War Upon War – Who Said Pop Was Easy?
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| The Jeogori Sisters performing. From left to right: Lee Jun-hee, Kim Neung-ja, Lee Nan-young, Jang Se-jeong és Seo Bong-hee (Public Domain) |
As mentioned in previous parts, the Japanese Government-General established in Joseon supported the development of the entertainment industry, which they deemed suitable for diverting people's attention from patriotic thoughts. Since the goal was the complete cultural assimilation of the country, strict control over the press, literature, and cultural institutions was operational from the very beginning of the annexation; nevertheless, light music compositions could still be released without hindrance for a considerable time. However, the Japanese had to realize that seemingly innocent melodies and lyrics were very much capable of expressing thoughts and feelings they considered undesirable. Although Arirang was banned as early as the end of 1929, censorship became increasingly stringent from 1933 onwards. From that point on, no songs that were nationalist, socially critical, or disruptive to public order (or classified as such) could be released at all.
The situation was aggravated by the fact that in the summer of 1937, Japan attacked China, marking the beginning of the Second Sino-Japanese War, which escalated across the entire Pacific region by 1941. Ultimately, following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the United States also entered the war, turning the region into a theater of World War II.
(Video via YouTube)
In parallel with this, through a series of various directives and measures, forced assimilation began in Joseon; the population was forced to use the Japanese language and to change their names to Japanese ones. The use of the Japanese language became mandatory in films and theatrical plays, street performances by theater troupes were obstructed, and prominent figures of the entertainment industry were placed under constant surveillance, often being arrested and assaulted. Musicians who had studied in the West, particularly in the US, formed a distinct category; their freedom of travel was restricted, or their operating licenses were frequently withheld. Western music, especially jazz, was banned, and after a uniquely fluctuating period, from 1942 onwards, light music albums could no longer be released at all, only publications containing propaganda music.
Record companies were also severely affected by these changes. Precisely between 1933 and 1936, there had been a massive surge in record publishing, when the number of releases doubled from an initial 300, and sales reached one million copies annually. Stardom flourished, and light music talent competitions enjoyed immense popularity. This burgeoning process was halted by the restrictive measures, which companies sought to evade through various strategies. Since the geographical area of Joseon was not directly affected by combat operations, everyday life continued, even if subjected to drastic impacts. The demand for popular music could not be eliminated with the stroke of a pen; therefore, decreasing publication numbers following restrictions were followed by increases, and even though the production of war propaganda records was ordered, there was, unsurprisingly, no great demand for them among the local population, so the number of pop music albums rose again until the final ban.
Smaller companies could not survive this fluctuation, whereas among the larger ones, change was brought about by the fact that publishers backed by parent entities from enemy war nations were forced to withdraw from the region, and the companies were purchased by local interests, primarily Japanese. The remaining publishers also had to abandon their English names and adopt Japanese ones instead. Finally, in 1942–43, albums containing militant songs were still released, but from the following year, record publishing ceased entirely.
To circumvent censorship and restrictive measures, many strategies were devised; at the end of the previous chapter, "genre mixing" was mentioned, which was a clever tool for designating a song as belonging to a genre that was not currently banned. (For example, if a song was categorized among banned jazz songs based on its accompaniment, the melody and lyrics—which could be a new folk song or manyo—could serve as a basis for permission.) However, with record publishing rendered impossible, publishers had to look for alternative solutions as well.
Naturally, resistance songs existed as well. These were partly marches sung by fighters in the resistance movement organizing abroad, which mostly consisted of Korean lyrics set to Western melodies. In the territories under Japanese rule, these could not be sung; instead, artists had to opt for more nuanced forms of resistance. The references hidden within melodies and lyrics have already been discussed, but we also know of countless other "clever workarounds." For instance, it was recorded that in 1942, singer Kim Cheon-ae took the stage in Japan wearing a hanbok (the prohibited traditional Korean attire) and performed the banned song Bongseonhwa (Garden Balsam / 봉선화) as an unannounced encore, wearing white mourning clothes for the performance. The song was originally composed for solo violin by Hong Nan-pa, who poured the nation's grief following the failure of the March 1st Independence Movement into its melody.It is known that record companies also maintained their own entertainment troupes, and when album publishing became impossible, the activities of major companies shifted to these troupes, as this allowed them to employ the musicians and performers affiliated with them.
The largest was the troupe of Okeh Records, which in 1938 assumed the name Joseon Music Troupe and was regarded as Asia's leading entertainment troupe. It was a massive troupe with 60 members, including such artists as Go Bok-soo, Kim Jeong-gu, Nam In-soo, and Lee Nan-young. Within the large troupe, smaller sub-units were also formed, two of which deserve special attention, as they can be called the first girl and boy groups of Korean pop music.
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| Joseon Music Troupe, an exclusive troupe of Okeh Records (Public Domain) |
Both formations were established in 1939 and operated until the country's liberation in 1945. The Jeogori Sisters was formed from the troupe's prominent female singers under the leadership of Lee Nan-young, likely with a lineup that was not entirely fixed, but rather with several singers and dancers alternating at individual performances. As can be seen in the picture at the beginning of the chapter, their costumes were spectacular, always matching the mood of the performed song.
The list of known members: Lee Nan-young, Jang Se-jung, Park Hyang-rim, Lee Hwa-ja, Kim Neung-ja, Seo Bong-hee, Hong Chung-ja, Lee Jun-hee, Shin Canaria, Kim Baek-hee, Shim Yeon-ok, Baek Seol-hee, Ok Jam-hwa, Na Seong-ryeo.
Their popularity is demonstrated by the fact that they also performed in Japan. They took their name from the traditional Korean women's garment, the coat- or cloak-like jeogori worn in the street that also covered the face.
A recording believed to feature the Jeogori Sisters is Virgin Chorus, with Jang Se-jung as the lead vocalist.
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| From left to right: Song Hee-sun, Kim Hae-song, Lee Bok-bon, Park Si-chun |
Several similar troupes existed, but the following story particularly highlights the industry's entanglement with the patriotic spirit. When Victor Records became available for purchase, it was bought by Korean alumni of Columbia University, led by Seo Min-ho. They handed the record division over to the Japanese, but retained Victor's theater troupe, which, after several reorganizations, ultimately took the name Bando Opera Troupe. Seo Min-ho and his associates had a dual purpose with this: alongside securing the survival of their artists, it was only through the troupe that they could ensure their own freedom of travel. These troupes performed not only at domestic venues, but also in Japan, Manchuria, and—what was particularly important for Seo and his colleagues—even in Shanghai. Although they did not succeed due to the Japanese operatives shadowing them, their goal would have been to establish contact with the resistance stationed in Shanghai. The repertoire of these troupes consisted mainly of variety acts, with Bando leading the way in performing full-length, continuous works.
The darkest period unfolded between 1942 and 1945, when these troupes also functioned as "frontline theaters," visiting Japanese troops in Manchuria, occupied areas of China, or even Southeast Asia to entertain and inspire the soldiers of the "Holy Army," or to boost morale among those working in the mines and factories of the industrial fronts. On top of that, they were expected to donate a portion of their earnings to state—mostly military-industrial—purposes. All the while, they had to endure seeing the themes of their native or Asian classic repertoire twisted to fit Japanese war ideology, turning their art into a tool for propaganda.
By this time, the majority of renowned performers and creators were forced to write and perform songs that glorified the Japanese and encouraged enlistment in their army. The amount of pressure required to achieve this varied from individual to individual. Naturally, some were driven by professional self-interest, while others broke under brutal torture. Even in the case of those who seemingly yielded easily, we cannot know what levers were used to hold them hostage; one thing is certain: the Japanese spared no means. The saddest examples are precisely those where the individual's entire body of work and worldview stood in complete contradiction to these forced acts.
Since I have already presented the major hits of the era in previous chapters, I pondered whether it was necessary to quote anything at all from the militant/pro-Japanese music here. But when I heard the following song, a very peculiar feeling came over me. Before I write about this, let us listen to another song, which is important for deciding whether I am right.
The Pacific March (Taiheiyo March, 太平洋行進曲) is entirely a Japanese composition; its composer is Fuse Hajime (布施元), its lyricist is Yokoyama Masanori (横山正徳), and its performers are two famous opera singers, Fujiwara Yoshie (藤原義江) and Shike Fumiko (四家文子). It is important to emphasize this because it did occur—as in the case of the march Battotai—that a song adopted from the German fascists was sung with Japanese lyrics.
Composed to demonstrate the power of the Imperial Japanese Navy and its Pacific expansion, this march serves as an example of what a genuine, Japanese-composed, enthusiastic, victory-intoxicated military song sounds like. Its loud major melody is bright and powerful, with brass instruments conveying the conquering momentum as they march relentlessly toward their goal.Now let us listen to the Korean song, whose authors are no lesser celebrities than composer Kim Hae-song and one of the era's finest lyricists, Cho Myung-am. The performers need no introduction either: Lee Nan-young and Nam In-soo. Its title is 25 Million Intoxicated (이천오백만감격), and its lyrics contain almost all the clichés and symbols of Japanese imperialism. For the sake of intelligibility to Koreans, the first two verses are in Korean, while the third is in Japanese.
The number in the title refers to the total population of the Korean Peninsula at the time, attempting to create the illusion that everyone was equally enthusiastic about conscription. They openly name the enemies to be destroyed by the conscripted young people, namely the war adversaries: the US and Britain. Mandatory Japanese emperor worship assumes a ritual performed with religious fervor on the part of Koreans as well. Propaganda sought to sell mandatory conscription to Koreans as a gift, as an equalization with the Japanese, taking it for granted that they would gladly sacrifice their lives for the emperor.
Well, I can now write down what stunned me. This is a very powerful song, as was to be expected from the composer. It is the bluntest propaganda according to its lyrics, the main points of which are duly underlined by musical emphases. Obviously, due to the composer's exceptional talent, we are not listening to generic music, and perhaps it is precisely thanks to this that I can sense what I do. This is nothing less than a special audacity that I cannot attribute to anything other than a very conscious decision on the part of both the authors and the performers. In contrast to the major melody of the Japanese march, here above the bouncing, likewise marching rhythm plays a dark-characterized minor melody with rather strange melodic contour: the end of every line and melodic arch drops into the depths. Thereby, the minor key conveys not sadness, but a kind of portentous, threatening tragedy. We hear music of elevated emotion, but of a kind that I can least associate with festive celebrations; I hear it much more as funeral music fitting for a great hero's burial. It appears as though it were written with double encoding, which the performers convey perfectly: while fulfilling the prescribed propaganda task, it does so in a way that simultaneously mourns the victims of combat operations. I suspect it could not have been difficult for Koreans to decipher this message, since—as we have seen in countless examples in previous chapters—they were able to decode hidden messages in songs from the smallest musical references and half-words in lyrics.
I have described all this to convey how tragic I feel the situation of Korean artists was, which I could characterize with two adjectives: absurd and grotesque, though obviously many in other fields ended up in similar situations as well. The grotesque will become evident later; for now, the absurd refers to their being forced into a choice in which no good decision could be made: for if they did not obey the oppressors' command, they played with their lives, whereas if they bowed under pressure, their Korean contemporaries and descendants passed judgment on them.
As was to be expected, confronting and historically processing the colonial period triggered extreme emotions and dragged on for a very long time, perhaps not having ended to this day. Seventy years passed after liberation before the collection of militant songs was published as part of analyzing their content and music. With the demand for social cleansing, investigations were launched to uncover and list individuals who had collaborated with the occupiers.
The Research Institute for Collaborative Activities was established in 1991 and in 2008 published the Dictionary of Pro-Japanese Collaborators, which included artists. Generally speaking, collaboration was easily condemned, but uncovering the specific situation of individual persons painted a much more nuanced picture, as a result of which distinctions had to be made in their assessment as well. Therefore, during the investigations, they attempted to tier the degree of cooperation by taking into account factors such as activity, repetition, and systematic nature. Thus, among the following, Lee Nan-young was not included in the list, whereas her husband, Kim Hae-song, her later partner, Nam In-soo, and her brother, Lee Bong-ryong, were—the latter's status being modified following an appeal.
In connection with this, I found the following point of interest: As the head of Okeh Records—the only Korean record publisher operating during the period of Japanese rule—Lee Cheol naturally possessed extensive pro-Japanese connections; how else could he have operated the company? However, upon reviewing the publisher's activities, the aforementioned research institute reached the conclusion that both the firm and its associated staff (that is, contracted composers, musicians, and singers) were in a subordinate position relative to the Japanese. The recording of pro-Japanese songs occurred during the war period, when this pressure grew much stronger and resistance became nearly impossible. The reason for this is also to be found in the fact that during the occupation, and long after, a military/bureaucratic ranking system was in use: 갑·을·병·정 (Gap, Eul, Byeong, Jeong). This ranking derived from Hanja (漢字) designated a hierarchy within an organization or institution, as follows:
The Hanja-derived rank designations:
- 갑 (Gap) = Category "A" (highest)
- 을 (Eul) = Category "B"
- 병 (Byeong) = Category "C"
- 정 (Jeong) = Category "D"
The Second World War in Europe came to an end on May 8 (or May 9 in the Eastern bloc), 1945, and when I held a historical document in my hands thirty years later, my heart truly sank: it was a newspaper from that very day, consisting of a single page printed with giant letters that read: PEACE. I cannot even begin to imagine what liberation must have felt like for Koreans—bringing not only peace, but also the promise of a better world through freedom from Japanese rule.
In truth, the first chapter in the history of Korean popular music closed right here. It would be wonderful if I could write that pure ecstasy prevailed in people's hearts and that the country immediately embarked on a path to prosperity. In reality, however, chaotic years followed, and a tragic historical chapter postponed the moment when genuine transformation could finally begin.
The Japanese capitulation took place on August 15, 1945, but just a few days prior, Soviet forces had already advanced into the northern regions of the country and engaged in combat with the Japanese. American troops, on the other hand, landed at Incheon only on September 8, accepting the surrender of the Japanese in the southern part of the country the following day. The disarmament and repatriation of Japanese soldiers began immediately, though the relocation of the approximately 700,000 Japanese civilians residing in the country dragged on into the first half of the following year. What matters most for our story is that by the end of 1945, the Japanese military and colonial administration had ceased to exist on the Korean Peninsula. Yet this created a massive vacuum: the economy and public administration had to be rebuilt from scratch, while the Japanese left behind a region thoroughly looted and drained in every respect. As for the entertainment industry specifically: since almost all publishing companies were in Japanese hands, their withdrawal caused the complete collapse of the record industry. Publishers were not the only thing lacking; raw materials and technical equipment were entirely unavailable as well.
This situation is vividly illustrated by a story from the period, recorded by composer Hwang Mun-pyeong. At a meeting of an artists' association, the idea was raised to write a new song to welcome the liberating Soviet and American troops, as well as the independence fighters returning home alongside them. With lyrics by Go Ryeo-seong and music by Kim Yong-hwan, the composition was born under the title Open the Four Great Gates, referring simultaneously to the four gates facing the cardinal directions in Seoul's city wall and to a revitalized historical continuity. For lack of better options, the song was printed on handbills, and a makeshift recording was made with an hastily assembled choir in a crude studio. Lacking proper materials, the record was made of wax-coated aluminum, which could only be played at the radio station for two or three days before becoming uselessly noisy. Much later, this song was reconstructed, so we can listen to it today.
A new technological breakthrough helped overcome this situation: in 1950, magnetic tape and reel-to-reel tape recorders appeared, providing the capability for direct recording. Tape could be spliced, edited, used repeatedly, and—representing an especially huge leap forward—the equipment was mobile.
The artists' gathering that had conceived the aforementioned welcome song had originally met to work out a new operational structure for stage troupes and to manage the assets of the Joseon Theatrical Culture Association. Naturally, this organization had also originally been in Japanese hands, and taking it over and drafting new regulations was likely no easy task, as Japanese centralization efforts had often created conflicting interests among artistic units placed under the authority of the very same body—in this case, theatrical and entertainment organizations.
During this period, the task of bringing popular music to the audience fell upon theatrical and entertainment groups. These troupes existed in close alignment with the film industry, and their programs generally consisted of a shinpa (melodramatic) first act followed by a variety-style second act. In addition to existing troupes, new ones were formed, though many proved short-lived. Out of the troupes that had also functioned as frontline theaters toward the end of the colonial period, 195 were registered in August 1945. Ownership and operation of the overwhelming majority of theaters remained in Japanese hands, setting off a peculiar game: attempting to reclaim them while simultaneously using them to prevent communists from gaining excessive influence in the theatrical world. Since the film industry also needed time to get off the ground, live stage performances—especially musical shows—became immensely popular. These generated substantial revenues, which—what a surprise—also led to tax evasion offenses.
Some dramatic troupes experimented with shortened or adapted versions of literary musicals and classic operas, meeting with more success in the capital and less on rural tours. There was even a troupe conducting educational propaganda to prepare for the upcoming 1948 elections. Tension between the two parts of the country grew continuously; although holding propaganda performances was technically forbidden, anti-communist musical dramas were nevertheless produced to counter the spread of communist ideology.
Popular music had suffered a unique distortion of its sources during the final years of the colonial period, as Anglo-American music was banned, whereas music from Germany and Italy—allied with Japan—was not. Following liberation, American music began to pour in with the presence of the 8th Army. Although belonging to neither category, tango music became widely popular. Previously gloomy melodies brightened and filled with optimism, and in parallel, dance halls began to sprout like mushrooms.
In 1947, radio station HLKA established its own popular music orchestra, broadcasting its concerts regularly. The operation of AFKN (American Forces Korea Network) also launched across several phases. However, ideological tensions made it impossible to establish a unified popular music organization.
The friction between the two parts of the country eventually reached the point where they mutually banned each other's artists and cultural products. Along with this, a peculiar migration began among artists between the northern and southern halves. Some simply clung to their hometowns and families; among those who moved north, some were driven by ideological reasons—many of them theater directors and actors, fewer musicians. Concurrently, musicians with Christian backgrounds or those fleeing Soviet anti-religious and anti-property measures escaped to the South. The incompatibility between the two halves became increasingly obvious; the dividing line hardened, separating families and rending the nation in two. The initial sounds of joy quickly faded from songs, into which melancholy returned. It was then that Park Si-chun's song, with lyrics by Lee Bu-pung, resounded, and Nam In-soo heartbreakingly sang the yearning: Go Away, 38th Parallel!
가거라 삼팔선
Go Away, 38th Parallel
Ah~ are the mountains blocking you, so you cannot come?
Ah~ are the waters blocking you, so you cannot come?
Though we would all go to and from the same homeland,
North and South block the way, a thousand-li road of resentment.
In every dream I search for you, in every dream
I search for you,
I lament the 38th parallel.
Ah~ will you come when the flowers bloom?
Ah~ will you come when the snow falls?
Crossing the mountain pass with a bundle strapped to my back,
Even the mountain bird cried alongside me as it crossed.
Oh Freedom, for you, oh Freedom, for you
I dedicate this life.
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One could endlessly list the names of musicians and performers who disappeared, fell victim, were abducted to the North, or in the worst cases executed—or in the best cases saved by Southern forces—amid the chaos of war. Here we arrive at the application of the other adjective mentioned at the beginning of the article: grotesque. For no other word can better express that grotesque twist of fate with which destiny "played" with the lives of many artists. Many who had been forced during the colonial era to participate in comfort performances for Japanese soldiers on the battlefields now found themselves in almost the exact same situation under a different banner: entertaining and giving strength while their own lives were frequently in peril. There were numerous victims of unexpected attacks; among these, a case of true horror was that of the married couple Lee In-kwon—who was performing with the military's cultural unit—and Ahn Gwan-seon, also a singer. During a performance, a bomb struck the stage, and the wife died before her husband's eyes.
Two emblematic songs of the Korean War were born out of tragic stories, the first in 1953. Be Strong, Geum-soon! (굳세어라 금순아) was performed by Hyun In, composed by Park Si-chun, with lyrics by Kang Sa-rang. The song deals with one of the most dramatic episodes of the Korean War: the Hungnam Evacuation (when a hundred thousand northern civilians fled from advancing Chinese forces onto American warships in the freezing northern port) and the January 1951 retreat. The man in the song was separated from his sister (or sweetheart) in the chaos of Hungnam and, upon reaching the southern refugee camp, thinks of her, trusting that she too survived the peril and that they may yet meet again. The song became an anthem for refugees; a TV series with a similar title and theme was produced in 2005, and the scene is precisely recalled in the film Ode to My Father (2014).
Miari Hill of Painful Deep Sorrow (단장의 미아리고개), released long after the war's conclusion in 1956, was nevertheless inspired by traumas experienced at the front. Miari Pass, located at the northern gateway to Seoul, was the site of the bloodiest battles when North Korean tanks pushed into the capital. Later, abducted Southern prisoners of war, politicians, and intellectuals were driven north in chains across this pass. The word "Danjang" (단장 / 斷腸) in the title is a classical Asian expression literally meaning "viscera torn apart by grief"—the expression of the absolute greatest pain.
The song is written from the perspective of a wife whose husband is dragged away barefoot in a freezing blizzard over Miari Pass, bound with wire by North Korean soldiers. In the middle of the song features a famous spoken monologue in which the singer tearfully addresses her husband, pleading for his return.
Behind the song lies the personal tragedy of lyricist Ban Ya-wol, who in reality lost his young daughter while fleeing over this pass during the chaotic days of the September 28 recapture of Seoul—and in the desperate rush, was unable even to bury her.
Composer: Lee Jae-ho | Lyricist: Ban Ya-wol | Performer: Lee Hae-yeon
The Korean War ended on July 27, 1953, with an armistice agreement; no peace treaty has been signed to this day. It claimed approximately one million casualties among Southerners and 1.5 to 2 million among Northerners; combining the Chinese, American, and other casualties from over twenty nations, the total could reach 3 to 4 million. The country lay in complete ruins, permanently severed in two. The world of popular music suffered severely as well. As we have seen previously, many industry professionals had died at a young age (life expectancy during this era was very low to begin with); together with those lost in the war, not many remained in the field, and even among them, few were still young. It was clear that young talent was needed—artists who, turning toward changing times, were already looking toward new musical directions.
In the next installment, we will take a closer look at the impact of the US military on Korean musical life.
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