What makes good folk music? It is a difficult question, and the answer is multi-faceted. But thankfully, I listen to 이랑 (Lang Lee) whenever I come up with that question.
Lang Lee is a musician, but she is also a film director, writer, cartoonist, teacher, feminist, and Junichi’s mom (Junichi is her cat). One of her books is titled “What Kind of Person Is This” (대체 뭐하자는 인간이지 싶었다). You can easily assume that versatility is the prominent strength of Lang Lee.
Still, for me, I have always been captivated by the story in her works, rather than mere versatility. Every form of her storytelling captures the gleam or sadness of everyday life, if not both.
Thus, listening to Lang Lee’s music is some kind of permeating experience. The first thing dampening my ear is her voice. The spectrum of her voice oscillates between cheerful delight and plaintive gloom, but it is far from skillful, refined technique to craft such feelings. Many times, I felt like she is talking to me rather than singing.
That voice is accompanied by humble but solid instrumentation. Starting from the lo-fi strum of an acoustic guitar (in “욘욘슨”, or “Yon Yonson”, 2012), cello, drums, bass, and choir are additionally layered with her voice (in “신의 놀이”, or “Playing God”, 2016). Like me, those instruments are also listening to the story Lang Lee is talking about, rather than playing themselves – I imagine that kind of thing.
There is somebody who want people to say “Excuse me”, not poke or shove her, when they have something to ask. (“너의 리듬”, or “Your Rhythm”). There is somebody who asks us “What is the meaning of born and living in Korea? Don’t you sometimes feel like you are ditched in desert?” (“신의 놀이”, or “Playing God”) There is… just laughing, singing the sounds of laughing. (“웃어, 유머에”, “Laugh, for Humor”) Lang Lee’s lyrics do not consist of fancy words but everyday thoughts and feeling. Sometimes it is charmingly relatable. Sometimes it shakes the inner deep sorrow you didn’t know it was there. And always, there is a life in those words.
Every music act as a kind of language, but folk music is perhaps the most understandable musical language – it has ‘easiness,’ and I do not mean that folk music is particularly easier to make than other genres. The clearness and vividness of its sound, instrumentation, and structure guide us to experience and focus on musician’s voice, lyrics, and story as a whole. But we all know that the de-complication in the sonic palette of folk music is not the same thing as oversimplification, as the accessibility of folk music often creates greater cohesiveness than some excessively-sophisticated magnum opuses.
Maybe that ‘easiness’ gives rise to uneasiness. “늑대가 나타났다” (“There is A Wolf”), the title track of Lang Lee’s third album released this year, is a protest song that shakes our hearts. Inspired by Silvia Federici’s “Caliban and the Witch”, the track strikes the systemic poverty and injustice of capitalist-reigned society.
“After the Gangnam Station femicide in 2016, I sung at some demonstrations and lent my songs to play them during marches. And I found that my songs were “difficult to chant”. (…) I would like to make a song to chant vigorously while marching,” said Lang Lee. Indeed, “There is A Wolf” marks the most powerful, agitating marching song in her discography.
However, the album is not only associated with protests. “늑대가 나타났다” LP still embraces the warm and thoughtful storytelling of Lang Lee, such as a conversation that crosses itself in a binaural way (“대화”, “Conversation”), a gentle question asking if you are listening to a song with all ears (“잘 듣고 있어요”, “I’m All Ears For You”), a desperate shout ‘Let’s die together before the time comes’ to friends (“환란의 세대”, “The Generation of Tribulation”).
They are as much as compelling as the title track, and each one of them has its own deep layers. And last but not the least, they create connections. The connection among them, the connection between Lang Lee and us who listen to her music, and the connection among us who listen to Lang Lee. That loose, but distinct connection could become a sense of solidarity, if we believe it.
P.S. Below is the English translation of “There is A Wolf,” translated by Piano Shoegazer:
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이른 아침 가난한 여인이
굶어 죽은 자식의 시체를 안고
가난한 사람들의 동네를 울며 지나간다
Early in the morning, a poor woman
cries and walks through a poor neighborhood
with a body of her starved child
마녀가 나타났다
There is a witch
부자들이 좋은 빵을 전부 사버린 걸
알게 된 사람들이 막대기와
갈퀴를 들고 성문을 두드린다
Knowing that the rich had bought
all the decent loaves of bread,
folks pound a gate with sticks and rakes
폭도가 나타났다
There is a rioter
배고픈 사람들은 들판의 콩을 주워
다 먹어 치우고
부자들의 곡물 창고를 습격했다
After eating up
all the beans in the field,
the hungry mobbed granaries of the rich
늑대가 나타났다
There is a wolf
일하고 걱정하고 노동하고 슬피 울며
마음 깊이 웃지 못하는
예의 바른 사람들이 뛰기 시작했다
Graceful people
who labor, worry, weep,
and can’t laugh deeply start to run
이단이 나타났다
There is a heretic
도시 성문은 굳게 닫혀 걸렸고 문밖에는 사람이
도시 성문은 굳게 닫혀 걸렸고 문밖에는 사람이
With the city gate locked tight, outside the door are people
With the city gate locked tight, outside the door are people
내 친구들은 모두 가난합니다
이 가난에 대해 생각해보세요
이건 곧 당신의 일이 될 거랍니다
이 땅에는 충격이 필요합니다
All my friends are poor
Think about this poverty
This will be to do with you soon
This land needs to be shocked
내 친구들은 모두 가난합니다
이 가난에 대해 생각해보세요
이건 곧 당신의 일이 될 거랍니다
이 땅에는 충격이 필요합니다
All my friends are poor
Think about this poverty
This will be to do with you soon
This land needs to be shocked
우린 쓸모없는 사람들이 아니오
너희가 먹는 빵을 만드는 사람일 뿐
포도주를 담그고 그 찌꺼기를 먹을 뿐
내 자식을 굶겨 죽일 수는 없소
We are not worthless
We just make your loaves
We just brew wine and take grape wastes
I can’t starve my child
마녀가 나타났다
폭도가 나타났다
이단이 나타났다
늑대가 나타났다
There is a witch
There is a rioter
There is a heretic
There is a wolf
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Stream “There Is a Wolf” LP on Spotify.
