The Economist February 20th 2021 Books & arts 71Twitter’s endless loops of attention-seek-
ing and hot takes, will not appeal to every-
one. But Ms Oyler’s writing is sharply ob-
served and often uproariously funny—and
behind her very-online jokes and shaggy-
dog stories lies a serious account of a mod-
ern search for meaning and authenticity,
in a city that can seem to offer little of ei-
ther. From the unadorned harshness of its
public spaces to its arresting light—which
can turn “everything an eerie slate...like it
had always just rained, or you had just
cried”—she captures her version of Berlin.
The narrator’s relationship with the city
in Mr Okwonga’s carefully crafted novella
runs deeper. He left London to be “as in-
nocuous as a cobblestone” in Berlin, and is
as successful as “a dark-skinned black manin an overwhelmingly white city” might
dare to hope. The racism is persistent, but
not disabling. Friendships are powerful,
but cannot block out the loneliness. On-
line dating, this time earnest, turns out to
be a “spectacular exercise in humility”. As
for social media, the narrator’s therapist
recommends that he cut down to reduce
his anxiety levels.
Expats in Berlin will find much to rec-
ognise in this book, from the ecstasy of the
summers to the “friendships which never
quite take root”. That is, until the final
chapter, when the narrator makes a pil-
grimage to rural Uganda, the land of his
dead father. This experience, steeped in
family and history, seems to fulfil his
search for identity as Berlin never could. Korean listening habitsExit music
H
e did notmind working in advertis-
ing, says Kim Jae-geun. “It’s creative
and competitive, it was fun while I was
young, but I no longer had the strength for
it.” So for the past seven years, instead of
spending his days writing copy, Mr Kim, a
softly spoken 59-year-old in wire-rimmed
glasses and a dark jumper, has spent his
evenings behind the counter of his bar
near Seoul’s government district—a venue
also home to thousands of vinyl records
that he began collecting as a teenager.
Stacks of scrap paper and pens on the
countertop and the tables let customers re-
quest their favourite songs. Before the gov-
ernment introduced a curfew to fight the
covid-19 pandemic, Mr Kim says the bar,
Seochon Blues (pictured), used to fill up
with tired office workers from the sur-
rounding firms and state agencies during
the week, and with 20-something hipsters
and local artists at the weekends. “There’s a
bit of a retro wave,” he observes. “All the
young people ask for very old songs.”
Mr Kim’s is one of dozens of “lpbars’‘ in
South Korea’s capital, many of which are
run by men with similar stories. South Ko-
rean companies offer few opportunities
for middle-aged workers who have not
climbed through the ranks, or who have
grown fed up with the rigid rhythms of of-
fice life. Leaving their jobs in their 50s,
with music collections becoming too large
for their living rooms, a few who have not
taken up work as taxi-drivers or security
guards have decamped with their records
to softly lit basements or walk-ups in unas-
suming office buildings. The first lpbars opened in the 1990s,
possibly inspired by the “listening bars”
that originated in mid-20th century Japan,
where music aficionados would flock to
listen to imported records that were other-
wise hard to come by. But they have prolif-
erated in recent years, their frequently
middle-aged owners benefiting from the
analogue trend that has gripped South Ko-
rea’s digital natives. One established K-pop
star promoted his latest single with a pic-
ture of himself posing in front of stacks of
records in clothes from the Sixties; newerbands release special editions of their lat-
est albums on vinyl. Last year national
sales of vinyl records were up by 75%;
women in their 20s and men in their 30s
were the biggest buyers.
The atmosphere in the bars ranges from
mellow to raucous depending on the loca-
tion, time and tastes (though pandemic-
induced restrictions have made melanch-
oly the dominant mood). Many requests
are on the mawkish side. Kim Kwang-seok,
a South Korean folk-rock singer of the
Nineties, is particularly popular, says Mr
Kim; so is “Hotel California”. Some places
specialise: “People know I have lots of Six-
ties psychedelia, so they come mostly for
that,” says Choi Byung-ik, who with his
wife runs a bar in Hongdae, a hip studenty
area. Connoisseurs like to listen to Leaf
Hound, a British band that in its heyday re-
corded only one album, alongside better
known groups such as Pink Floyd and
Cream, for which the bar is named.
The uspof others is their equipment.
“You won’t find this sound system any-
where else, because I built it,” says a pro-
prietor in the glitzy Apgujeong neighbour-
hood of his mix of state-of-the-art amps
and speakers that reportedly date to the
1930s. But in a metropolis that in general
has little time for sentimentality, all lp
bars encourage nostalgia.
“I don’t like digitisation and I don’t like
the isolated way people live now,” says Lee
Jae-jun, who left a job in logistics to open a
bar down the street from Mr Kim’s. “I like
remembering the Eighties and Nineties
and I like playing the songs from people’s
youth and reminiscing.” On the best days,
regulars arrive “for just one drink, and
then I play a song they like, and another
one, and before you know it, it’s 4am and
everyone goes home drunk and happy.” SEOUL
Tired of your job? Own too many records? Time to open a barSome dance to forget