In Tune With Tradition

When the sun goes down and day’s work is done, Korean Americans think fun by going out to sing.

They head out to Los Angeles’ Koreatown, where they rent a song room--norae-bang--by the hour and sing to their heart’s content.

“It’s a wonderful way to get rid of the stress,” says Tong S. Suhr, a prominent Korean American attorney whose baritone voice is much admired in churches and in song rooms.

A norae-bang is a great venue for different generations to get together and have fun, said Hyepin Im, a venture capitalist in her early 30s.

“It encourages the younger generation to learn Korean, too,” she said. “It helps kids to connect with their parents.”

For Koreans, who consider themselves a “singing people,” the song rooms of Koreatown take the Japanese-born karaoke concept to a new level.

In the privacy of comfortably furnished rooms, with overhead lights flashing and television monitors displaying words to follow, they sing, dance and renew friendships late into the night.

When all the singing makes them hungry, waiters and waitresses in crisply ironed white shirts and black pants are ready to take their orders.

On one recent evening after work, Suhr and his friends got together to engage in this favorite Korean pastime at Rosen Music Studio on 8th Street, one of the oldest and most popular song rooms in town.

It was after 9 p.m. when Suhr’s party arrived, but the evening was just getting started.

Purple neon lights, flashing the name of the establishment, beckoned passersby. Patrons of all ages arrived in twos, threes and larger groups and disappeared into darkened song rooms. Rosen has more than 30 rooms of various sizes.

The lobby was illuminated by the glow of revolving iridescent lights and a giant TV screen. The proprietor of the establishment, a middle-aged man with an impassive expression, juggled customers and phone calls from behind the counter.

Near him were a prominent display case containing a wide selection of spirits and a refrigerator, well-stocked with soft drinks and Korean beer.

In a large song room, rented at $35 an hour, attorney Dennis Chang got the evening rolling by pretending to be Elvis Presley singing a Tony Bennett song: “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

Businessman Paul Kim joined him on the floor, combining singing with gyrations that prompted a squeal of laughter from women in the room.

Not to be outdone, Suhr did his number in Korean--a nostalgic Korean song that elicited cries of “Jotta, jotta!” (Right on, right on!) from the men.

By the night’s end, they had sung more than two dozen popular Korean and Western songs, downed several plates of sliced fruit, peanuts and dried cuttlefish and consumed a good amount of soft drinks, beer and spirits. They were laughing and relaxed.

No matter what the occasion, Koreans have a song to sing, said Suhr, a longtime leader of Los Angeles’ Korean American community. “No one enjoys singing as much as Koreans. Koreans are the Italians of the East.”

Ann H. Park, who is a prosecutor by day, said she considers a night out at the song rooms inexpensive but effective therapy.

“It lets you let out emotions in different ways,” she said. “When you’re singing, you’re moving around, having fun with people. It’s a very good therapy.”

One doesn’t have to sing to have fun, however.

“I don’t sing, but I like coming to a norae-bang because you can let go of your inhibitions; you are among friends and you can go crazy,” said Soo Jin Na, who teaches information technology.

In a song room, acting crazy is accepted.

For Kim, who brought down the house repeatedly with his play-acting, the fun part is helping his friends enjoy themselves by serving drinks and snacks and entertaining them with his antics.

“I try to make it fun,” Kim said, “which makes me feel good too.”

Songs Reflect Korean History

Singing is an important part of Korean life because historically Koreans did not have the luxury of other recreation, Suhr said. They had a hard enough time just eking out a living.

“So we sang as we labored,” Kim said. “Koreans sang when they planted rice. They sang when they harvested crops. Mourners on funeral marches sang, too--a duet form--which was a precursor to rap.”

Many Korean songs are sad and in minor keys, Suhr said, because they reflect the tumultuous history of the Korean peninsula that for centuries was at the mercy of foreign conquerors. Ordinary Koreans’ feelings of helplessness about their fate became part of the songs they sang.

“We are a people filled with han [unrequited woe], so we sing to unburden ourselves,” he said. “Remember, Koreans say birds cry when other people say birds sing.”

Poverty also encouraged the development of the singing culture because it didn’t cost anything to sing, said Suhr, who is an unofficial historian of Korean traditions.

Singing has helped Koreans maintain their mental health, said Beatrice Choi, a Korean American clinical psychologist. Choi, who treats many younger Korean Americans, says singing can do them good.

“It’s good for their mental health,” she said.

“Koreans are not a verbally oriented people who express everything with words. Koreans communicate through singing” and in other nonverbal ways because they are so attuned to each other, Choi said.

Even in Los Angeles, Koreans like to conclude important get-togethers by taking turns singing a song.

For Korean American professionals like Im, singing is a “wonderful social tool” for bonding with each other.

Koreatown has dozens of song rooms, some with such colorful names as “With Two Feet,” “Regrets” and Inside the Forest.” Some are pricey spots favored by prosperous businessmen and professionals entertaining guests, and where a patron can run up a $1,000 tab in no time. Others cater to the younger crowd, offering pool halls and game rooms. Rosen falls in the middle, with a varied clientele that includes accountants, market owners and a well-known Korean TV anchorman.

Open until 2 a.m., song rooms don’t come alive until well after 10 p.m., even on weeknights. On weekends, younger patrons, taking advantage of low-priced “happy hours,” begin gathering as early as 5 p.m.

Ambience and clientele vary from establishment to establishment. But there is one thing that is a constant.

No matter which song room they choose, Korean American men sing Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” during their night out.

“I don’t know for sure why the guys always sing that song,” said Im, but she suspects that the song serves as a bonding ritual.