By Jon Dunbar
It was a lazy Sunday morning, or afternoon, after a punk show the night before at Skunk Hell. I was getting breakfast with a U.S. Air Force friend at a waffle-and-ice cream stand near Hongdae Playground.
"Where is Hongdae?" he asked me.
"It's all around you," I said, not really understanding what he meant.
"No, where is the university?" he asked.
"Right across the street," was my answer. This was back before that huge archway building had gone up, so the university had a smaller profile.
"Is it true, if we went there, we would be lynched?"
His question surprised me. In those days Hongdae was off-limits to U.S. military, and apparently military people were saying it was to protect against violent insurgents. At an arts university.
But his question made me think. Most people who've said "Let's go to Hongdae" have probably technically never been there.
"Hongdae" has changed so much over the years. When I moved here in 2003, it was a quiet university area with an artistic edge. It was ground zero for live music in Korea, something that was not seen favorably.
In my early days, the area you'd call Hongdae was basically between Hongik University Station and the university itself. But its northern and southern bounds were ill-defined. I would arrive through Sangsu Station to get to punk shows.
Over years the area we call Hongdae became more in-your-face. It had its own cadence, which was all about visual and auditory overload. That consumer cultural force spread out from there expanding the scope of what we call Hongdae.
The alley Yanghwa-ro 6-gil, which stretches from the landmark venue Rolling Hall west past now-closed venues such as Ruailrock and Yogiga, used to be a quiet refuge from the raging Hongdae nightlife, until the whole area became consumed by it and now is a classic example of the atmosphere of what we call "Hongdae."
This "Hongdae" grew, and the community that built the previous "Hongdae" moved outward, relocating into Yeonnam-dong, Hapjeong-dong, Sangsu-dong and even the further away Mangwon-dong. But "Hongdae" has expanded, causing this outwardly expanding ring of cool culture, as opposed to crass consumer capitalism. When Danginri Power Plant closes down, this "Hongdae" force will push all those escaping artists into the river, and tourist books will refer to Hongdae as a riverside area.
This is different from the Hongdae I knew, which was declared a center for live music and youth culture. There are live music venues left, but many have closed or moved out to that bubble around Hongdae or beyond. These days, tourism guides to Seoul seem to describe Hongdae as a place for shopping, rather than experiencing a unique live music culture.
Currently, right above the AREX and Gyeongui-Jungang arm of Hongdae Station, a new AK Plaza department store is going up.
I look back on my memories of Hongdae, an area that was briefly the nexus of all underground music in Korea, and wonder where it all went.
"Where is Hongdae?" sounds on the surface like a dumb question. But what's your answer?
Jon Dunbar (jonghyundunbar@gmail.com) is a copy editor for The Korea Times.
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"Where is Hongdae?" he asked me.
"It's all around you," I said, not really understanding what he meant.
"No, where is the university?" he asked.
"Right across the street," was my answer. This was back before that huge archway building had gone up, so the university had a smaller profile.
"Is it true, if we went there, we would be lynched?"
His question surprised me. In those days Hongdae was off-limits to U.S. military, and apparently military people were saying it was to protect against violent insurgents. At an arts university.
But his question made me think. Most people who've said "Let's go to Hongdae" have probably technically never been there.
"Hongdae" has changed so much over the years. When I moved here in 2003, it was a quiet university area with an artistic edge. It was ground zero for live music in Korea, something that was not seen favorably.
In my early days, the area you'd call Hongdae was basically between Hongik University Station and the university itself. But its northern and southern bounds were ill-defined. I would arrive through Sangsu Station to get to punk shows.
Over years the area we call Hongdae became more in-your-face. It had its own cadence, which was all about visual and auditory overload. That consumer cultural force spread out from there expanding the scope of what we call Hongdae.
The alley Yanghwa-ro 6-gil, which stretches from the landmark venue Rolling Hall west past now-closed venues such as Ruailrock and Yogiga, used to be a quiet refuge from the raging Hongdae nightlife, until the whole area became consumed by it and now is a classic example of the atmosphere of what we call "Hongdae."
This "Hongdae" grew, and the community that built the previous "Hongdae" moved outward, relocating into Yeonnam-dong, Hapjeong-dong, Sangsu-dong and even the further away Mangwon-dong. But "Hongdae" has expanded, causing this outwardly expanding ring of cool culture, as opposed to crass consumer capitalism. When Danginri Power Plant closes down, this "Hongdae" force will push all those escaping artists into the river, and tourist books will refer to Hongdae as a riverside area.
This is different from the Hongdae I knew, which was declared a center for live music and youth culture. There are live music venues left, but many have closed or moved out to that bubble around Hongdae or beyond. These days, tourism guides to Seoul seem to describe Hongdae as a place for shopping, rather than experiencing a unique live music culture.
Currently, right above the AREX and Gyeongui-Jungang arm of Hongdae Station, a new AK Plaza department store is going up.
I look back on my memories of Hongdae, an area that was briefly the nexus of all underground music in Korea, and wonder where it all went.
"Where is Hongdae?" sounds on the surface like a dumb question. But what's your answer?
Jon Dunbar (jonghyundunbar@gmail.com) is a copy editor for The Korea Times.
