beer and slams his glass onto the bar.
He has long hair, wears a threadbare
black coat and looks like he hasn’t
shaved for a month. Anywhere else,
people would give this guy a wide
berth, but at Gopchang Jeongol, he
fits right in.
Situated in a basement in Seoul’s
Hongdae entertainment district, the
kitsch-cluttered bar has set itself up
as a kind of Alamo, a last bastion of
great Korean contemporary music—
a category that does not include
sartorially challenged rappers riding
imaginary horses. In short, “Gang-
nam Style” gets no play here.
“
It’s the Macarena all over again,”
sighs a lanky, hoodie-clad regular
named SeanMaylone, refer-
ring to Psy’s ubiquitous
novelty song. Origi-
nally fromCalifornia,
Maylone runs an
indie-music book-
ing and promotion
agency, through
which he aims to
counter the vast
popularity of glossy
K-pop. To help inspire
appreciation for other
genres, he and Gopchang
Jeongol’s owners recently created
an Internet archive of Korean music
from the past 60 years.
“
I have hopes,” Maylone says, “that
with all this access to information
we’ll see the immense Korean drive
and focus put toward contemporary
creativity and flipping over new
sounds and such.” He goes on
to explain that he wants
to open the minds of
listeners and emerging
artists alike, but he
is soon drowned out
by the table-rattling
bass line of Shin Jung
Hyun & Yup Juns’
1974
hit, “I Think.”
At this moment,
the guy at the bar hurls
himself onto the tiny dance
floor, whirling around in a mist
of cigarette smoke. Maylone cocks
his head in the man’s direction and
smiles, as if the spectacle says it all.
—
HANNAH STUART-LEACH
SPAIN
•
Juan the snailmandoesn’t have a
wide inventory. Hemainly sells
caracoles
,
garden snails that are a bit smaller than
marbles, by the fishmarket in El Puerto
de SantaMaría, onSpain’s Atlantic coast,
alongwithbundles of
poleo
,
anherbused
to temper the garlicky cumin broth in
which the snails are traditionally served.
Chef David Méndez, a regular cus-
tomer of Juan’s, says
caracoles
elicit
memories of childhood, when picking
themout of the oozewas a source of fun
aswell as protein. “Everyone sits around,
slurping themout of their shells,” he says.
Juan is less enamored of the little
animals. The line at his stall is long,
and the
caracoles
,
despite their lack of
speed, have devised an effective escape
strategy: to overwhelmby sheer force of
numbers. When asked where he finds
his snails, Juan dismisses the question
with a wave of his arm—which 20 or so
caracoles
seem to take as their signal to
make a bid for freedom.
—
GEOFFREYGRAY
NO-PSY ZONE
TAKING A STAND
AGAINST THE RELENTLESS
INVASION OF K-POP
The bleary-eyed man downs his
SHELL GAME
PLAYING CAT-AND-MOUSE WITH GARDEN SNAILS
SEOUL
THE GROOVINESS OF THE
LONG-DISTANCE RUNNER
Aworld-class Kenyanmarathoner
puts on his dancing shoes
With the clapping, singing crowd on
its feet and the Kenyan pop hit “Kuna
Dawa” blasting through the fellowship
hall, Wesley Korir makes his way
to the front of the room. He
executes a series of fluid
side-shuffles, working himself low to the
ground and up again, his hands waving
above his head. Which is one way,
apparently, of warming up for one of the
biggest races of your life.
Korir and a handful of other Kenyans
competing in the ChicagoMarathon are
being feted by the city’s Kenyan expatri-
ate community, a pre-race tradition
for the past 14 years. Korir is bouncing
around the room as if he hasn’t a care in
the world, even though he has quite a
few: Having recently won the presti-
gious BostonMarathon and
established himself as one
of the world’s top distance
runners, he now bears the
burden of his compatriots’
high expectations.
Certainly, Korir has come
to Chicago eager to win, following
second- and fourth-place finishes in
the previous two years. If he’s feeling
the pressure, though, he’s doing a good
job of hiding it. When dinner is served,
he tucks into his cornmeal
ugali
with
the enthusiasm of a lumberjack, and
regales his fellow diners with rapid-fire
wi icisms. Later Korir grows solemn,
telling those around him there’s no point
in being the best if you don’t put your
talent to good use. He goes on to speak
of his own charitable work. “If you’re
running for no reason,” he says, “you’re
just chasing a er the wind.”
This same weekend, Korir will
finish the Chicago Marathon a disap-
pointing fi h. But that doesn’t ma er
right now, as the Kenyan folk hero takes
to the dance floor to showcase, once
again, his unimpeachable footwork.
—
ANDREW JENNER
CHICAGO
20
FEBRUARY 2013
•
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