David Tizzard is a professor at Seoul Women’s University, holds a PhD in Korean Studies, and hosts the Korea Deconstructed podcast. He has lived and worked in Seoul for more than two decades. Reach him at datizzard@swu.ac.kr.
Mr. Woo: Woodstock, Itaewon
By David Tizzard
Late Woo Il-sung
By David A. Tizzard
Woodstock in Itaewon had one of the fabulous quirks of fate where the person most synonymous with the venue had a name that was remarkably similar. The man, the legend, the keeper of live music in the town: Mr. Woo.
Mr. Woo (Woo Il-sung) sadly passed away this week. His departure from the mortal coil was a shock to many and immediately resulted in a tangible outpouring of grief.
Messages were sent from far and wide. People in various continents relayed what news they had heard and consoled each other. But then something remarkable happened. Something that spoke of who he was better than this article might ever hope.
Facebook was flooded with tributes, stories, pictures, and memories of Mr. Woo. Politics and bickering were left aside and the community came together to pay homage to him. And everyone had a story to tell because both Woodstock and Mr. Woo had left an indubitable mark on their lives and experiences here in South Korea.
You could never be quite sure what would happen when you walked into Woodstock. It would range from anywhere in between being completely empty with him asleep on the sofa at the back of the venue to heaving with people, noise, smoke, beer, and rock and roll.
Mr. Woo seemingly felt equally comfortable in both environments. And that was how many saw him. Sometimes happy by himself and in a contented world of one; at other times, the life and soul of a party and grateful for the human touch.
For many, Mr. Woo was a pool wizard. Making his way around his home table in his trademark hat and chequered yellowy-brown shirt, laying his hand on the worn green felt and making the balls disappear as quickly as the whisky and beer he would drink.
To others, he was a club owner that gave generously and unselfishly. And in a society where more and more people are becoming concerned with possession and competition, Mr. Woo never hesitated to give what he had to others.
For bands playing there, he would reward them handsomely ― particularly if he liked them. There was no arguing over money. There was no talk of cuts of the bar or anything else. He simply shook your hand and said no more about it. This made him truly unique.
He directly funded the albums, rehearsals, and equipment of many bands and thus his legacy will certainly live on in the music that continues to be created. He didn't take from people. He gave.
For the customers and friends, there were always drinks. Always gifts. Always the offer to play music on the house stereo or the stage. He let people feel at home in his venue. He didn't set rules and demand things from you.
Mr. Woo told you to live and do what you want. And that is a prime reason why so many people felt at home there and also felt appreciated.
In that sense, Mr. Woo and Woodstock created an environment that was more than just a venue. It was a set of values.
Once you had got past the fact that it hadn't been cleaned in twenty years, that the carpet could probably tell enough stories to fill twenty seasons of CSI: Itaewon, that the toilet was often more a game of snorkeling and wading than relieving, that the stage had holes in, the microphones sent electric through your lips sporadically, and everything was coated in a deep layer of smoke, it was a place that embraced diversity.
Musically in Woodstock, you quite literally never knew what you were going to get: gayageums and dansos, acoustic folk, rap, electronic music, saxophones and keyboards heavy metal, jazz, or some young kids playing the Ramones.
The people were just as varied. In Woodstock you'd just as likely be talking to a Korean or a foreigner, a CEO or a prostitute, a young kid or a grandfather, a soldier or a hippy. In Woodstock, it didn't matter. It was a meeting of souls, not business cards.
And what's more: There was no dress code. You didn't need to wear spikes and denim, a suit and a tie, or skinny jeans and a beanie hat to fit in. You just wore what you wore and people accepted you for it.
Beneath the weather-worn veneer was something truly unique. Something honest and embracing. A beacon of understanding shining proudly and unabashedly amidst a world of cookie-cutter replicas.
That was Mr. Woo. And that was Woodstock. Leaving us to ponder where one finished and the other began.
But perhaps they didn't. Perhaps they were one and the same. Fused together.
Social media will make you laugh, cry, and gasp in equal measure with all the stories being shared about Mr. Woo, and I encourage you to read them all. I will finish with the last message I received from Mr. Woo on my phone.
“Hava beautiful night.”
Rest in Peace, Mr. Woo. And rock in power.
David Tizzard (datizzard@swu.ac.kr) is an assistant professor at Seoul Women's University.
David A. Tizzard