is that my research carries perceived notions of females 216 being detail oriented and non-threatening which allows artists to open up easily. Finally, one observation is how I was perceived different from a music critic. More than a handful of artists professed their discomfort or distrust in music critics and placed me in a completely separate category. It’s a Man’s World: Challenges into the Hip Hop Scene Geoff Harkness (2012) argues that a “situational authenticity” exists in hip hop where boundary conditions such as race and gender are relatively fixed categories whilst interpretive categories like skill level and being true to yourself offer flexible room for claiming authenticity within hip hop. (p. 288). Thus “situational authenticity occurs when a person makes a claim to ‘realness’ that emphasizes certain categories within the normative cluster of conditions that govern authenticity, while downplaying others” (Harkness, 2012, p. 288). When these claims are made, authenticity is negotiated by both the rapper and audience (Harkness, 2012, p. 288). For example, female rappers are critiqued for being hypersexual and for not being ‘girlie’ enough, in so “they tread a fine line between being neither too masculine nor too feminine” (Harkness, 2012, p. 291). For Cheryl Keyes (2000), female rappers operate within four distinct typologies that emerge in rap music performance: Queen Mother, Fly Girl, Sista with Attitude and Lesbian (p. 256). Keyes argues that Black female rappers may belong to more than one category and also shift between categories (2000, p. 256). While working within stereotypes can be somewhat limiting and unproductive, these categories are helpful in understanding how authenticity operates for women in hip hop. In Korean society, female rappers can be loosely placed within Keyes’ (2000) Sista with Attitude (aggressive and 217 defiant bad girls) and Fly Girl (fashionable, hypersexual and independent women). But these are tamed in a sense that they are removed from the sociohistorical or racial conditions they operate within American society. As these stereotypes get reinterpreted into Korean context and culture, they are sowed in values deeply rooted in Neo- Confucianism. Taeyon Kim (2003) argues that “the function of the body in representing the self was introduced to Korea through the capitalist culture of individuated selves. For Korean women who were represented not through their individual bodies but through their male kin, their bodies have taken on a new role” (p. 106). For Kim, within these transformation, beauty has become “a requirement of decorum for women rather than a vanity” (2003, p. 107). Women must focus on self-improvement, particularly with regards to the physical body, wherein a woman is “no longer valued primarily for her body’s ability to bear sons or to produce domestic labor, but through her physical beauty, which is vital in her ability to land a good marriage, career or both. While this may look like a complete change in the Korean woman’s body from invisible, laboring, unalterable body to visible, beautified, altered body, this is actually a continuation of the embodied, subjectless woman, and the techniques of Neo-Confucian governmentality which maintain that women are subjectless bodies whose primary means of improvement are through the body. The woman as subjectless body continues to manifest itself in the way women are pressured to make their bodies conform to media and social codes as to the proper woman’s body” (Kim, 2003, p. 108). I argue that a female rapper’s body and identity work within similar sociocultural conditions and expectations. In this section, I outline some of the concerns 218 that were raised by artists as reasons to why it is more difficult for female rappers to make it in the hip hop scene, including lack of skill, style, role model, and community. Skill In terms of skill, there are two main issues including (1) rap skill and (2) adapting to the environment. The Quiett notes that when he judged the third season of Show Me The Money, he evaluated two thousand rappers in the preliminary rounds. “There were so many female rappers. Whether they are talented or not was another story. Number-wise, I do not necessarily think the number of female rappers in Korea is a small number. I think the number of rappers who get the attention or who are as aggressive as male rappers in showing themselves, or who are skillfully talented is just smaller. I think it is similar to America. It has been 20 years since Yoon Mirae debuted and there has not been anyone since her. I think it all boils down to skill” (The Quiett, personal communication, December 10, 2014). The Quiett argues that while there are many females who rap, there are very few that are skilled enough to garner attention. In hip hop, skill serves as the number one prerequisite before one can move onto other dimensions of authenticity or legitimacy as a rapper. Like The Quiett, Olltii suggests that the number of women who rap in Korea may not necessarily be small, “I want to readdress the question so that it is not ‘Why are there few female rappers in Korea?’ but rather ‘Why are there few talented female rappers in Korea?’” (personal communication, September 12, 2014). Olltii’s answer echoes The Quiett’s in that it is a matter of skill and talent that female rappers have not gotten as much exposure than their male counterparts. What is interesting about Olltii’s answer is 219 that he is not the only one who compared hip hop to “sports, where there is competition, battle and a bit of machismo” (personal communication, September 12, 2014). “There is of course women’s soccer, but the attention naturally goes to men’s soccer. I am not saying let’s draw the line between the two, but I think that has become somewhat natural” (Olltii, personal communication, September 12, 2014). Underlying this division of male and female teams also is the notion of community which will be explored in further sections. Like sports, hip hop becomes gender divided in that it is one that requires surviving a competition, not just in rap skill but a more literal survival within the hip hop community which is largely male dominated. Furthermore, rap skills, including lyric writing, flow designing and rhyming, become tied to gender as well: One of the things that saddens me is that I’ve never seen a female artist that is good at rap making. When I say rap making, I’m talking about lyrics, flow, rhyming, etc. I can only assume that a woman’s music would have a lot of emotional or sensuous elements and aesthetics. But for rap, I think it has to be rationally constructed and organized. I think women would be better fit as producers because they can express their musical sensibilities. In my opinion, rap is very distanced from “feel[ing].” That’s a fantasy. You have to take a long time and treat it like putting together a machine. Female writers might get mad at me. I think you can write emotionally or sensuously, but rap is different. You have to fit the rhymes into the beat and also think about sound. (Ignito, personal communication, November 3, 2014) 220 Although much of Ignito’s answers rely on an assumption that women’s music is “emotional” or “sensuous,” these stereotypes can very well restrict people’s perceptions of female rappers. Rap becomes associated with traditionally masculine qualities such as strength and rationality. Again, comparing writing rap to “putting together a machine,” women are distanced from the act of making rap, where “although this [music] is no gangster fight or anything, it’s still not easy. I think it requires a lot of physical and mental strength” (Paloalto, personal communication, September 4, 2014). Even female rappers as Sleeq agrees to the notion rap is more suited to masculine qualities, “I haven’t really thought about it too deeply, but I think there is a reason why there are so few [female rappers]. It’s a much more masculine culture. I might be deluded, but even I don’t really listen to female rappers. I think as of now it’s much more natural and easier to listen to rap in a male voice. For a hip hop song, I think it’s more suiting for a female to feature as a vocal rather than rapper. I am trying to break that perception. I don’t know if it’ll be broken yet” (Sleeq, personal communication, November 5, 2014) Style In terms of style, there are two main concerns including (1) rap style and (2) appearance. For example, Kebee states, “I think there should be more female rappers. But we also can’t give any favors. It’s a pretty cutthroat competition here. It’s not just about femininity but there are certain stories that men just aren’t able to rap about. So there is a place for women’s stories and that space needs to be shown. They could use their sex appeal, but as you know no one really succeeded just by doing that. I think a lot more 221 needs to be developed in regards to style. They must find a style that isn’t out already and if they can show that they will succeed regardless of their sex” (personal communication, July 21, 2014). Kebee’s statement is interesting in that whilst women’s stories are valuable and thus deserve a space of its own, the space is not one that is readily given or shared. It must be earned through a cutthroat competition, again echoing Olltii’s notion of hip hop as sports. Maniac, a rapper of African American and Korean descent, also notes the lack of rap style in Korean female rappers, “Every female rapper that I heard I put them in two categories. They either sound like Tasha or not. Everyone sounds the same. If you come out of that box and make your own style then you might actually get somewhere to be an inspiration for other female rappers to make them want to rap. But so far, every female rapper that tried to make it in Korea I think were inspired by Tasha to the point they sound like her. I don’t think companies really want that unless you look half black” (personal communication, August 14, 2014). What is interesting about Maniac’s answer is the notion that because Yoon is half black, she is allowed a certain sound and look that is perhaps not extended, permitted or suited for Korean women. Echoing this sentiment, in one interview with Beyond Hallyu, Jolly V argues that the concept of a female rapper is not something Koreans are familiar with: “I feel like a lot of Koreans don’t even have a glimpse of an idea about what a female rapper is, nor are they interested in the subject. I take it as a chance for Korean female rappers to prove themselves and show they can be more creative as artists” (as cited in Sasha, 2014, February 25). 222 Figure 13. Yoon Mirae featured in Sure Magazine (January 2015) Paloalto, a veteran in the rap game, also points to the lack of a unique style for female rappers, “I think those who can rival or compete with male rappers is Yoon Mirae and Sleeq? That’s about it. CL is really stylish but she’s not a rapper by profession. She’s an idol. Also, I think for women, more than for men, sex appeal is important. Especially for popularity. Let’s suppose that even if she’s got skills if she looks like a tomboy, it’s hard to gain popularity. Only hard-core rap fans will like her. As rappers, we also have to entertain on stage so looks become important and I think that’s where the limitations lie. For example, Yoon Mirae can rap well, she looks Black, and as she got older, she’s gotten a lot more feminine. I think those qualities appeal to the public” (personal communication, September 4, 2014). While Paloalto’s answer echoes Maniac’s in that Yoon is allowed a space of her own and can rival male rappers because of her Blackness, 223 another layer is added to her authenticity to include femininity as exemplified in the figure above. In one of the most critical answers, P-Type points to lookism in Korean society as a reason to the lack of female rappers: It is something I discuss with my friends a lot too, why are there so few female rappers? I think it shows something about Korean society. If they are pretty, they don’t study. They want to succeed with their face before it gets old. So if we say appearance is something that a player needs to have, those who have it want to become celebrities or prepare to be idols. They don’t enter this scene. It’s easier to do something else. Those who have even the slightest interest in lyricism or want to go in deeper have failed in appearance from a young age. That is the conclusion I make and this also shows the most extreme of Korean society’s lookism. (personal communication, June 1, 2014) While P-Type argues that female rappers function within beauty norms and expectations as prescribed by lookism in Korean society, JJK explains the lack of female rappers in Korea through his observation of female students to whom he gives rap lessons: From my experience, a good half of those who rap quit when they become adults. Let’s say they started rapping when they were in their teens. Once you enter college, a large majority quit. If we look at tendencies, if they are passive and introverted, they take lessons for a long time. But their skills don’t really improve and because they don’t have the star quality, 224 they quit. If they are pretty or extroverted and confident and they love to perform and show people, they don’t take lessons for long. I know if they’d work at it they would succeed. But because when they turn twenty, they start dating or go to clubs, they don’t have the time [to focus on rap]. I’ve also observed that half of my female students are fans. They are fans of Korean hip hop. They take lessons out of admiration and most of the times these students are just girls (personal communication, June 17, 2014) For JJK, while there are certain qualities that are necessary for women to make it as a rapper, these qualities (or lack of) often are often at odds with or come short of expectations. It is interesting that female rappers all echo male rappers’ responses in that appearance or sex appeal becomes a “woman’s strength” (Cheetah as cited in Park, 2015a, March 13). Cheetah argues that “If you take out the appearance from a woman, there’s nothing special. It’s a woman’s weapon” (as cited in Park, 2015a, March 13). Similarly, female rapper Tymee states that “It’s okay to concentrate on one’s appearance once you have the skills. If you don’t have the skills, I think it’s wrong to focus solely on the appearance” (as cited in Park, 2015a, March 13). Again, both male and female rappers’ answers point to the double bind that exists for female rappers in Korean hip hop. Role Model (... or Leaving Yoon Mirae’s Shadows) One of the most pervading answers to the lack of female rappers in Korea was the lack of role models. Simply put, there is no female rapper to look up to. As Pento explains, “There are no role models in Korea. Had Yoon Mirae reached the pinnacle of 225 her career, we might have a different story. This is just me personally but it’s only recent that hip hop and rap as text began to appeal to the wider public. Show Me The Money has played an important role in that. I think it might actually be advantageous for women, because they can stand out in a world dominated by men. If they are clever, they can use it to an advantage. For me, they have to be skillful first. But this applies to both men and women, appearance or performance is equally important” (personal communication, October 8, 2014). Like Pento, Illinit attributes the lack of role models in Korean hip hop and adds an interesting layer to his answer by attributing Confucianism to the lack of female rappers: “I do not necessarily think it has to do with anything physical, just like there are as many b-girls as b-boys. You guys have vocal chords too. I think we can also tie it to America, we have no role models. It means there is no artist that you grew up with and that you look up to. So naturally, there are no newbies or rookies. To add to that, our country and society has Confucian values that prescribe how a woman should be. It has gotten better these days, but we are still a society where women cannot smoke in public. So for women to express herself through rap which is perceived to be coarse, there are definitely limitations” (personal communication, November 26, 2014). Illinit’s answer echoes Kim (2003) in that within Korean society, what a woman can do is highly constricted within the body and its (in)visibility like smoking in public or expressing herself. In answering the question to why there are few female rappers in Korea, Yoon Mirae’s name inevitable comes up for all rappers. Her hyper visibility creates a standard in which every other female rapper is compared against. In another respect, while Yoon remains a symbolic icon, she rarely releases songs where the focus is her rap. Today, she 226 is much more active in releasing tracks as a vocal either as a solo artist or as part of her group MFBTY with Tiger JK and Bizzy. The fact that Yoon is perhaps the only female rapper with skill and recognition that can rival or triumph male rappers leaves a large shadow that female rappers must overcome and leave in the public’s eyes. For example, Jolly V states that it is Yoon Mirae’s influence rather than the male dominated scene which deters female rappers from getting recognition, “In Korea, it almost seems like if you are not Yoon Mirae, you are just not a female MC at all. Period” (as cited in Sasha, 2014, February 25). There are many factors that differentiate Yoon from other female rappers in Korea. For example, Cheetah explains, “I think Yoon Mirae is close to perfection in terms of skill. She has a different engine and that engine is close to perfection. It’s a sensitive issue, but when there was no other female rapper in the scene, she was the only one. So people are almost brainwashed to a point where she became the standard to which every other female rapper is compared against. And I think that’s a bit wrong. Hip hop and rap came from America, and she has the closest heart to that ‘original.’ I think that’s a good way to put it” (as cited in Park, 2015b, March 13). While Yoon is recognized as closest to the “original,” Yoon’s blackness also allows her to operate differently than other Korean female rappers. Yoon can become “original” not only in the sense she is the first female rapper to gain recognition in Korea, but also because of her blackness she is distinguished as different and unique. To the question why there has not been any female rappers since Yoon, Cheetah answers, “I think the public’s ears have been trained to Yoon and they are not opened to listening to anything else. If they are different from Yoon, the public goes ‘Oh, she’s bad.’ 227 Of course, it is up to us to grab the public’s attention. We gotten attention from being on Unpretty Rapstar, so it’s up to us to release albums, gain respect and find new territory for ourselves” (as cited in Park, 2015b, March 13). Tymee, who was also on Unpretty Rapstar, gives another reason, “To be honest, I wished for Yoon to really lead the hoobaes [juniors]. For male rappers, there’s a lot of brotherhood amongst crews and they look after one another. For example, they invite their hoobaes feature in songs. In the case of Yoon, I don’t think there was ever that. There has never been a female rapper in a prominent position who looked out for younger female artists or made the effort to do so” (as cited in Park, 2015b, March 13). Likewise, what Tymee notes is the lack of leadership or community as led by a prominent female rapper. The notion of community as manifested in brotherhood or crews will be examined in the next section. Community In her discussion of community building and feminism in hip hop, Himanee Gupta-Carlson (2010) uses the term community in multiple meanings including: (1) the people who connect with the artists either face-to-face or through Internet-based networks that the artists create to establish audiences and markets for their work and (2) the individuals who become part of a “public” receptive to calls for action made by hip hop artists engaged in political work (p. 517). For Gupta-Carlson, the prior group of community is similar to Benedict Anderson’s imagined communities, who through their willingness to support the artists, purchase music, attend performance and creates opportunities for them to work. While Gupta-Carlson examines female hip hop consumers and their potential in community building, Kalle Berggren (2014) looks at hip 228 hop feminism in Sweden to argue that it is not until 2011 when a female collective called Femtastic produced a seven-minute song called “Bland dom” that “the image of the female rapper in solitude was thoroughly challenged” (p. 242). While most female rappers are solo artists, it is common for male rappers to form networks or crews amongst one another (Berggren, 2014). This phenomenon is not unique to Sweden, but also common in Korea. For example, Wutan, co-CEO of Vismajor Company and member of hip hop crew Vismajor Crew states, “There are so many guys in the scene. If there are a lot of guys then it is kind of awkward for one or two girls to join. In that situation, guys prefer to be with guys. We joke amongst ourselves that Vismajor can never take a female member” (personal communication, October 16, 2014). While Wutan jokingly states this, it reflects a community where females cannot organically join whether that be in a social or musical setting as in the nature of hip hop crews. As Tricia Rose (1994) notes, family metaphors are often employed with a rapper’s “crew” in which “a local source of identity, group affiliation, and support system… forged with intercultural bonds” (1994, p. 10). Thus, crews become foundational units of community and networking within the hip hop scene. In Korea, almost all crews are same-sex and it is difficult to find coed crews, especially for professional rappers. Berggren (2014) argues that “hip hop is described as imbued with masculine norms that cast women as deviant” (p. 242). Berggren uses the metaphor of “walking alone” for female rappers, “an image that is immediately put to use as a metaphor for boasting about oneself as ‘standing out from the crowd’.” For Berggren, this represents a paradox of being both invisible and marked as deviant (2014, p. 242). This image of the 229 female rapper walking in solitude also transfers across Korean culture and society. For example, Jolly V speaks of the conditions in which female rappers operate within Korea: I don’t think it’s hard in terms of discrimination because if I look at the oppas they are really open to female rappers. Lil Cham, or Sleeq, or Kayon, these new women rappers if you look at Twitter, the oppas retweet stuff about them. Nobody is like ‘Go home because you are female.’ They are actually supportive and open. If I look at the guys they would get a crew and live in a flat together. If you have your own crew and live in the same flat you could start recording anytime. The creative environment is always there. Whereas for women, that’s really hard to happen. I think the oppas are also coping with more female artists coming to the scene. It’s all been male, male, male. And recently it’s a lot more females trying to emerge. And I think it’s something that not just the females but male artists have to cope with too. It’s sharing the same pie. They have to figure out how to communicate with the female artists. [Interviewer: Is there a mutual partnership? A welcoming from the male artists? Or is it more hostile?] If you look at Jerry K oppa he actually reached out to Sleeq, so in that case I think it’s really welcoming and open. But sometimes I do think that the oppas don’t ask for girls to feature [on tracks] because girls are just too good or they don’t want to be compared. I think if it was a good newbie guy, he would have used him. But I don’t think they want the comparison. (personal communication, July 14, 2014) 230 In Jolly V’s answer, what is interesting is not only the notion of males having a creative environment that is temporally shared and made together, but the very idea of male rappers “coping” with female artists coming into the scene. In one sense, for females entering the scene, it is not a notion of expanding the scene, but rather “sharing the same pie” which can be potentially threatening. In this case, a female rapper has easier transition and welcoming if she is endorsed by an established male rapper (e.g. Jerry.k who took Sleeq into his label, Daze Alive Music). For many artists—both male and female—opportunities to perform not only depend on their own ticket power, but also “personal connections” For example, Jolly V explains, “If it’s a show at Madholic and Kitti B is a friend with the Madholic manager, then she would probably be on that. I think there should be more female artists. One of the reasons those omnibus shows don’t have a lot of female artists is basically because there is no female artist with the ticket power to bring more audience. I think it’s something that the female artists have to work out” (personal communication, July 14, 2014). Likewise, Kayon uses words like “isolation” and “no connections” to describe how she feels in the hip hop scene. Kayon, a female rapper, who produced her debut solo album entirely on her own describes “the only way is to do it myself” because musical exchanges do not happen easily. Even as the leader and member of an all-female hip hop crew XXXYYY, Kayon explains that there are “four walls surrounding us,” not granting access into the heart of the scene. She explains, “This is something my crew members and I talk about. Our hope is that someone would see us perform and maybe call us next time. That is our next goal. It’s sad. It’s not that we want to make money by performing. We just want a bigger stage. It’d be nice to have a concert where people come to see us. I 231 think it will get better once more people know us. We are trying not to be discouraged and have hope. But it’s not easy. Things are getting better though. I released my album and I thought no one would listen to it. But after Rhythmer [an online magazine focusing on rap/hip hop and soul/R&B] wrote about it, the situation got better. The next level for us is to find opportunities to perform. We have to be more proactive” (personal communication, August 4, 2014). In Korea, it is rare for female rappers to release a full length solo album entirely of hip hop/rap music. In Kayon’s case, she self-taught how to make music and self- produced her album because there was no other way. She explains that there are barriers to socializing and this boils down to “a matter of number” (personal communication, August 4, 2014). “There isn’t discrimination necessarily but there is difficulty in getting close to musicians. And that could be a barrier into the scene. Boys can go ‘hyung, hyung’ and show their music. I think for us the only method [of survival in the scene] is dropping an album. Promoting? It’s difficult. We can do press releases but I think it’s more about socializing. It’s difficult to form connections or even just to chill and talk about music. There’s no one to seek advice from on beat making, mixing, producing, etc. We always have a thirst for musical exchanges” (Kayon, personal communication, August 4, 2014). For this project, I interviewed four female rappers who had all coincidently either just released or were in the midst of making their first full length album. All of them professed that it would be a dream for all female musicians to get together and collaborate. Yet, no one was taking initiative or making the move. This was largely because no one thought they were “big enough” a rapper to support other female rappers. For there to be a female community, they needed to make a 232 name for themselves first. This largely resonates in Sleeq’s answers: “There was a female community [called Lady Action]. It wasn’t a community of female rappers per se. It was more a community of women who like hip hop. It no longer exists. I don’t think it’ll be made again either. I can barely look after my own career. My number one priority is making it myself first. I think when there are a lot more established female rappers; a community will then be formed. We’ll collaborate together and perform together then. There is no one right now with that career. Yoon Mirae? Rimi? Rimi is no longer rapping” (personal communication, November 5, 2014). It is interesting to note that Sleeq’s own career started as a fan of hip hop where she used to participate in a female hip hop community called Lady Action. She recalls how she started: If you go to the Hiphopplaya website and look at the “Artist” section, they list every hip hop artist from A to ㅎ [hiŭh or Korean alphabet equivalent of “Z”]. I clicked on each one and searched their name in Soribada [Korea’s first peer-to-peer file-sharing service that launched in 2000]. If there was something, I’d listen to it. There was a female rap group named Chapter2. I signed up for Chapter 2’s online fan club. I used to log in and write things like ‘I’m a girl too and I am interested in rap’ and ‘I made my rap name today.’ I met a friend who was the same age and we exchanged messages before finally meeting offline. The first time we met, we went and saw a concert. As we got closer, we exchanged lyrics we had written. She told me about an opportunity to perform and that was Lady Action. We met at Haja Center and it was the first time that other people heard me rap. Lady Action was not a crew but a community that met every Sunday 233 at Haja Center. The leader of Lady Action would find opportunities for us to perform and when that opportunity came we would sign up and go. (personal communication, November 5, 2014) It is interesting to note that like many of the male rappers in Korea, Sleeq’s own career started as a fan girl who loved listening to hip hop. Through this love, she started participating in online communities and actively seeked for people she could exchange with musically. It also helps that there was an all female community that met offline called Lady Action. Through this community, Sleeq earned opportunities to perform and hone her skills as a rapper. Currently, there are no spaces or communities that function in this mechanism. Looking at American hip hop, Tricia Rose (1994) notes that “black women rappers are in dialogue with one another, black men, black women, and dominant American culture as they struggle to define themselves” (p. 148). It is within these dialogues that they respond to social issues including femininity and sexuality. It becomes clear that in Korean hip hop, female rappers are in need of this dialogue. It is only through an active seeking on their part that communities will be formed. It is through these communities that dialogues will emerge not only within female rappers, but also with their counterparts. Thus, it is through these conscious efforts that a hip hop community will grow together and offer cooperative and collaborative spaces for both male and female artists. 234 Unpretty Rapstar as Korea’s Female Rappers On January 12, 2015, Mnet announced that it will be launching a spin-off program from Show Me The Money (henceforth, SMTM). SMTM, a reality survival competition show “to pick Korea’s best rapper” has been at the forefront of music competition shows in terms of popularity and controversy since its launch in 2012. SMTM has had four successful seasons and is largely credited to bringing hip hop—a minor genre—to the public’s eye. Whilst SMTM boasted a male dominated cast, including judges and contestants, its spin-off—Unpretty Rapstar—aimed at showcasing female rappers. It is interesting that there were only two female rappers who were judges in previous SMTM seasons (Miryo in Season 1 and Lexy in Season 2). Miryo was eliminated early in the season and Lexy withdrew from the show because of her frustrations with how the program was edited. Unpretty Rapstar’s format is completely different from SMTM in that there are no open auditions or nationwide calls. For Unpretty Rapstar, the participants were decided beforehand by the producers: Jessi, Jolly V, Cheetah, Jimin from AOA, Tymee, Kisum, Lil Cham and Yuk Jidam. Jessi debuted in 2005 as a member of Uptown and continues her career today as the vocal of group Lucky J. Jimin is the leader and rapper for K-pop group AOA. Jolly V and Lil Cham are independent rappers with full length album releases. Tymee and Cheetah are rappers who have enjoyed relative media exposure in the mainstream scene. Finally, Kisum and Yuk Jidam are television personalities known for being contestants on SMTM. Yuk Jidam, a high schooler at the time she appeared on SMTM was largely ridiculed because of her lack of skills. Through Unpretty Rapstar, Yuk Jidam worked to redeem herself, so to speak. Jolly V, Cheetah and Tymee have also competed in previous seasons 235 of SMTM but did not make it far in the program. Each participant would compete for a track produced by a guest judge. These tracks would later be part of Korea’s first all- female rap compilation album. The program raises many questions including those of visibility and representation. The very first of which is the absence of a female host which is troubling for a show that showcases an all-female cast. Why not have Yoon Mirae or any other female artist or celebrity be the host of the show? The second issue, one that is perhaps central to this chapter, comes from the title Unpretty Rapstar. In the marketing of the show, the term unpretty is defined as “not pretty” or “not acting pretty.” The slogan for the show also emphasizes this aspect: Now begin the hip hop wars between those who don’t act pretty. For women, it becomes apparent that their appearance is equally important or even more important than their skill as a rapper. It also becomes that female rappers must be unpretty to be associated with “real” hip hop. 236 Program Description In Korea, hip hop is a major trend! As the Korean hip hop scene is dominated by male rappers, female rappers have not gotten attention. We bring you the masterpiece of talented female rappers whom you’ve not heard of so far. With the participation of Korea’s top producers comes the first all-female compilation album, <Unpretty Rapstar>! Eight female rappers will compete to determine who will get each track. One could end up participating in all tracks, or leave without participating in one single song. It’s a fierce survival of the digital single wars. From underground rappers to idols! It’s the clash of rough hip hop from talented female rappers who don’t act pretty. Figure 14. Official teaser poster and program description for Unpretty Rapstar which launched its first season in January 2015 Program Structure The program structure is troubling in that (1) it features a male host and (2) it invites [male] judges/producers to select [female] contestants/rappers. Rapper San E is the host MC for the program. San E is not your average host in that he is one of the biggest chart selling rappers in Korea today. San E is also older than most contestants on the show and is seen often employing the informal speech with the female rappers. He also references himself as oppa on numerous occasions. This not only places him above 237 the contestants in age, but also creates a hierarchy in which the [male] MC oversees [female] contestants. The notion of oppa also automatically places a hierarchy in the relationship where females are deemed in need of protection or in a position of inferiority than males. In addition to this, all judges and producers who star as guests on the show are established male rappers. The only exceptions for female guests were when Ailee and Insooni, both vocalists, participated in collaborative stages with the female rappers. Thus, the program structure itself creates a repeated scenario where male producers judge and select female contestants. This not only places male rappers in a hierarchy above female rappers, but by giving them the power, reinforces the preconception that male rappers are more talented than female rappers. Within this format, female rappers must compete for the attention of male judges, whether it be using their skill or appearance. In one of the most visually striking scenes, fifteen male rappers participated as judges for the final teamwork battle. Jessi largely protested against the results of Kisum and Jimin’s stage where they were picked over another group who were evidently more skilled in their delivery and performance. Jessi’s argument was that Kisum and Jimin were selected because they used their “cuteness” to appeal to the judges. Vasco, one of the judges, almost proves Jessi correct. In an interview commentary on the show Vasco states, “The stage was nice in that it was different. It was cute and adorable. You don't have to swear or act manly for it to be hip hop.” 238 Figure 15. In the last teamwork battle, female rappers grouped in pairs to compete for the final track on the compilation album. 239 There are also moments in the program where Kangnam, a guest judge and member of K-pop group M.I.B., comments that he would have dated Cheetah were it not for her short hair. Figure 16. Kangnam (above) claims that he would have dated Cheetah (bottom) if he liked women with short hair. Kangnam deems Cheetah as “scary” as she sports a pixie haircut which is different from other contestants who have shoulder length hair. Unlike Show Me the Money, where contestants were judged on their rap skills and star quality, Unpretty Rapstar offers male judges an opportunity to critique female contestants as women (or potential date partners) and not as rappers. Much like Murali Balaji’s (2010) argument that “the representation of Black womanhood continues to be dominated by the production of her body as a 240 commodity” (p. 7), Korean female rappers must showcase themselves, as demonstrated in the figure above, under the gaze and direction of their male counterparts. “I’m a Pretty Pretty Girl.” In the very opening scenes of Unpretty Rapstar, Jimin is treated with reluctance and ridicule by other contestants. Jolly V asks Jimin if she even likes hip hop. This comes from preconceived judgments on idol group members who rap. As leader and member of AOA, Jimin has to prove herself as a “rapper” on Unpretty Rapstar. This includes the ability to write lyrics. Although Jimin receives criticism for constantly including the lines “I’m a pretty pretty girl” in her lyrics on the show, Jimin displays her stage presence and professionalism that has been continuously cultivated through her training with AOA. In one interview, Jimin talks about how she became a rapper because no one in the group could rap and there were other members who were better singers than her (as cited in Park, S., 2015, February 13). In the show, Jimin distinguishes herself as different from the Jimin as part of AOA, “I think being able to tell my own story is what makes hip hop attractive. I am able to tell my own story through this program. The lyrics I write, they are those only I can write. I also write lyrics as part of AOA, but these are more stories drawn from the composer or from AOA’s concept. Of course, I think of them as my stories when I am on stage. But this time [on Unpretty Rapstar], it’s really my own story” (as cited in Park, S., 2015, February 13). Using the Unpretty Rapstar platform, Jimin works to establish herself as an “idol rapper,” much like Rap Monster in Chapter 3 of this dissertation, through a show-and-prove of her stage presence, skill, and sincerity. 241 Throughout the episodes, San E is seen multiple times giving Jimin compliments by calling her “pretty.” In Episode 1, San E questions why Jimin is there on the show by saying to her, “You are pretty rapstar.” On Episode 7, San E introduces Jimin by stating, “From a pretty idol, she is becoming an unpretty rapstar. Let’s give it up for Jimin.” Here we see how idol is juxtaposed to a rapper as is being pretty and “unpretty.” The same barometer is also taken with Kisum, who originally auditioned and was eliminated in the preliminary rounds for the second season of SMTM. Kisum’s audition scene was widely circulated in which she was told by Swings, a judge rapper, to concentrate more on improving her skills than taking care of her appearance. It is this double bind that Kisum works to break free from in Unpretty Rapstar. What becomes even more troubling is when appearance also becomes a key issue between female rappers to identify who is more “real.” Throughout the episodes we see Jessi make attacks at Lil Cham criticizing her for wanting “to look the prettiest and dress the sexiest” when she should have been concentrating on her rapping skills. Jessi continuously calls Lil Cham a “midget” and declares her not a “real” rapper. Jessi also criticizes Jolly V by telling her “to loosen up her ugly face.” Tymee continuously calls Jolly V a “pig” and uses the term “sly foxes” to refer to the other contestants. Unpretty Rapstar is perhaps the only platform that is dedicated to showcasing female rappers in Korea. It provides a rare opportunity where female rappers could have critiqued or raised awareness on the current male dominated hip hop scene. Yet, the program served as a stage that only magnified these problems. In one newspaper interview with Tymee, Lil Cham and Cheetah, the headline read, “Why do we fight? Because we are women.” In this article, Cheetah claims that “Women don't like other 242 women. It is only natural to compete” (as cited in Park, 2015c, March 13). Thus, Unpretty Rapstar becomes a stage for cat fights where women are depicted as emotional and jealous. While the preliminary rounds of SMTM promoted a sense of cooperation and collaboration between rappers to deliver a professional stage that judges can deliberate on, Unpretty Rapstar starts with a cypher and music video mission where the contestants are asked to publically vote for the worst and best rapper. This immediately sets the tone of the show where there is little collaboration or cooperation. The interview scenes are often treated as opportunities where contestants can talk behind each other backs calling one another as “sly foxes.” While SMTM worked to showcase a sense of professionalism and camaraderie, Unpretty Rapstar works to escalate conflict amongst contestants. As Jessi put it “it’s every man for himself.” It is also highly ironic that female rappers reinforced prejudices and restrictions on to themselves and each other. In the program, there was a short moment in which Jessi talks about “women power” and how she would have liked to demonstrate that by using the program. This conversation stops at just that. There is no story or narrative on what the female rappers learned or shared among themselves. There is no behind-the-scenes look into why they started rapping or what attracted them to hip hop. In essence, what is missing from both the actual hip hop scene and its re-creation in the media is what Keyes (2000) notes as how for black female rappers, performance becomes a platform “to refute, deconstruct, and reconstruct alternative visions of their identity. With this platform, rap music becomes a vehicle by which Black female rappers seek empowerment, make choices, and create spaces for themselves and other sistas” (p. 265). 243 Unpretty Rapstar as Pretty Dutiful Daughters In the absence of female mentors or judges, what is interesting is the introduction of mothers in the program. In the semi-final stage of the competition, the mothers of each contestant (with the exception of Jimin and Yuk Jidam) are present in the audience to watch her daughter’s performance. The camera not only captures facial expressions of the mothers, but also includes human interest story clips highlighting mother-daughter relationships. Through this narrative, the “unpretty rapstar” becomes the “pretty dutiful daughter.” Slang and swear words become tamed by a desire to perform well in front of their mothers. Interestingly enough, the program also filters curse words by bleeping them throughout the program. For example, Kisum's semi-final stage is titled “To Mom.” In this song, Kisum raps, “You were beautiful from the day you were born / Your high nose and clear eyes / Everything you do is cute, do you know that? / You have the strength of Hulk, woman power / This is not boasting, it's a fact / Everyone agrees.” She hands a bouquet of flowers to Insooni, an iconic vocalist who collaborates with Kisum on stage. Kisum says, “This stage is dedicated to all the mothers in the world.” Another example is Jessi who states, “I came to Korea when I was young. I got into a lot of trouble, made a lot of mistakes and didn’t listen to my mom. I am sorry for that. I am so glad my mom is here. It feels like she was protecting me.” Thus, mother-daughter relationships are recuperated through the daughter’s dutiful sense of hyo and love for her mother. Through the program, the unpretty rapstar becomes the pretty dutiful daughter. 244 In the ending of Unpretty Rapstar, San E, as the host of show, states, “These are the female rappers that lead the Korean hip hop scene. Unpretty Rapstar. We wish you don’t dishonor this name and work hard to become beautiful rappers. We look forward to hearing real hip hop from you.” The program leaves many unanswered questions including the notion of “unpretty rapstar,” which it never unpacked throughout its episodes or through contestant interviews. Why must one work hard to become a “beautiful rapper”? What is “real” hip hop? To the question what is success for these rappers, Lil Cham answers, “I think I’d consider myself successful if I am still rapping ten years from now. It’s really difficult for female rappers, not only outside of Korea, but especially in Korea” (as cited in Park, 2015b, March 13). Similarly, Tymee’s notion of success is topping the digital charts with a solo release filled entirely with rap which is “very difficult, but one can dream” (as cited in Park, 2015b, March 13). Unpretty Rapstar continued with an even more controversial Season 2 in September 2015. It is scheduled to return with a third season in 2016. Whilst this show has undoubtedly heightened the visibility of female rappers in an unprecedented manner, the notion of being (un)pretty needs a more nuanced use and understanding, especially in consideration of what is taken as “real” hip hop and what is at stake in representing gender and identity in Korean popular culture and media. 245 Conclusion In January 2016, Korea’s largest cable music channel, Mnet, announced it would soon be opening auditions for the fifth season of Show Me the Money (SMTM). As the “first rap competition TV show in Korea,” SMTM 5 promised a “global hip hop battle” for its upcoming season. In five seasons, SMTM had evolved into a show about selecting “Korea’s best rapper” into a self-proclaimed “global hip hop battle.” The “global,” in fact, was justified by the fact that it would be holding auditions outside of Korea. It is not uncommon to see other audition programs like K-Pop Star and Superstar K hold auditions outside of the country. In fact, Superstar K Season 7 held auditions in thirteen different locations, including nine cities within Korea and four locations outside of Korea. SMTM 5 is scheduled to hold two auditions, one in Seoul and the other in Los Angeles. SMTM’s decision to hold auditions outside of Korea largely reflects its increasing popularity. The average ratings for SMTM 4 (3.5% Nielson Korea, aired ten episodes from June 26, 2015 to August 28, 2015) surpassed that of Superstar K Season 7 (2.0% Nielson Korea, aired fourteen episodes from August 20, 2015 to November 19, 2015). This is quite significant in that hip hop is still considered a “minor” style of music in Korea as reflected in the sheer number of contestants alone as exemplified in the modest number of audition cities for the program. The self-positioning of SMTM as a site of “global hip hop battle” also poses interesting questions. Keith Howard (2006) writes that “the early 1990s in Korea saw a shift to ‘ideoscapes’ and ‘technoscapes’ that gradually were brought under control by financial and marketing concerns, ‘fianacescapes’ and ‘mediascapes’. Korean musicians would consider it unnecessary to discuss Appadurai’s fifth ‘-scape,’ the ‘ethnoscape,’ at 246 least during the decade under discussion: pop music was Korean because it was produced, performed, and marketed in Korea” (p. 83). Two decades later from the period under discussion by Howard, Korean pop music is no longer simply produced, performed, and marketed in Korea. In fact, the self-positioning of SMTM as a “global hip hop battle” is noteworthy in that it is not only envisioning an audience and participation that extends outside of Korea, but also in another sense introducing and bringing Korean hip hop—at least in the larger context of media and representation—to the home of hip hop (America). While not overly generalizing or conflating the idea of the “global,” it will probably be played out in the program to introduce both Korean American and non- Korean contestants. Language will be of critical issue as one cannot get too far as a contestant on the program with just English lyrics or lack of understanding the Korean language, as exemplified in the previous seasons. What “global” also alludes to is the notion of a transnational audience for the program. The idea of global visibility is one that is deeply tied to notions of cultural, ethnic, racial, and national identity. Likewise, as demonstrated throughout the dissertation, Korean hip hop—or Hanguk hip hop—is a musical site of struggle between majority/minority, center/periphery, global/local/national, culture/commodity, etc. Because of the heightened visibility of hip hop in Korean media and popular culture, these struggles manifest in conditions that greatly affect musicians in the “rap game” and consequently the making of Korean hip hop. Hanguk hip hop—from its birth—has been a site of continuous cross-cultural exchange, including (1) flow of [American] hip hop to Korea via music, television, fashion, and popular culture, (2) travel of disaporic Koreans from America to Korea and also within Korea, and more recently, (3) global circulation of Korean hip hop via 247 YouTube and social media. The labeling of hip hop that is made in Korea “Hanguk hip hop” is more than simply tying music to a certain nation or place. Within these debates are what can be considered as “Hanguk,” including the people, languages, and sounds that are involved in making the music, the listenership, and ultimately the socioeconomic, historical, and cultural conditions and sensibilities in which the music is made. The production, circulation, and consumption of Korean hip hop within “circuits of culture” as described by Hall et al. (2013) are ultimately tied to defining Korean identities and Koreanness in a mediated world. In the making of Hanguk hip hop, musicians share a desire to make hip hop without being unconscious of its history, legacy, and roots as tied to America, nor disregarding their own identities as based in Korean society, history, and culture. Ultimately, Korean hip hop as music born in pulan—individual as well as societal anxiety or uncertainty—is a reflection of contemporary Korean society as it strives to be a global economic and cultural power. The compressed modernity Korea has endured is manifested in many conditions including those of collapse (Nancy Abelmann, 2003) and the consequent sociocultural and economic instability and uncertainty that its people have endured. As each chapter has demonstrated, Hanguk hip hop is not only an artistic and musical way of coping with pulan, but also a form of pulan itself, as negotiated on multiple dimensions including (1) space and place, (2) economy, (3) cultural production, and (4) gender. Through these discussions, it becomes clear that containing Hanguk hip hop to one stable definition is neither possible nor conducive to the understanding of Korean hip hop in its local, global, and (trans)national contexts. What these debates offer are ways of 248 contextualizing the making of hip hop in Korea—production, circulation, consumption— that is rooted in sociocultural, historical, and economic conditions of Korea. By doing so, this project offers a more nuanced understanding of the meaning of hip hop in Korea that considers the travel of music and culture across geographical boundaries and the subsequent movements of people, sounds, languages, and technologies. As hip hop continues to grow in Korea, the heightened visibility and proliferation will add to its pulan as music and culture. What this signifies, however, is the possibility for the continued development of Hanguk hip hop not just as a musical style, but a shared culture and way of life. Or as Deepflow in “We All Made Us” (2012) rhymed, “To the phrase, ‘As far as here,’ only lies a question mark.” 249 References Abelmann, Nancy. (2003). The melodrama of mobility: Women, talk, and class in contemporary South Korea. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Abelmann, N., Park, S., & Kim, H. (2013). On their own: Becoming cosmopolitan subjects beyond college in South Korea. 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Realest shit ever. On South Korean rapstar mixtape [CD]. Seoul: Genuine Music. Dok2. (2013). So real. On South Korean rapstar mixtape [CD]. Seoul: Genuine Music. Dok2 (2014). ChiGiChaGaChoGoCho. [Single]. Seoul: CJ E&M. Dok2, Beenzino & The Quiett. (2011). Mr. Independent 2. On Hustle real hard [CD]. Seoul: Hiphopplaya. Dok2, Beenzino & The Quiett. (2012). Profile. On 24:26 [CD]. Seoul: Genuine Music. Dok2, Beenzino & The Quiett. (2014). YGGR. On 11:11 [CD]. Seoul: CJ E&M. Dok2 & The Quiett (2013). 2 Chainz & Rollies. On AMBITIQN [CD]. Seoul: CJ E&M. Garion. (2004). Yet iyagi [Old story]. On Garion [CD]. Seoul: Ales Music. 265 Geeks. (2012). Breathless remix (featuring Ugly Duck, Fana, Zion T., Crucial Star, Zico, DJ Dopsh). On Geeks 2nd mini album repackage [CD]. Seoul: KT Music. Jazzyfact. (2011). Always Awake. [Single]. Seoul: Hiphopplaya. Jerry.k. (2012). We all made us (featuring Paloalto, The Quiett, Deepflow and Dok2). On True self [CD]. Seoul: Genuine Music. Rap Monster. (2013). Too Much. Released on https://soundcloud.com/bangtan/rap- monster-too-much The Quiett. (2011). Came from the bottom. On Stormy Friday [CD]. Seoul: CJ E&M. The Quiett. (2013). AMBITIQN. On AMBITIQN [CD]. Seoul: CJ E&M. The Quiett. (2013). Tomorrow. On AMBITIQN [CD]. Seoul: CJ E&M. 266 Appendix A: Biographical information of artists interviewed for the project Artist Gend er Year of Birth Place of Birth Living Abroad Introduction to hip hop (Year) Introduction to hip hop (Song/Artist) Year of Debut Born Kim M 1981 Seoul N 1997 Tupac, Biggie, NWA 2001 Chaboom M 1985 Ansan Y 1998 “I’ll Be Missing You” by Puff Daddy, Wu- Tang Clan, Mobb Deep 2006 Crucial Star M 1989 Seoul N 2005 The Quiett 2009 Deegie M 1981 Seoul Y 1992 / 1995 Seo Taiji and the Boys, Deux, DJ D.O.C / Cypress Hill 1998 Deepflow M 1984 Seoul N 1998 Cho PD, Drunken Tiger 2002 DJ Son M 1980 Busan Y 1992 Seo Taiji & the Boys, Hyun Jinyoung, Deux 2000 DJ Wreckx M 1974 N 10th grade Music videos that were played on the segment “Video Link” on AFKN 1998 Dok2* M 1990 Kyŏng ju N Early childhood Nas 2005 Don Mills M 1988 Suwŏn Y 2002 Eminem 2010 Double K M 1982 Seoul Y 1993 Shaq Diesel by Shaquille O’Neal 2001 267 Huckleberr y P M 1984 Sŏngn am N 1992 / 1999 Seo Taiji and the Boys, Deux / Cho PD, Drunken Tiger, 1999 Taehanmin'gu k, Master Plan compilation album 2007 Ignito M 1982 Seoul N 1992 / 1997 Seo Taiji & the Boys, Hyun Jinyoung / Wu-Tang Clan, Dr. Dre 2001 Illinit M 1982 Seoul Y 1994 Cypress Hill 2001 Jerry.k M 1984 Seoul N 1998 Cho PD, Jinusean 2004 JJK M 1985 Ameri ca Y 7th grade Korean hip hop 10th grade Jolly V F 1989 Y 5th / 6th grade Nelly, Ying Yang Twins 2008 Kayon F 1986 Seoul N 2000 / 2002 Deux / The Chronic by Dr. Dre 2014 Kebee M 1983 1996 Wu-Tang Clan, Tupac, Biggie 2000 Lil Cham F 1991 2005 Missy Elliott, Ludacris 2008 Maniac** M 1980 Nurnb erg Y Thirteen Compilation album called 2 Nasty 4 Radio 1999 MC Meta M 1971 Daegu N 1988 / 1989 Something on AFKN radio which he can’t recall the name of 1998 268 Naachal M 1977 P'aju N “Hip Hop Hooray” by Naughty by Nature 1998 Olltii M 1996 Anyan g N 5th / 6th grade 10th grade P-Type M 1979 Seoul N 1999 Paloalto M 1984 Seoul Y 9th grade Wu-Tang Clan, Jay-Z, Garion, Joosuc 2003 Pento M 1985 P'ohan g N Elementary school “I’ll Be Missing You” by Puff Daddy, Tupac, Talib Kweli, Madlib 2002 Pinnacle TheHustler *** M 1985 Cincin nati, Ohio Y 1997 “Make Em Say Uhh” - Master P 2008 San E M 1985 Inch'ŏ n Pup'yŏ ng Y 1994 Seo Taiji and the Boys 2010 Sleeq F 1991 N 2000 / 2004 “I’ll Be Missing You” by P Diddy / “Nu Skool” by Double K 2007 Sool J M 1983 Kŏjed o Okp'o N 1992 Seo Taiji and the Boys 2005 The Quiett M 1985 Anyan g N 1999 No Way Out - Puff Daddy 2001 Vasco M 1980 Y Early 1990s / 1996 MC Hammer, Kriss Kross / “Hypnotize” by Biggie 2000 269 *Dok2 is of Filipino-Spanish and Korean descent. **Maniac is of African-American and Korean descent. *** Pinnacle TheHustler is African-American. Note: Information that was not provided in the interview has been left blank. What counts as “debut” differed for each artist. While some saw their first stage performance as their official debut, others counted their first single or album or featured track release as their debut. The years recorded here follow the information as told by artists and should not be taken as a unified method of counting one’s debut. Rather, the years should work to illustrate a general flow and trajectory in the beginning of one’s career as a musician. Wutan M 1989 Ilsan Y High school Drunken Tiger, CB Mass, Epik High, Nas, Jay-Z 2010

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Creator Song, Myoung-Sun (author)

Core Title Hanguk, hip hop: the making of hip hop in South Korea

School Annenberg School for Communication

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Communication

Publication Date 04/19/2020

Defense Date 10/30/2015

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag consumption,identity,Korean hip hop,K-pop,OAI-PMH Harvest,youth subculture

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Advisor Gross, Larry P. (committee chair), Kun, Josh (committee chair), Choe, Youngmin (committee member), Lutkehaus, Nancy (committee member)

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