Upon examination, it is clear that a number of intangible cultural properties have been altered since their designation. The changes are diverse: some folk traditions have been modified to gain an advantage over similar traditions, for example, by adding a colorful uniform or unusual stage props; others have changed the gender composition of the performers due to a lack of male or fe-male interest; and others still have reverted to an earlier form as a conscious de-cision of its performers. These changes reflect personal and artistic priorities as well as sociopo liti cal and economic pressures. Because a tradition can stress the uniqueness of a people as a whole and serve as a cultural icon, it can extend
cultural and social capital to those involved. It is difficult, therefore, to isolate a single agent of change, not least because vari ous interest groups are inter-twined: both scholars and performers are among those who have been involved in executing government efforts to preserve traditions. Although it is easier to determine the effect of changes in folk traditions than to identify their cause, it is sometimes pos si ble to establish a par tic u lar motive, even among the vast body of Korean folksongs. Folksongs rarely require special skill and are easily performed and transmitted by large groups of people. The common anonymity of the songs may cloud the rationale for par tic u lar changes, but among preserved genres such as those examined in this book, which require considerable special training and are passed on by a relatively small number of people, the cause for change can occasionally be determined.
At pres ent, a total of eight folksong traditions are listed as National Intan-gible Cultural Properties (for a detailed list, see chapter 1), but this study is con-cerned primarily with Sŏnsori sant’aryŏng (Standing Mountain Songs), Kyŏnggi minyo (Folksongs from Kyŏnggi Province), and Sŏdo sori (Folksongs from the Western Provinces). These three genres have the largest number of folksong prac-ti prac-tion ers. Unlike many other folksong genres, they have been transmitted in and around Seoul, where they have been subject to considerable change and their performers, music, and repertoires have become interconnected. They therefore pres ent major challenges when discussing authenticity. In the case of Kyŏnggi minyo and Sŏnsori sant’aryŏng, for example, the issues are tied very much to gender. Although once sung by either men or women, both genres are now sung predominantly by women, which affects the sound, movement, and semiotics of per for mance. Because the CPPL lends authority to the form of these folksongs, their sound and pre sen ta tion will become set in the minds of audiences for the foreseeable future. The preservation of Sŏdo sori, on the other hand, ties the issue of authenticity to the question of roots: How can performers successfully pass on a tradition when they have never visited the native land from which it derives—
and, in all likelihood, never will— and to which its music and lyr ics refer?
In this book I investigate how the three major genres have developed over time and what impact the official preservation system has had on their alleged authenticity. I analyze the historical development of these three traditions from the viewpoint of repertoire, pedigree, music, and repre sen ta tion (or per for-mance) and pay attention to what factors have influenced decision making. One major factor in their transition to intangible cultural properties is postcolonial-ism. Resentment towards the Japa nese, for example, continues to smolder. Until recently, many Koreans resented the Japa nese colonial government’s alleged suppression of many forms of Korean folk performing arts. In response, some of the custodians of these genres have emphasized their anti- Japanese creden-tials, while others have created them. In these cases, the indignation over the
colonial experience may have been fuelled by the desire to stand out among com-peting folk traditions. In 1998, for example, “Tondollari,” a dance with song from south Hamgyŏng province was listed under a special category of cultural proper-ties (see chapter 1), even though those involved had made obvious adjustments to it in order to compete with similar traditions and become noteworthy as a unique remnant of anti- Japanese re sis tance.78 Its developers prob ably drew inspiration from “Kanggangsullae,” a women’s circle dance song, which in 1966 became the first folksong genre to be appointed an IICP and was included in UNESCO’s Rep-resentative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2009. There are many theories regarding the latter’s origin. One of the most popu lar holds that the tradition dates from the time of the Hideyoshi invasions (1592–1598), when the women’s movements were intended to lead the Japa nese Navy to think that Korean troop movements were a preparation for battle on the shore.79 Ac-cording to a 1954 En glish language publication of Korean folksong scores by the
“National Music Research Society of Korea,” on the other hand, a “rather reliable”
theory holds that the song was composed by Admiral Yi Sunshin, who was re-sponsible for defeating the Japa nese Navy on numerous occasions. Intended as a warning that the Japa nese Navy was approaching, the song title therefore ought to be interpreted as meaning “the ferocious enemy is coming across the sea.”80
Korea’s most widely known song, “Arirang,” meanwhile, was included on UNESCO’s list in December 2012, first as a South Korean song and then again on November 24, 2014, as a group of songs that came from diff er ent provinces in North Korea.81 Although it already existed in many forms in the nineteenth century, the version preserved gained much popu lar appeal when in 1926 its lyr ics appeared on screen at the end of Na Un’gyu’s controversial silent film of the same name. Both the narrative of the movie, which highlighted the Japa nese colonial government’s violent oppression of the Korean people, and the film narrators (pyŏnsa) who performed it lent the song an undertone of po liti cal re-sis tance not actually reflected in its lyr ics.82 Despite the active promotion of a mere romantic reading of the lyr ics by the Japa nese,83 the popularity of the song with the Japa nese in the ensuing years nevertheless authenticated its power, as both a form of entertainment that could compete with that of Japan, and as a symbol of colonial- era retribution. Many Korean government- produced materials, including the previously mentioned En glish language volume, have highlighted the standardized song as an expression of the Koreans’ colonial experience: “ Under Japa nese pressure, we shed tears of national indignation singing Arira[n]g and now swear to realize our wishes singing this warm-hearted song. . . . The melancholy melody of this song . . . seems to symbolize the sorrowful and painful fortune of our nation. We cannot overlook that this melody holds firmness of purpose desiring final victory against the enemy through national trials and tribulations.”84
Popu lar folksongs play a significant role in the experience and repre sen ta tion of postcolonialism. For many years government- sponsored performing troupes traveling overseas have incorporated “Arirang” alongside ele ments of dubious heritage or authenticity in their per for mance. While the latter were aimed primarily at boosting the shows’ visual appeal— they sometimes featured a few scantily clad male drummers beating oversized barrel drums, an image strongly reminiscent of a Japa nese wadaiko performance— the inclusion of “Arirang”
was intended to promote the song’s recognizability as a symbol of Korea. Both characteristics were, however, also aimed at stirring feelings of nostalgia and na-tional pride among Koreans in the audience. Perhaps because “Kanggangsullae”
would require a considerable number of young female performers, the song rarely forms part of the programs. It appears that “Tondollari,” which is not as strongly associated with a par tic u lar age group or gender, has taken its place. In October 2014, for example, the Korean Ministry of Foreign Affairs welcomed a large number of guests to an extravagant kugak (Korean traditional music) show touring Australia to commemorate the opening of the G20 Leaders Summit in Australia. Although it comprised folk, fusion, and B- boy dance music, the pro-gram included no less than five folksong renditions: four of “Arirang,” and one of “Tondollari.” The Korean national flag appeared both on stage and in a slick tourism video, which was projected halfway through the concert and highlighted some of Korea’s major achievements in culture, science, and business.
Considering that all Japa nese cultural products, including traditional per-forming arts, were banned in Korea from the time it was liberated, it seems un-likely that they would have had any significant impact on Korean art. And yet their image has long affected the interpretation of Korean traditions, including folksongs. Unable to shake the cultural cringe, performers, scholars, and policy makers have sought to establish Korean icons that could compete with those of Japan.85 Much like folksongs with anti- Japanese lyr ics, the three folksong prop-erties seek to heal the wounds of Korea’s colonial past, and they remind us of its suffering through the broken voices of the singers. Changes that epitomize this purpose have occurred in the traditions of Sŏnsori sant’aryŏng and Kyŏnggi minyo since the colonial period. In dance, vocal style, costume, and the gender of its primary performers, the two genres have been developed as Korean alter-natives to the iconic sound and image of koto- playing geisha. Chapter 3 describes how these traditions came to be reconfigured, in part, to outdo their imagined Japa nese counterpart.
There are, however, other factors that have led to the reconfiguration of Ko-rean folksong traditions. One is that Korea now has a significant Christian pop-ulation, which, though still a minority, exhibits significant intolerance toward shamanistic, Buddhist, and Confucian features, particularly where its own ac-tivities are concerned.86 Another factor is the diminished career prospects
of-fered by the folk arts. Although the Korean Wave has boosted the visibility and marketability of Korean traditions both domestically and overseas, the possi-bility of performers earning a decent living through folk arts remains small, leading to a steady demise in the number of male professionals. A third factor involves the nostalgic value of folk arts from what is now North Korea. While the likelihood of reunification was great enough to inspire the many students who took part in the Minjung movement, the failure of President Kim Dae Jung’s Sunshine Policy (1998–2007), and continued North Korean aggression since then, have diminished nostalgia for the north and its customs. It is therefore pos-si ble that the tradition of Sŏdo sori, which comprises songs that originate from and relate to the now North Korean Hwanghae and P’yŏngan provinces, may summon stronger feelings of nostalgia if the idea of reunification is abandoned.
Equally though, the genre may lose these feelings for good because neither its current prac ti tion ers nor the majority of their audiences were born or trained in the tradition’s native land.
Con temporary folk artists must meet other demands that are not directly related to their art per se, such as networking, liaising with private benefactors, and sometimes even converting to Chris tian ity or undergoing cosmetic surgery.87 Such demands are a consequence of changes in society and may be inspired by developments in popu lar culture. Oskar Elschek argues that cultural policies can only “speed up or slow down pro cesses of change that are already taking place,”88 and yet it is commonly expected that the holders and students of in-tangible cultural properties adhere as close as pos si ble to the “au then tic form”
designated by the CPC, even though this is not specified in the CPPL. This book does not seek to account for all the social factors implicated in the changes that have occurred within the folksong traditions, but acknowledges the signifi-cance of major sociopo liti cal and economic shifts. I contend that the Korean preservation system has both effected and consolidated changes in folksong tra-ditions in the pro cess of se lection, and that it has chosen not to rectify modifi-cations that have since taken place.
Some of the material presented in this book is based on fieldwork from the mid-1990s. Drawing on standard methodologies of anthropology, I have applied in par tic u lar ethnomusicology’s “critical method,” which highlights the contex-tualization of music and per for mance. It urges caution when interpreting field-work data, paying due account to the potential impact of the recording pro cess on the actions of in for mants and their audiences.89 The importance of contextual-ization also pertains to the use of par tic u lar sound or image media. Considering, for example, the cost and practical operation of gramophone recordings in the past should allow more accurate conjecture regarding the media’s application and audience. This can be of use in trying to avoid making false claims on the basis of materials that do not represent the conditions described,90 and allows readers to
infer caveats on claims made by in for mants.91 Although the many methods used to notate music and lyr ics in the past ought to be included in such considerations, I have chosen to discuss only those I consider to have had significant impact on the per for mance or transmission of specific forms of music.
The prominence of musicians’ personal stories in this text acknowledges the individual conditions in which the musicians studied and performed their art over time, which intimates to some degree the basis of their position within their music scene and outside. In addition, it sheds light on the pos si ble ratio-nale for a number of the changes traditions incurred under their helm. The in-formation I was able to gather on the singers’ past is limited by lack of access to their backgrounds. As a result, the conclusions I arrived at in regard to the ef-fect of postcolonialism on their traditions are more likely to appear assumptive.
While the focus and detail of individual accounts as well as the time of their composition will bear on the value of any musical ethnography, Timothy Rice pres ents a strong argument that by considering the experience of music, an overemphasis on the role of par tic u lar individuals (including the ethnographer) can be remedied. What, indeed, led them to take up studying music in the first place? And how did they respond to modernity and the changing significance of their practice?92 Since an emphasis on adversity is nevertheless likely to high-light and possibly romanticize individual accomplishment, I have included the personal stories of a range of performers across diff er ent genres. This should underscore the importance of recognizing the individually dissimilar experi-ences of certain sociopo liti cal or economic changes.93
The conditions under which I collected fieldwork data differed over time.
Sometimes, a professor or musician would provide the necessary introduction to an in for mant, but in most cases I was able to approach people of my own ac-cord. The value of the eventual interview would rely on a fortunate culmination of factors, such as the in for mant being in the right mood, and perhaps intrigued by a young foreigner who professed an interest in Korean heritage, as well as him or her having faith in my ability to understand and represent the informa-tion requested. Interviews ultimately became easier as my language skills im-proved, and as I became older and was affiliated with a Western educational institution, all of which lent me more legitimacy. It is unavoidable that my be-ing a foreigner affected the in for mants’ rendition of events to some degree. It certainly led several el derly in for mants to simplify their accounts and spend time recounting what was fairly common knowledge, even after I provided evi-dence of having previously studied the topic. Meanwhile, the practicalities of conducting interviews also changed. In my early days as a researcher, I would turn up with a paper notebook and a cassette recorder and place the latter within sight of the interviewee. These days I continue to take notes by hand during interviews, but I use a smartphone app to rec ord the sound, which
due to the standard practice of placing phones on tables has become fairly unobtrusive. Most of the interviews took place at someone’s office or school, though on occasion, research- related matters were discussed over dinner or while at a “3- ch’a” (third— and thankfully last— consecutive drinking venue).
In those cases, I would remind my in for mants of both the question and the fact that I was recording their words, lest intoxication would cause them to forget.
I often contacted singers multiple times. While my own aging afforded me easier access to some of the very old singers, their age made it increasingly dif-ficult for them to spend much time talking or even meeting people. When I started fieldwork in 1995, most of the key singers were already in their seven-ties. An Pich’wi (d. 1997) told me she was too ill to meet me, and when I first met Muk Kyewŏl and Yi Ŭn’gwan, they both had to rest after they had climbed the many stairs to their institutes where they had agreed to meet me. In addi-tion to their physical frailty, they sometimes had difficulty recalling events in detail. On my last visit to Yi Ŭnju in July 2013, for example, she began to recount the days of old in response to questions regarding the activities of her peers in recent de cades. Had I not had the assistance of her se nior student Yu Oksŏn, I would not have pursued my questions further. Although I also intended to con-duct an interview with Muk Kyewŏl that month, a few singers told me that due to her weakliness it would not be worth the trou ble I might cause her. She died less than a year later, on May 2, 2014. While Yi Ŭnju and Hwang Yongju were ultimately still able to provide fairly detailed descriptions of past events, Yi Ŭn’gwan became quite fuzzy. On more than one occasion, he would respond to my questions about a certain event or singer dismissively or give me informa-tion that conflicted with what he had told me before. Keen though he generally was on providing me with the right details, he regularly contradicted his earlier statements. When I had conflicting accounts, I either pointed them out in the notes or chose to rely on diff er ent sources.
Rather than freezing the folksong traditions of Sŏnsori sant’aryŏng, Kyŏnggi minyo, and Sŏdo sori and jeopardize their survival, the preservation system
Rather than freezing the folksong traditions of Sŏnsori sant’aryŏng, Kyŏnggi minyo, and Sŏdo sori and jeopardize their survival, the preservation system