Music, Seoul, and Cross-Cultural Encounters
17 September 2025
Music journalist Samantha Cheong shared her experience in South Korea, capturing the vibrancy of Seoul’s pop culture and music scene. Supported by the Asia Media Centre travel grant, she joined a New Zealand indie band on their residency in the country and witnessed how the local quartet stepped onto the global stage, embraced by Korean audiences.
Selected for the 2025 Seoul Residency, the band spent ten days recording, collaborating with local musicians, and performing live at CJ Azit in South Korea’s buzzing capital. Photo: Samantha Cheong
A New Zealand indie band could never have imagined how a trip to South Korea would reshape their lives—and neither could I, as their accompanying journalist.
For ten days, Christchurch’s band There’s A Tuesday—Nat Hutton, Minnie Robberds, Gus Murray, and Joel Becker—immersed themselves in Seoul’s buzzing creative scene. Stationed in Hongdae, the beating heart of Korea’s indie (K-indie) movement, they experienced a whirlwind of industry meetings, collaborations, festival performances, and spontaneous encounters that stretched well beyond music.
When we returned to Aotearoa, we carried back more than memories. We had proof that cross-cultural exchange is transformative, its power reaching deep into the way we see music, community, and ourselves.
First Steps into Seoul
As a Malaysian-Chinese person born in New Zealand, the residency carried a particular resonance for me. I had travelled often in Southeast Asia, but Japan and South Korea had always been left for “later.” Korea—neighbour, cultural force, and quiet influence on my life—remained unexplored until this trip.
Like the band, I had long been shaped by Korean culture at a distance: films, dramas, and music threaded through my daily life. Yet being on the ground was different. Walking the streets of Seoul, I began to see how subcultures lived beneath the global export of K-pop.
Markets, back alleys, and venues became classrooms. We met locals who handed us skewers dripping sauce onto cardboard mats, bumped into music executives long after formal meetings, and found hidden corners of the city that seemed made for discovery. Each encounter added brushstrokes to a picture still hanging in my mind.
Photo: Samantha Cheong
Vinyl, Merch, and the Meaning of Devotion
Just before our July flight, I picked up a copy of Standart Magazine at a West Auckland café. Inside was a feature on Music Complex Seoul, a record-listening bar with rich red walls, leather booths, and personal turntables. An audiophile and coffee lover’s dream.
Stepping into the space weeks later felt like entering a temple. Vinyl lined the shelves in no particular order, inviting exploration. Patrons sipped iced espresso while flipping through records, enjoying music as an act of presence rather than background noise.
That reverence for analogue echoed what Hutton later observed at the Incheon Pentaport Rock Festival: four-hour queues for merchandise, while the wait for beer was barely minutes. “People were queueing throughout the whole festival just to buy merch,” she laughed. It was a reminder that in South Korea, fandom isn’t passive. People show up, collect, invest, and hold music in their hands.
Even outside venues, this devotion to the physical thrived. In Hongdae, Joel stumbled across a vending machine selling disposable film cameras. We snapped Instax Polaroids throughout the trip, indulging in the joy of capturing moments tangibly.
Work Culture and Solitude
For all its energy, Seoul also revealed subtler rhythms. Dining alone at midnight in a solo K-BBQ restaurant, I found companionship not in people but in the city’s hum. Ordering through a small screen at my table, I was left unrushed and comforted. I returned three times.
Before the trip, I had read about the rise of “mind convenience stores,” spaces designed to ease urban loneliness. They allow people to sit, eat, or simply be in proximity to others, with optional counselling services available. The idea that even passive interaction can combat isolation made sense after experiencing the city.
Fountain, a Korean-New Zealander who joined parts of the residency, pointed out another detail: workers quietly recharging during breaks, staring into space or resting in green corners. These small acts of self-care revealed something profound about Seoul—it is a city that runs at full speed, yet still carves out moments for pause.
Photo: Samantha Cheong
Discovering Sound City
One evening, wandering alone in Hongdae, I noticed bold block letters in a basement window: Sound City. Descending the staircase, I discovered a network of rehearsal rooms, a concert hall, and a showroom. Every door pulsed with music, even late at night.
At the entrance, a table offered communal guitar picks, leads, and audio connectors—tools to borrow, no questions asked. The scene reminded me of grassroots spaces back home, like Depot Sound or DeBase Music Centre. That mix of familiarity and discovery was a kind of homecoming.
Music as a Bridge
Some of the residency’s most powerful moments came not on stage, but in between. At the New Zealand Embassy in Seoul, the band closed a meeting with a waiata, filling the room with Te Reo Māori. Deputy Head of Mission Sarah McDowell called it “a beautiful way of expressing identity, unity, and connection.” For her, it was proof of music’s power as a bridge between communities.
That bridge was just as evident in the studio. Working with K-indie artist Kimseungjoo at CJ Azit, the bands communicated largely through sound. Robberds introduced the Kiwi slang “mean,” while Kimseungjoo shared daebak (대박). They wrote lyrics about change, weaving two languages into one narrative. Hutton reflected, “A language barrier creates special interactions and moments between people.”
Savina, from BIG FAN in Auckland, later observed: “With any collaborative writing session, it shows me that people can get into a room not knowing each other, and by the end of the day, they’ve got a whole song.”
Taxi Rides and Old Songs
Even taxi rides carried lessons. One driver, curious about my background, pulled up a YouTube video of Pokarekare Ana. I was stunned that he knew this Māori love song. A friend later explained that New Zealand troops had introduced it during the Korean War, where it evolved into a Korean version, Yeon-ga.
For the band, taxis brought lighter moments too. Nat recalled Minnie using Papago to say, “I love Seoul,” only for it to translate as, “We are the souls of love.” The driver chuckled and replied, “Okay, funny New Zealand lady.” Even mistranslations became connections.
The residency’s essence came together on its final night: Korean barbecue spread across five tables, musicians and organisers crowded together, celebrating. Robberds described it as “the most beautiful moment—it really solidified the whole trip for us.”
Korean barbecue had been a recurring joy throughout the residency. “It was mind-blowing every single time,” she laughed. When asked what to eat, the answer was often simple: go back for more. “We’re all very good at eating, so it was not a problem,” Hutton joked.
Beyond Seoul
There’s A Tuesday left Seoul with new friendships, new songs, and new ways of seeing music. They also left with momentum—heading to Brisbane’s BIGSOUND festival, then on to headline shows in Australia for the first time.
For me, the residency revealed something broader: that cultural exchange isn’t only about official meetings or grand performances. It thrives in small acts—walking unfamiliar streets, stumbling into rehearsal rooms, sharing kai, or singing together in a language not your own.
Seoul welcomed us into its rhythm. We returned not just as visitors, but as participants in a larger story—one that continues to grow wherever music crosses borders.
-Asia Media Centre