Korean DJ is Seoul’s master of Western rock

Kang Hyun-min remembers the first time he slid an album from its cardboard jacket and delicately, almost reverently, placed it on the turntable.

It was 1979, and Kang’s father had made the record player off-limits to the 10-year-old. But home alone one day, the young Kang gave in to his curiosity; he flipped through his brother’s album collection, thinking he might for once take control of that magical music player. Unable to read English, he knew musicians only by their album-cover art. He knew he had to hurry — someone could arrive at any minute.

He grabbed an album by ABBA and set the needle down on a random song, the disco anthem “Dancing Queen.” The room was dark and Kang held his face close: The red light indicating that the needle was engaged gave off a warm glow. He watched the black vinyl spin slowly and was mesmerized.

The career of one of Seoul’s most popular foreign-music nightclub disc jockeys had just been born.

Three decades later, vinyl records have been replaced by Internet downloads in most DJ booths, but the 41-year-old Kang remains loyal to those early sounds.

For years, Kang approached foreigners to plumb their musical knowledge. Now the student knows more than his teachers, and he’s sought out by expatriates here for the breadth, style and playfulness of his musical acumen.

Kang spins it all: indie, country, punk. But his specialty is the British sound of the 1980s: the likes of Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, the Cure and the Smiths.

Known to fans as Min — a name that fittingly rhymes with spin — he’ll plumb his repertoire for an obscure track that will prompt foreign bar patrons to approach with an oft-heard question:

Who was that?

“If I play a song for 100 people and just one person comes up to me and says, ‘Oh my God, I haven’t heard that in 20 years!’ I’ve been a success,” he said. “It’s why I play music.”

The Seoul-born music aficionado has always approached Western melodies with the passion of a wide-eyed graduate student, hungry for new sounds and backbeats born outside his culture.

“I’ve never seen him stumped by a request,” said Allen Johnson, a Korean linguist here. “Min will say, ‘Oh, I know that band; what song do you want to hear?’ And he’ll play three killer tracks.”

Working in Seoul’s foreign-dominated Itaewon area, Kang’s encyclopedic ‘80s playlist is sprinkled with obscure out-of-decade sounds, such as Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s “Love Missile F1-11,” Secret Affair’s “Time for Action” and “Celebrate” by An Emotional Fish.

Kang cut his musical teeth with the times. In high school, he tuned in to the Armed Forces Radio Network, absorbing tracks by such groups as A-ha, Dire Straits and Culture Club.

He compiled top-10 lists for friends, always attending class with his Sony Walkman, telling teachers he was studying English, which, in a way, he was. With his cheap recorder, he’d tape music right off the radio, songs interrupted by his mother’s call to dinner.

By the mid-’80s, his older brother was working as a bar disc jockey and Kang fell in love with the free-flowing booze and the DJ’s easy control of the bar’s vibe and mood.

In 1990, fresh out of high school, he applied for his first DJ gig. The bar specialized in the American ‘50s and ‘60s sound, so on his live interview Kang played a few Elvis Presley cuts and threw in some Rolling Stones. The owner liked what he heard.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked. “Min? You got the job. When can you start?”

For the next two decades, Kang would work in a succession of bars and for a few years ran his own club. He spun tracks at night and during the day devoured books on world music.

Later, he searched the Internet, researching the names of band members, following their defections to other groups and solo endeavors. He sought out knowledgeable expats to teach him something he didn’t know.

Douglas Binns, a Korean government English instructor here, was one of several who took Kang under his wing. “I’d test him for fun. We called it his homework,” Binns said.

Binns, a guitarist and onetime record store worker with a firm grasp of ‘80s music, would offer a few band names and Kang would see what obscure songs he could find: “He’d come back and say, ‘Give me more homework.’ Pretty soon it became hard to stump him.”

Nowadays, encased in his DJ booth, patrons dancing, the music flowing, Kang is the one doing the stumping.

john.glionna@latimes.com