On Korean indie-rock standard bearers Hyukoh’s latest, connecting with the listener comes first, understanding their lyrics is optional.
“through love,” Korean alternative phenoms Hyukoh’s (pronounced “he-ah-go”) January 2020 EP, takes you on a sonic odyssey – from bossa-inspired languor, to roguish garage rock, to its final manic, keening outpouring of emotion. Deviating from their previous album’s driving anthems, this is testament to Hyukoh’s commitment to constant reinvention, and is a riveting offering for Korean and global audiences.
Hyukoh has achieved domestic prominence in a scene commanded by balladeers and idol groups. They have won global plaudits, their album 22 (2015) peaking at fourth on Billboard. Hyukoh consists of lead guitarist Lim Hyun Jae, bassist Im Dong Geon, drummer Lee In Woo and multilingual vocalist and guitarist, Oh Hyuk, who writes English and Korean lyrics. Though the band takes their name from their frontman, the instrumentalists are no slouch. On this six-track EP, Oh’s vocals are kept to a muted murmur, leading into the emphatic instrumentals which do the melodic heavy lifting.
The first three tracks, “Help,” “Hey Sun” and “Silverhair Express” are bossa-infused grooves for lazy afternoons, hopefully spent near a sunny beach far from responsibilities. If you are unfortunately desk bound, these songs are a reasonably effective escape.
“Help” is a leisurely, minimalist opener, oozing urbane chic, with a hint of mystery in Oh’s understated drawl. It outlines the template of the coming songs – bossa beat, echoing guitar hook, Oh’s raspy murmur. A sprinkling of unconventional percussion and a flute solo provide a welcome change of texture. The resulting tune is pleasant but unarresting, content to meander into the background.
“Hey Sun” is a stronger endeavour at this format. In this languid yet teasing take on quotidian tedium, Oh switches between an airy falsetto and his grittier lower register as he dangles the prospect of another day of repetition. The lyrics are mirrored by incomplete arcs of suspense and resolution as the verses build anticipation, but on the very cusp of payoff, deflate. There’s partial release when the instrumentals swell into shadowy harmonies and synths – but almost immediately, we’re back on the crescendo, vocals swathed in a halogenic cloud of synths, cymbals trembling in a sparkling haze. The song never fully resolves, the listener left suspended and searching.
The lush soundscape of “Silverhair Express” feels like a fortified version of “Help.” It drifts a touch more fantastical, the guitars an opalescent blur of distortion, ornamented by glittering marimba and flute snippets. The song ends in disintegrating chords which wobble off key with increasingly incredulity, mirroring the reviewer stirring from this sunlit daze, only to be confronted by looming deadlines and assignments. Hyukoh closes with a final echo of the melody, the last wisps of a dream clinging to consciousness.
From here the EP takes a darker turn. On “Flat Dog,” Hyukoh reprises the garage rock of their back catalogue. The fizzing lead guitar swoops wide and low over the thumping beat and Oh delivers his lines in clipped jabs. In the bridge the whole band heaves on the downbeat in a jangling, percussive crash. With every line, the harmony goes up third, upping the ante till Oh’s vocals are at his most histrionic and the guitar roils scratchy and belligerent. After the delayed gratification of the earlier songs, this is a straightforwardly rewarding stadium banger.
“World of the Forgotten” offers a momentary pause, sinking the listener into a reflective space. Translucent synths trace the afterimages of Oh Hyuk’s searching croon, “wait I know you, but where did I meet you?” This bittersweet sound is familiar territory for Hyukoh, and they expertly evoke nostalgia and the lull between wakefulness and sleep. The song fizzes out in a static crackle, an otherworldly hint of what is to come.
“New born,” the penultimate track, is a 8 minute 45 sec long behemoth of cinematic scale and emotional heft. It opens with a moody lower register riff over a simmering distorted lead guitar. The guitar’s guttural, metallic hum after the first verse is unexpectedly meditative, like the flickering outline of a thought taking shape. Rising out of the instrumentals’ monochromatic expanse, the throbbing drums and synths crest in a brooding surge of pace and intensity – till we lurch into freefall, the distortion wailing free, wheeling in and out of harmony. Sheets of static break against its side, like the hissing roar of an equatorial downpour. The dulcet swell Oh’s vocals, echoing like a choir in an empty room, rises into this gale of spectral distortion, soothing over the guitar’s jagged grain. The listener plummets into the harmony, discord, exuberance and chaos of Hyukoh’s sonic universe, like an infant overwhelmed by the sensory barrage of a new world.
Then the storm seems to quiet, the guitars dwindling into microtonal trills, before morphing unexpectedly into the rattle of a car engine, or aeroplane. Hyukoh thrusts us into an uncanny sonic portrait of our everyday lives, constructed by swathes of nondescript rumble which could equally be construction, traffic or footsteps. Static crackle weaves and dodges, through train tracks and highways and the roadside clatter of your childhood home, blurring the line between Hyukoh’s spectral world and reality. Abruptly, the noise cuts. The riff comes back, a gentle, muted promise, echoing into darkness. “New born” is sound and fury signifying something inexplicable and profound, Hyukoh at their experimental best.
In “through love,” Hyukoh adroitly traverse genres . There are occasional pacing missteps, but I’m inclined to excuse it as the process of experimentation. This release reasserts the band as a force to be reckoned with on the K-Indie scene and for that matter, globally. There’s a common but reductive view that English-speakers have little business listening to non-English music, particularly in pop where there is a premium placed on music being immediately accessible to the everyman. Why should you listen if you don’t know what they’re saying? But I think there’s a strong case for exploring music you don’t understand.
To start, you discover new palettes of harmony and rhythm. Languages lend themselves to different rhythms and there are subtle differences between music from different places within the same genre. Further, not understanding lyrics can increase your enjoyment. Inane lyrics can be immensely grating, so listening to music in a language I don’t speak is a little bit of “don’t ask don’t tell” cop out.
But most crucially, understanding lyrics is not necessary to communicating meaning. We encounter music fundamentally at an aural level, before we process its language. When you listen to Bon Iver on 715 – CR∑∑KS, or Jeff Buckley on Hallelujah, it’s the pleading in their voices that hits you, before the poetry in their lyrics. If a vocalist is expressive enough, you don’t need to understand what they’re saying to hear heartbreak or swagger or comfort. The music speaks for itself. Rhythm, harmony and tone are the building blocks of its deeply affective language. Lyric-less music, from classical to math rock, has always found a devoted following. Some even argue linguistic space creates greater engagement, through deeper focus on the music, or listeners bringing their own meaning to the piece. I thought “New born” was about an initiation into a wondrous yet bewildering world, but the lyrics recount the end of a relationship. The track’s roaring static and howling guitars will probably mean something different to another listener, but this multiplicity of meaning doesn’t dilute the artist’s intention – it strengthens the vitality of the art.
Good lyrics can reinforce a musical narrative or add an unexpected twist. But they are never the totality of a song’s meaning. Even in daily life, so little of what is said is in our words. Meaning lives also in inflection, body language, silence. Storytelling is at the heart of being human, and we have a plethora of tools beyond language for it.
Hyukoh may be Korean, but that is no barrier to the evocative power of their music. The only criteria to enjoy them, or music from anywhere in the world, is an open mind and a listening ear.
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