Drumming

We go to a local Janggu performance. That's the Korean drums. On the surface similar to Japanese Taiko; but not really like it. The mood is different.

We are at a cultural exposition by hobby groups. Just down the block from the professional Opera we saw the night before.

They were going to do it outside, but it is raining. So we are ushered into a building, along a hall filled with older ladies in drumming get-up, into a small classroom with about 30 folding chairs set out. I'm wondering why I came. But I didn't really have a choice. Eunjoo decided that Lisa wanted to see it, and what Lisa wants to do on a weekend, we do. Lucy is off studying, so it is just the three of us.

There are three chairs open, together in the back, but a fellow looks like he might be saving one.

"There," says Eunjoo, the joy of the hunt in her voice, "You sit there." My wife has no time for niceties.

It's 50-50 on a given day whether I react to being told what to do, as any 48 year old married man would, by doing the opposite. But I am relieved to find, being half-way to the chair when the instruction comes, that today I genially comply. I must be of two minds about it though. My wife would like me to take the chair I am entitled to, but I, being me, ask the fellow if the chair beside him is free. He apparently cannot talk, or cannot talk to foreigners, but he makes a vague gesture to the chair, and I take it to be an invitation to sit there.

A group of old men and women are dressed up in drummer clothes at the front of the classroom. One of them gives a long-winded explanation of the drumming we are about to see. He is Old Daegu, which means he has the regional accent, and I cannot understand a word he says. The group of them is cute. They are smiling and chatting and having fun.

I'm not expecting to enjoy this, but they finally start, and it is enthralling. The drumming rolls through the small classroom and buffets us. You can feel it beating through your whole body. I'm immediately engaged. I've seen Janggu before. It is quite athletic, so I was not expecting much of these older folk. And perhaps they were not as athletic about it as the students I have seen doing it. But their drumming and their dancing is pure joy. Infective joy.

When I first moved to Korea, I think my intention was to move back to Canada when I retired. House prices in BC these days make this seem impossible. So I have been trying to picture myself as an old retired man living here. I thought there were two choices for retired men. Drinking makkoli all day in a park, or drinking soju under the bridge while watching other old men play Go. Sometimes I wonder if I should learn Go.

"There might be a third option." I whisper to my wife.

"I think you would be great at this Mark." she whispers back, "You could be the dancing guy with the long fake bear, he has no rhythm at all."

"Exactly! I wonder if I should start growing a beard."

"It's never to early to start!"

The next group is younger. The middle aged troupe. They have a bit more agility. One aspect of Janggu that I haven't seen in Taiko is the tendency of the drummers to exhibit individual flare. There is one hefty fellow who spins like a dervish; and there is a dentist who flips his drumstick while engaging audience members with the beautific smile a street magician.

Next are the singers. It isn't just drummers today. The woman giving the overlong explanation of this one wonders if the foreigner can understand her.

"I'm okay," I answer, "but maybe you could give a short explanation in English for that guy. " I point to a guy who is filming with a camera on a tripod.

"I'm Korean," he protests.

"Yeah," I say, covering, "I just thought you looked a little slow."

Another woman in front of me, in performance garb, is setting up a camera. An officious looking woman beside her, in high yellow socks, tells a presumed minion in the back of the room to turn off the air conditioning.

The explainer explains that singing traditional Korean music is much more entertaining than watching it. I wonder if this is the right thing to explain to an audience. Yellow-socks nods along as though this is a patent truth. My wife seems to agree.

Three singers take turns singing bits of the story. I don't understand any of it, but it sounds okay. Yellow-socks is happily singing along with each of the singers. It is, after all, more entertaining than watching.

For me, I might prefer to hear the spotlighted singers than to hear Yellow-socks. But maybe I just don't get Korean culture.

When the singing ends Yellow-socks exclaims to Camera-lady, beside her, how well they did. Camera lady politely humours her. Apparently everyone here is well used to humouring Yellow-socks.

Next, Camera-lady is up. It seems she had been setting up the camera to record herself. Yellow-socks moves over into her seat and helpfully adjusts the camera that Camera-lady had just meticulously setup. I watch Camera-lady for the inevitable signs of the frustration, but she is serene.

I don't have great eye-sight, but I squint like Costanza. And she remains completely unfazed. Perhaps I have misread the situation.

Yellow-socks sings along with Camera-lady and the other singers. Right into the camera. I wonder if Camera-lady notices this, but again, no amount of squinting shows anything. She'll notice it when she tries to watch it, I guess.

Next are a trio of story-tellers. Story-singers. The explainer for them explains how story-telling is much more fun with interactions. Like a Southern Baptist Church Sermon, Cholla-do storytelling is punctuated with Pan-sori-- shouts of encouragement and agreement from the audience.

"You can yell, 'Jal han-da' or 'Kou ji go' or 'Cho ji go', whatever seems appropriate."

"Jal han da!" I yell.

"Not yet" my wife whispers.

The Pan-sori is a cool effect. It really adds to the performance. But when you've urged an audience with the likes of Yellow-socks to participate, it is a bit over-done and awkward.

"Hallalujah Sister!" I yell. "Tell it like it is!"

The story-telling turns saucy. Turns out that this is a feature of traditional story-telling. I don't know it is saucy. I just know that the singers keep sneaking me saucy looks and pulling their skirts up to show me their ankles. I wave them off, pointing my finger guardedly at my wife sitting beside me. But they are relentless. Sure I am handsome, but this wanton flirting is a side of traditional Korea I have never seen. Perhaps it starts to explain how K-pop fits into what seems like an otherwise conservative nation.

When we leave, my wife apologises that it was boring.

"I enjoyed it." I said, falling into her trap.

"Of course you did, with those harlots fawning over you, the one man there under 70," she brims, "You loved it."