MORNING CALM TALES Stuck in Seoul's singing spaces
People sing at a noraebang in Seoul, Sept. 20, 2013. Korea Times photo by Jon Dunbar
In 1990 when I arrived in Korea, I discovered that singing was practically a national pastime. I knew about karaoke in Japan, but I had no idea that Koreans had put their own spin on the phenomenon with something called noraebang. Translated literally, it means “singing room” (norae means “song,” bang means “room”), and in the early 1990s, these places were popping up on almost every corner.
Here's a brief backstory: The concept of karaoke is generally credited to Japan, where, in the 1970s, Daisuke Inoue popularized the first coin-operated karaoke machines. Korea quickly adopted this technology by creating the private-room format — unlike the large, open-bar settings that are more typical in the West, the noraebang offers you and your friends a personal space to sing your hearts out. The idea surged in popularity partly because it aligned perfectly with social culture in Korea, where going out in groups — friends, coworkers, classmates — has been (and still is) a common way to unwind and connect.
The flashy entrance to a noraebang in western Seoul's Sinchon area, Sept. 20, 2013 / Korea Times photo by Jon Dunbar
When I first arrived, noraebangs had small booths with karaoke machines, plus all the trappings of a neon nightclub — disco balls, spinning lights, plush sofas. Many even sold snacks and alcoholic beverages, basically turning each room into your own private party. True, the early English song selection was laughably slim (“My Way,” anyone?), but by the late 1990s, you could choose anything from Steppenwolf’s “Born to be Wild” to Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down.”
The book of songs available at a noraebang in Seoul is almost as large as a phone book, Aug. 3, 2024. Korea Times photo by Jon Dunbar
It wasn’t just a novelty, either; it became a genuine social fixture. Students, friends, colleagues — everyone went to the noraebang. Soon enough, I’d find myself invited. But there was no chance of lip-synching or faking it anymore; these karaoke machines actually “scored” your vocal ability. Most of the people I went with clocked in at 90 points or above. My personal best (if “best” is the right word for it) was well below 50, earning me a nice little noraebang inferiority complex.
Imagine the shame: A roomful of cheerful Koreans belting out perfect renditions of everything from trot songs to Bon Jovi, then here comes the foreigner, valiantly attempting to eke out a few notes and promptly losing face in front of everyone. Not even the fact that I later taught Korean singing legends like Ha Choon-hwa or An Chi-hwan in my English classes could have magically improved my own warbling.
The entrance to a noraebang in Yeocheon, now Yeosu, in South Jeolla Province, July 27, 1996 / Korea Times photo by Jon Dunbar
That wasn’t the only surprise. There was even a fleeting trend called “noraebang-in-a-taxi.” One sweltering day in 1993, I hailed a new luxury cab in downtown Seoul. After I settled in, the driver handed me a microphone and pointed to a portable karaoke machine in the front seat. The selection was limited, but I gave “My Way” another shot. Sid Vicious would have beamed with pride; Frank Sinatra would’ve cringed.
Ironically, my first real singing “performance” in Korea wasn't in a noraebang at all. It happened in a boardinghouse.
In the fall of 1991, one of my students invited me to an art exhibition for one of her friends at Ewha Womans University. Later that evening, we were invited to an “opening party” — Konglish for “open house” — at a friend’s nearby boardinghouse. There were about 20 people there: all the boarders, their friends and the husband-and-wife owners.
The party took place in a spacious downstairs room. Everyone sat on the floor around several low Korean tables, which were laden with a delightful feast: kimbap, fried rice, japchae noodles, assorted kimchi, chewy tteok, fruit and beer.
Before the meal, everyone introduced themselves in Korean, one after another — until it was my turn. Feeling more than a little nervous, I offered a shy introduction in Korean, praying my pronunciation wouldn’t embarrass me too much. Soon after we started eating (and downing a few glasses of beer), it was time for the next beloved Korean ritual: singing. University students, in particular, love to burst into traditional folk songs at the drop of a hat. And just like the introductions, everyone was expected to sing. Yes, that meant me, too.
I desperately wanted to make a good impression on my student who had invited me, but I couldn’t think of a song to save my life. The moment was quickly approaching as one boarder after another performed, some shy and some flamboyant. Five singers until me. Still nothing. Four. I broke into a cold sweat. Three. Not a single tune would stick. Two. My brain just wouldn’t cooperate.
Then it was my turn. Twenty faces looked up at me, smiling expectantly. A small miracle occurred: Suddenly, Herman’s Hermits’ “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am” popped into my head.
Originally dating back to the early 1900s, the song was written by Fred Murray and R. P. Weston, known for their catchy, comic tunes, and it was popularized onstage by the lively performer Harry Champion. Decades later, Herman’s Hermits brought it back into the spotlight, topping U.S. charts in 1965.
With a burst of adrenaline and maybe a touch of cosmic mercy, I launched into what had to be the first (and probably only) time that song had ever been performed in a Korean boardinghouse. When I hit the line, “Second verse, same as the first,” the crowd started clapping. Either they genuinely enjoyed it, or they were being magnanimous. Either way, I doubt they’ve ever forgotten the foreigner who belted out, “I’m Henry the Eighth, I am,” with all the gusto of a Vegas lounge act.
Why that song? Possibly because I’d seen Peter Noone perform it at a festival in my hometown right before I left for Korea and it was the only thing I could recall in the nerve-wracking moment. Ironically, at that festival, my college friend and I had been in the front row, playfully heckling him, calling out requests for other Herman’s Hermits songs, and even jokingly telling him to “hide the drugs” when we spotted a state trooper. Noone took it in stride, but I always felt a little guilty about that. Maybe my surprise performance in Korea was some form of cosmic atonement.
If you’re going to appease a rambunctious crowd, you can’t go wrong with an upbeat, catchy tune. “I’m Henry the Eighth, I Am” did the trick that night, and aside from Peter Noone’s rendition, mine was undoubtedly the second-most famous version ever to echo throughout Korea.
Mr. Noone, eat your heart out.
Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990.