Punks in Korea

Photos by Jon Dunbar

There aren’t many countries left in the world that haven’t been touched by the bare-knuckled, tar-stained hand of punk.

It’s in Asia, it’s in Africa, it’s probably been to Antarctica. Hell, it’s broken into the People’s Republic of China, and a French record company has promised a compilation CD of punk bands from Iran. In streets, in bars, in parks in all countries, punks are united in their struggle for existence.

In Seoul, South Korea, the punks gather at a basement room called Skunk Hell, where they celebrate this tiny corner of the world they’ve conquered. They embrace friends and pretend not to notice that, in a city of ten million, they are only 200 strong at the best of times. Sometimes it feels like the herd is shrinking, but I have a hunch this is an unfounded fear that’s been around since the beginning.

Punk’s beginning in Korea wasn’t long ago, maybe around 1994 when Drug opened in the club district next to Hongik University. Early on, Korean punk had the will, but often lacked the way. High-energy acts like Crying Nut and No Brain planted the seeds, extolling the sounds of punk hits like Green Day and the Sex Pistols. Most of them didn’t mimic punk directly and hardly claimed to be punk themselves, opting for their own original styles. They drove the Drug record label onto TV, onto the charts, and into the mainstream. Over time, the bands’ success snowballed, and they moved farther and farther away from punk.

Meanwhile, the seeds planted began to sprout. Kids had heard what punk had to offer and they looked outward for inspiration. By the end of the century, there were kids with spiky mohawks, skate punks, hardcore youth crews, straight-edge punks, rudies, skinheads, and crusty gutter punks. A new generation of bands formed, and when they found the doors of Drug closed to new groups and new sounds, a great splintering occurred. With no record labels for punk bands, they made their own. Members of No Brain started Cujo Entertainment, and soon they were one among peers. The hardcore bands united under GMC Records. Skunk was born of the streetpunk band Rux, led by one charismatic punk named Jonghee Won. If Korean punk was born in 1994, this was puberty.

Angry, hormone-fueled puberty. The attitude developed that Drug was a sellout and real punks would avoid it. Skunk became the punk alternative to an increasingly isolated Drug Records. The skinhead band Captain Bootbois smirked at pretenders with their song “We’ll Kick You Down.” When audiences started to abandon Drug, the owner invited Rux and other bands to come and play, but the rift was too wide. In January 2004 he quietly sold the Drug property to Skunk and moved on to a more diverse live club. The first thing the new owners did was cover up old graffitti with grey paint. “We want to start our own history,” said Jonghee Won, as the paint dried.

This new tribe hasn’t yet reached the legacy left by Drug, but they’ve done one thing remarkably different—their borders have opened. Although Crying Nut became a household name, few of Drug’s endeavors broke waves abroad. While they adopted the philosophy that their music was Korean before it was punk, the newer generation cares very much about the outside world.

American punk is the blueprint of punk music in Korea. If you ask a random punk who the most influential punk bands are, they will likely include the Casualties, Rancid, and the Unseen. The youngest punks especially clamor for that sort of thing. However, the roots in Britain are not ignored, as Cock Sparrer is a crowd favorite, and Japan’s scene is a huge influence on Korean punk. The Koreans listen to what the world has to say, and they’re eager to be a part of the worldwide punk community. This desire was reflected in the name of Skunk’s great compilation, “We are the Punx in Korea.” The name was chosen over “We are the Korean Punx” to acknowledge the foreigners in the scene. The Korean skinhead hardcore band Captain Bootbois released an EP on Brutus. The screamo group 49 Morphines had their latest album mastered in Belgium. Also, there was a fleeting rumour that GumX, a skatepunk band, may be signed to Fat Wreck Chords in America. Gae Dogook, the singer of punkcore band Fuckers Everywhere, changed his name to DK because he thought his real name was too difficult. Rux puts it best with their anthem “Oorinoon Hanmaeum,” where they proclaim “We should all unite/because our minds are all the same.”

For fifty years the country has been in a cold war with their brothers, who are held back only by an unapologetic US military occupation. And the worst part: South Korea’s mandatory military service.

The unity in Korea’s punk is a well-deserved virtue. At my first show when I saw that straightedge band the Geeks was playing, I hid my beer and looked for the exits. But I met the lead singer, who turned out to be a great guy. His band covers “If the Kids are United” by Sham 69, which rallies everyone together here.

Another contentious subgroup of punk is skinheads and, yes, they’re here too. Korea’s skinhead scene popped up around the turn of the century when an American student showed up and gave them a new perspective on punk. Soon he had a small army of freshcuts, the first being a mouthy son-of-a-bitch named Seungpa Jang who started the band Jiraltan99. Korean skinheads enjoy everything from reggae to white power music. Although they understand what the music stands for, the sound of many skinhead bands comes from this odd influence.

Nazism is enjoyed solely on an ironic level, but certainly not universally. This issue is especially contenious with Samchung, one of the oldest, most intense, most bad-ass hardcore bands. They cover “Tomorrow Belongs to Me,” from Skrewdriver, which has ruffled some feathers and led to them calling themselves “Korea’s most hated punk band.” Named after a South Korean prison for suspected criminals, political dissidents, and misfits in the ’80s, they play with the intensity of a state execution.

But politics take a backseat to lifestyle for most Korean punks. Bands like Jiraltan99, Couch, and Spiky Brats sing about drinking and chaos. The mosaic of styles is impressive, and even more impressive is that everyone works together.

These names are familiar to all punks in South Korea, because most of them play weekly in Skunk Hell or nearby. Bands play punctual sets and shows usually end around 10:00pm, so punks from the farthest reaches can catch a subway home. At that point, you’re faced with the decision, to go home early or stay up until the subways open at 5:30 and get fucking crunk with everyone.

Some yuppie bar will find itself filled with around thirty punks looking for cheap booze. Most of the yuppies will switch seats to sit away from the punks, but the servers will be forced to accomodate the spiky-haired kids. Bars are not restricted to closing at a certain hour, so drinking proceeds until there’s nobody left to drink. Punks drink makoli (unfiltered rice wine), soju (starch-based booze that tastes as strong as vodka but is only 22%), and beer. It’s also fine to sleep in bars, so as morning grows close, some will curl up between two chairs and doze. I was having a discussion with a seventeen year old skinhead once about reggae when he passed out and gradually burped up a huge puddle of puke. He was allowed to sleep there, because nobody in the bar had the stones to out a possibly unruly horde of intoxicated punks.

And then there’s the park. Right in front of Hongik University, they pick a spot and camp there until dawn. Over there, some white hippies are playing with bongos. Further on, skaters show off their tricks. Next to the swings, there’s drinking, talking, sometimes fighting, sometimes sleeping, plenty of spitting.

A young girl jumps off the slide and runs up to a punk and a skinhead. “Ew, spitting’s gross! Stop it! You have to lick that up right now!” They laugh and she walks away. She returns with her brother, who’s even smaller than her. They keep laughing, spitting, and drinking, and finally she goes away. If the next day is a work day, the punks call in sick and have a hangover day, because nothing’s more important than friends and fun. “Drinking and fun everyday,” proclaim Jiraltan99, the top skinhead band of the country.

Everyone has some reason to drink. Some hate their jobs, some don’t have jobs. Korea’s economy is faltering, and too many companies are outsourcing labour and manufacturing jobs to nearby developing countries. Their government is democratic but unstable and continuously undermined by the traditionalist opposition party. For fifty years the country has been in a cold war with their brothers, who are held back only by an unapologetic US military occupation. And the worst part: South Korea’s mandatory military service.

Every Korean male is required to serve in the Army for two years of their lives. At least everyone not born rich goes. This puts a major gap in every Korean band’s continuity when they lose members. That’s where Crying Nut is now. Rux and Skunk Label took a big break from 1999 to 2002 when Jonghee went through the army. Captain Bootbois are gone, as well as so many others. There are always friends to miss and raise a glass for.

Korean punk moves along, sometimes stumbling, sometimes fighting itself, but they persevere. This country has been ignored by the outside world; the punk scene isn’t as old as Japan’s or as massive as Malaysia’s or as surprising as China’s. The punks have scratched and clawed for what they have, with no help from anyone, and it’s made for quite a climb we haven’t yet finished.