The gayageum is a plucked Korean zither with a history that stretches to the sixth century. Its first and finest exponent in avant-garde jazz is DoYeon Kim, whose spellbinding debut, Wellspring, reveals a fiercely original voice (in more than one sense). Before a recent show presented by Ars Nova Workshop and the Doris Duke Foundation, Kim joined us to talk about tradition, translation, and the power of self-expression. She even graced us with a solo improvisation on her instrument, which has fast become a vital part of the experimental scene.
Watch Kim’s solo gayageum improvisation, which closed out the interview below.
Interview Highlights
On realizing, “I'm not wrong, I'm just different”
I had a big adolescent moment, in my first year of middle school. My mom suddenly gave me an airplane ticket: “Okay, have fun on your winter vacation.” In Korea, winter vacation is like two and a half, almost three months. I didn't know I was going to go to school in Victoria, on Vancouver Island in Canada. I suddenly went to school there, and I actually had so much fun. In Korea I felt like I was a very drama-queen kind of personality — really big — but over there, they just accepted me as who I am. I didn't need to fit in to be part of the group. I felt like, deep inside, even in my music, I'm not wrong, I'm just different. But people back home would say I was wrong, which made me really doubt it. And when I went there, I found myself — I realized I'm not wrong, I'm just different.
On why Korean music is felt as breathing, not counting
Even when you dance to Korean traditional music, there's always a feeling of gesture within the rhythm. That's how I feel the rhythm, and when you see the dance, the Korean music isn't counted one, two, three, four, like ballet — it's not counted as a group. It's more like breathing. Even in Korea, when we say music, we call it "kukak." Even though "ak" means music, that also includes dance. We don't separate singing, dance, and music — it's already together, that word includes everything. And how we feel the rhythm is different than Western rhythm. We already share those common things — how we hold, breathe, hold, and breathe out. It's how I'm doing it in my music the way they're doing it visually in dance — I'm doing it aurally. I don't think there's anything to separate. I think it's still connecting — we're doing the same thing in a different sense.
On refusing to be boxed in as “just a gayageum player”
I didn't want people seeing me as just a gayageum player. I wanted people to see me as an artist, DoYeon Kim, not just a gayageum player, and I didn't want to be put back in that box. And the second thing was, I didn't want people saying, “Oh, your songs have such an exotic sound.” Like, what do you mean, exotic? All of those things I needed to fight with. So I went really, really deep, digging into why I felt this way, why I even started gayageum, what it all meant, and all my trauma coming up. I really had to see it, accept it, swallow it. That was really long and hard. But without going through that, I don't think I could be free — I would have stayed stuck there, kept talking about me, and me, and me. So that was the step. And to get past being just a gayageum player, I started composing.
On learning to sing by learning to be heard
The funny thing about why I sing is I never trained my voice, by the way. It's completely self-taught. But then there was Tony Malaby, the saxophone player — I played with him in duo, and he invited me to play with his quartet, and a bigger, larger ensemble. And of course, the gayageum — now I use three mics, but back then, if there's a drummer, so many brass instruments all banging away, I couldn't hear myself. And Tony Malaby said, “DoYeon, more, more, more.” I was physically pushing myself, and I kept thinking, no, I still can't hear myself — so I started yelling: “Can you hear me? Are you hearing me?” And I was yelling, and the audience loved it. He loved it. And then, “DoYeon, more, more.” And then next time: “DoYeon, will you sing?” I was like, what are you talking about? And that's how I also became a singer — I realized the gayageum is percussive, very dot-like, and I wanted to connect that dot, and started using my voice, which the gayageum can also do in its way. After I break through one limitation, it always feels like, okay, after this obstacle, another obstacle is coming. But that's also life. And that's also the beauty of life.
On composing for people, not instruments
How I compose isn't like, I'm thinking I'm composing for violin, or composing for bass or drums — I'm thinking more about Henry's character, Matt's character, Tyshawn's character. I care more about their personalities, who they are, than about the instrumentation. I already have so much trust and belief in that, so it's not a problem — I know how they're going to play and interpret. And it was right — they brought so much magic to it. I even asked Matt, “Matt, can you make me cry?” And right away — one note, and right away — I was like, oh my God. So it's all coming from love and trust and belief.
