Most of the people reading this bio won’t be able to understand Leenalchi’s lyrics. Funnily enough, a lot of Korean speakers won’t be able to either.

Hee-hee! Ha-ha! Hut-hut! Aiiyeh! Kkululululu!

Like many old languages, Korean is full of onomatopoeias, words that echo the sounds heard in the surrounding world. Kwal-kwal (콸콸) is the sound of a running stream. Gaegul-gaegul (개굴개굴) goes the frog. Saegeun-saegeun (새근새근) mimics the soft, somnolent breath of a baby or a cat. These, of course, have easy English analogs: the drip-drop of rain, the frog ribbits, the baby cries wah.

More elusive in English are mimetic words, or words whose sounds are meant to capture a sensation—the sound of a motion or even an emotion. In Korean, these types of words are called uitaeeo (의태어). A slippery floor is mikkeul-maekkeul (미끌매끌). Sol-sol (솔솔) is a kind of gentle and subtle slowness, like in a breeze or a scent. Umul-chumul (우물쭈물) describes hesitation.

The repetition in these words create their own rhythmic unit; each word functions like the tiniest of songs. And though one might not know how to speak Korean, somehow, as in music, these subtle inflections of sound transmit meaning beyond specific language.

In the case of Leenalchi’s music, Koreans couldn’t tell you what the songs are really about — something about a rabbit’s liver, something about a soft-shelled turtle. They’re taken from pansori, a traditional style of musical storytelling often compared to opera. Rooted in shamanism and developed during the Joseon Dynasty (17th century), these songs tell epic tales of love, virtue, sorrow, and dragon kings. But what songs don’t?

Like Beowulf, pansori is told in an ancient version of the Korean language. Still, the sounds emitting from Leenalchi’s singers are transcendent, as if reverberating in our ears from a spiritual plane.

Imagine a musical version of Hamlet set to a juicy, tripped-out bass hook.

The psychedelic riffs are courtesy of Jang Young Gyu (that’s Mr. Jang to you), Leenalchi’s enigmatic leader. Born in 1968, Mr. Jang has witnessed the unprecedented popularity of Korean culture reach every corner of the planet from within. Even on this EP, you’ll find evidence of that reach in their cover of “Let’s Live for Today” by Los Angeles rock band, The Grass Roots. Leenalchi’s version was originally recorded for Kagonada’s acclaimed adaptation of Min Jin Lee’s bestselling novel, Pachinko, and was used as the theme song in the final episode.

In a landscape dominated by the K-pop industry, Mr. Jang represents the country’s small but dedicated indie music scene; he is also a prestigious film composer, scoring soundtracks for some of Korea’s most celebrated movies like Train to Busan, The Wailing, and The Good, the Bad, the Weird.

Mr. Jang’s work with pansori began in 2007, after composing for choreographer Ahn Eun-me’s piece, Bari. With musicians from that project, Mr. Jang went on to form groups such as BIBING, SsingSsing, and eventually Leenalchi (pronounced EEE - NAL - CHI in Korean).

From behind a cloud of grey curls, Mr. Jang wordlessly directs his vision of cross-cultural funk with a collaborative spirit: First comes the rhythm section, developed with drummer Oh Hyungsuk, which sets the foundation for a song. Then, singers Ahn Yiho, Park Soobum, Ra Seojin, and Choi Suin draw from the repertoire of pansori songs to discover the most distinctive and fitting sounds.

“While many artists have attempted modern fusion, I had never seen someone break the framework as radically as he does,” said Park Soobum, a singer in Leenalchi. “He creates space for us to consider how pansori should exist within the music and how the four vocalists’ voices can harmonize. It felt like stepping into a new world.”

[As part of their training, pansori singers are required to spend time singing next to a waterfall, tasked to carefully observe and mimic the sonic nuances of water: the gurgle, burble, and rush of it all. While the meaning of “pan” in pansori is still widely debated (some say it means a situation where many people are gathered, others insist it’s a song composed of varying tones),; “sori” translates simply to “sound.” Throughout Leenalchi’s songs, you’ll hear many soris: Hee-hee! Ha-ha! Hut-hut! Ssukguk ssukguk! Aiiyeh! Joorooroo! Pong pong! Lala lala!

The meaning of these sounds might evade most listeners, but the way they are sung transcends all confines of time, space, and language. Listen, as you would a waterfall.

—Shannon Lee