BELA
Noise and Cries 굉음과 울음
Boomkat Product Review:
One of the most captivating and unique sonic cocktails we've heard in ages, bela's debut album is a glistening alloy of repurposed South Korean traditional rhythms, weightless drones, electro-plated club pulses and coarse, industrial metal vocals, all cut thru tempo-fluxing noise like a serrated blade. Utterly essential listening, whatever you're into, buit esp if you hover in the vicinity of Raja Kirik, SOPHIE, Liturgy, Pisitakun, Senyawa.
It feels as if 2024's only just begun, and already we've been served with a clear contender for album of the year. 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' is a dazzlingly complete statement from bela, who already impressed us with 2021's 'Guidelines', an EP that examined the tempo-modulating rhythms that underpin Korean Nongak folk music, disrupting them with skillful, alien sound design. Here, they unleash their voice for the first time, and it's a revelation. bela grew up in Seoul, and when they were exposed to Western music via the internet, they were dumbfounded by the guttural, growling vocals they were hearing in industrial music and death metal. Removed from their context, these sounds provide bela with a powerful aesthetic to manipulate, and on 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' they act as the album's sonic anchor, a way for bela to contemplate stifling gender stereotypes and the concept of death itself. They snatch words from the Korean pansori aria Jungtaryeong on 'The Sage', bellowing through an FX chain while pinprick synth prangs form a chiming melody and plasticky, maximalist drum hits redefine the 10/8 eotmori jangdan rhythm. Dazzlingly original, it's music that feels brassy and contemporary in a landscape riddled with mimicry; bela's influences are clear - the quirky intensity of hyperpop, the perpetual motion of experimental club music, the catharsis of extreme noise - but they manage to emerge with a sound that's far greater than the sum of its parts.
'Deathwill' and '죽음이 두려울 때까지 Until Scared of Death' unfurl the album's themes in no uncertain terms; the former is an anguished cry from the afterlife that wonders if the rift between a queer child and their parents can ever be healed, while the latter squeezes ugly, phantasmagorical gurgles over mangled folk-y string sounds and distorted drums. bela imagined the album as a way to investigate the concept of death and eventual rebirth, seeing death as not a negative but a way to shake off cultural strictures and regain an appreciation for traditional sounds. And on '풀이 Unwinding' they give us a moment to reflect, transforming their growl into an angelic cry and layering it into clouded euphoria. We're reminded of Enya's enduring 'Orinoco Flow' on this one (really!), as muted string plucks underpin bela's horizontal lament; bela is looking down from the heavens, watching the confusion below and offering sanctuary. It's a necessary pause, 'cause when we reach '나락 Pit' - the album's most fanged missive - we're slapped with collapsing hwimori and dongsalpuri beats that bela amalgamates with a pneumatic gabber thump.
This track - a "riot song" in bela's own words - is the album's fulcrum moment. It was written in response to bela's experience playing DJ sets at tiny South Korean clubs, where they would feel out the ecstatic mid-point between anti-fascist hard dance music and fervid noise. Their lyrics, screamed menacingly through a wall of static, confront the Buddhist concept of hell: narak, or the infinite abyss. They use this as an analogy for the despair young, working class Koreans are confronted with and make the track a call to action, a punk anthem for a despondent digital age. It's dance music, on some level, but it's not avoidant or escapist, it shores us in the here and now, wherever our roots might lie. We've been absolutely awestruck by this album; not only does it pick apart Korean themes and sounds that might be unfamiliar to Western ears, it reaches across the wider cultural spectrum, ushering in a new era of hybridity that stands in opposition to globalism's perpetual flattening. It's a message of hope to outsiders anywhere that while the constant friction of existence might be challenging, it can shape art that's genuinely transformative.
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Boomkat Product Review:
One of the most captivating and unique sonic cocktails we've heard in ages, bela's debut album is a glistening alloy of repurposed South Korean traditional rhythms, weightless drones, electro-plated club pulses and coarse, industrial metal vocals, all cut thru tempo-fluxing noise like a serrated blade. Utterly essential listening, whatever you're into, buit esp if you hover in the vicinity of Raja Kirik, SOPHIE, Liturgy, Pisitakun, Senyawa.
It feels as if 2024's only just begun, and already we've been served with a clear contender for album of the year. 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' is a dazzlingly complete statement from bela, who already impressed us with 2021's 'Guidelines', an EP that examined the tempo-modulating rhythms that underpin Korean Nongak folk music, disrupting them with skillful, alien sound design. Here, they unleash their voice for the first time, and it's a revelation. bela grew up in Seoul, and when they were exposed to Western music via the internet, they were dumbfounded by the guttural, growling vocals they were hearing in industrial music and death metal. Removed from their context, these sounds provide bela with a powerful aesthetic to manipulate, and on 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' they act as the album's sonic anchor, a way for bela to contemplate stifling gender stereotypes and the concept of death itself. They snatch words from the Korean pansori aria Jungtaryeong on 'The Sage', bellowing through an FX chain while pinprick synth prangs form a chiming melody and plasticky, maximalist drum hits redefine the 10/8 eotmori jangdan rhythm. Dazzlingly original, it's music that feels brassy and contemporary in a landscape riddled with mimicry; bela's influences are clear - the quirky intensity of hyperpop, the perpetual motion of experimental club music, the catharsis of extreme noise - but they manage to emerge with a sound that's far greater than the sum of its parts.
'Deathwill' and '죽음이 두려울 때까지 Until Scared of Death' unfurl the album's themes in no uncertain terms; the former is an anguished cry from the afterlife that wonders if the rift between a queer child and their parents can ever be healed, while the latter squeezes ugly, phantasmagorical gurgles over mangled folk-y string sounds and distorted drums. bela imagined the album as a way to investigate the concept of death and eventual rebirth, seeing death as not a negative but a way to shake off cultural strictures and regain an appreciation for traditional sounds. And on '풀이 Unwinding' they give us a moment to reflect, transforming their growl into an angelic cry and layering it into clouded euphoria. We're reminded of Enya's enduring 'Orinoco Flow' on this one (really!), as muted string plucks underpin bela's horizontal lament; bela is looking down from the heavens, watching the confusion below and offering sanctuary. It's a necessary pause, 'cause when we reach '나락 Pit' - the album's most fanged missive - we're slapped with collapsing hwimori and dongsalpuri beats that bela amalgamates with a pneumatic gabber thump.
This track - a "riot song" in bela's own words - is the album's fulcrum moment. It was written in response to bela's experience playing DJ sets at tiny South Korean clubs, where they would feel out the ecstatic mid-point between anti-fascist hard dance music and fervid noise. Their lyrics, screamed menacingly through a wall of static, confront the Buddhist concept of hell: narak, or the infinite abyss. They use this as an analogy for the despair young, working class Koreans are confronted with and make the track a call to action, a punk anthem for a despondent digital age. It's dance music, on some level, but it's not avoidant or escapist, it shores us in the here and now, wherever our roots might lie. We've been absolutely awestruck by this album; not only does it pick apart Korean themes and sounds that might be unfamiliar to Western ears, it reaches across the wider cultural spectrum, ushering in a new era of hybridity that stands in opposition to globalism's perpetual flattening. It's a message of hope to outsiders anywhere that while the constant friction of existence might be challenging, it can shape art that's genuinely transformative.
Boomkat Product Review:
One of the most captivating and unique sonic cocktails we've heard in ages, bela's debut album is a glistening alloy of repurposed South Korean traditional rhythms, weightless drones, electro-plated club pulses and coarse, industrial metal vocals, all cut thru tempo-fluxing noise like a serrated blade. Utterly essential listening, whatever you're into, buit esp if you hover in the vicinity of Raja Kirik, SOPHIE, Liturgy, Pisitakun, Senyawa.
It feels as if 2024's only just begun, and already we've been served with a clear contender for album of the year. 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' is a dazzlingly complete statement from bela, who already impressed us with 2021's 'Guidelines', an EP that examined the tempo-modulating rhythms that underpin Korean Nongak folk music, disrupting them with skillful, alien sound design. Here, they unleash their voice for the first time, and it's a revelation. bela grew up in Seoul, and when they were exposed to Western music via the internet, they were dumbfounded by the guttural, growling vocals they were hearing in industrial music and death metal. Removed from their context, these sounds provide bela with a powerful aesthetic to manipulate, and on 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' they act as the album's sonic anchor, a way for bela to contemplate stifling gender stereotypes and the concept of death itself. They snatch words from the Korean pansori aria Jungtaryeong on 'The Sage', bellowing through an FX chain while pinprick synth prangs form a chiming melody and plasticky, maximalist drum hits redefine the 10/8 eotmori jangdan rhythm. Dazzlingly original, it's music that feels brassy and contemporary in a landscape riddled with mimicry; bela's influences are clear - the quirky intensity of hyperpop, the perpetual motion of experimental club music, the catharsis of extreme noise - but they manage to emerge with a sound that's far greater than the sum of its parts.
'Deathwill' and '죽음이 두려울 때까지 Until Scared of Death' unfurl the album's themes in no uncertain terms; the former is an anguished cry from the afterlife that wonders if the rift between a queer child and their parents can ever be healed, while the latter squeezes ugly, phantasmagorical gurgles over mangled folk-y string sounds and distorted drums. bela imagined the album as a way to investigate the concept of death and eventual rebirth, seeing death as not a negative but a way to shake off cultural strictures and regain an appreciation for traditional sounds. And on '풀이 Unwinding' they give us a moment to reflect, transforming their growl into an angelic cry and layering it into clouded euphoria. We're reminded of Enya's enduring 'Orinoco Flow' on this one (really!), as muted string plucks underpin bela's horizontal lament; bela is looking down from the heavens, watching the confusion below and offering sanctuary. It's a necessary pause, 'cause when we reach '나락 Pit' - the album's most fanged missive - we're slapped with collapsing hwimori and dongsalpuri beats that bela amalgamates with a pneumatic gabber thump.
This track - a "riot song" in bela's own words - is the album's fulcrum moment. It was written in response to bela's experience playing DJ sets at tiny South Korean clubs, where they would feel out the ecstatic mid-point between anti-fascist hard dance music and fervid noise. Their lyrics, screamed menacingly through a wall of static, confront the Buddhist concept of hell: narak, or the infinite abyss. They use this as an analogy for the despair young, working class Koreans are confronted with and make the track a call to action, a punk anthem for a despondent digital age. It's dance music, on some level, but it's not avoidant or escapist, it shores us in the here and now, wherever our roots might lie. We've been absolutely awestruck by this album; not only does it pick apart Korean themes and sounds that might be unfamiliar to Western ears, it reaches across the wider cultural spectrum, ushering in a new era of hybridity that stands in opposition to globalism's perpetual flattening. It's a message of hope to outsiders anywhere that while the constant friction of existence might be challenging, it can shape art that's genuinely transformative.
Boomkat Product Review:
One of the most captivating and unique sonic cocktails we've heard in ages, bela's debut album is a glistening alloy of repurposed South Korean traditional rhythms, weightless drones, electro-plated club pulses and coarse, industrial metal vocals, all cut thru tempo-fluxing noise like a serrated blade. Utterly essential listening, whatever you're into, buit esp if you hover in the vicinity of Raja Kirik, SOPHIE, Liturgy, Pisitakun, Senyawa.
It feels as if 2024's only just begun, and already we've been served with a clear contender for album of the year. 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' is a dazzlingly complete statement from bela, who already impressed us with 2021's 'Guidelines', an EP that examined the tempo-modulating rhythms that underpin Korean Nongak folk music, disrupting them with skillful, alien sound design. Here, they unleash their voice for the first time, and it's a revelation. bela grew up in Seoul, and when they were exposed to Western music via the internet, they were dumbfounded by the guttural, growling vocals they were hearing in industrial music and death metal. Removed from their context, these sounds provide bela with a powerful aesthetic to manipulate, and on 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' they act as the album's sonic anchor, a way for bela to contemplate stifling gender stereotypes and the concept of death itself. They snatch words from the Korean pansori aria Jungtaryeong on 'The Sage', bellowing through an FX chain while pinprick synth prangs form a chiming melody and plasticky, maximalist drum hits redefine the 10/8 eotmori jangdan rhythm. Dazzlingly original, it's music that feels brassy and contemporary in a landscape riddled with mimicry; bela's influences are clear - the quirky intensity of hyperpop, the perpetual motion of experimental club music, the catharsis of extreme noise - but they manage to emerge with a sound that's far greater than the sum of its parts.
'Deathwill' and '죽음이 두려울 때까지 Until Scared of Death' unfurl the album's themes in no uncertain terms; the former is an anguished cry from the afterlife that wonders if the rift between a queer child and their parents can ever be healed, while the latter squeezes ugly, phantasmagorical gurgles over mangled folk-y string sounds and distorted drums. bela imagined the album as a way to investigate the concept of death and eventual rebirth, seeing death as not a negative but a way to shake off cultural strictures and regain an appreciation for traditional sounds. And on '풀이 Unwinding' they give us a moment to reflect, transforming their growl into an angelic cry and layering it into clouded euphoria. We're reminded of Enya's enduring 'Orinoco Flow' on this one (really!), as muted string plucks underpin bela's horizontal lament; bela is looking down from the heavens, watching the confusion below and offering sanctuary. It's a necessary pause, 'cause when we reach '나락 Pit' - the album's most fanged missive - we're slapped with collapsing hwimori and dongsalpuri beats that bela amalgamates with a pneumatic gabber thump.
This track - a "riot song" in bela's own words - is the album's fulcrum moment. It was written in response to bela's experience playing DJ sets at tiny South Korean clubs, where they would feel out the ecstatic mid-point between anti-fascist hard dance music and fervid noise. Their lyrics, screamed menacingly through a wall of static, confront the Buddhist concept of hell: narak, or the infinite abyss. They use this as an analogy for the despair young, working class Koreans are confronted with and make the track a call to action, a punk anthem for a despondent digital age. It's dance music, on some level, but it's not avoidant or escapist, it shores us in the here and now, wherever our roots might lie. We've been absolutely awestruck by this album; not only does it pick apart Korean themes and sounds that might be unfamiliar to Western ears, it reaches across the wider cultural spectrum, ushering in a new era of hybridity that stands in opposition to globalism's perpetual flattening. It's a message of hope to outsiders anywhere that while the constant friction of existence might be challenging, it can shape art that's genuinely transformative.
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Boomkat Product Review:
One of the most captivating and unique sonic cocktails we've heard in ages, bela's debut album is a glistening alloy of repurposed South Korean traditional rhythms, weightless drones, electro-plated club pulses and coarse, industrial metal vocals, all cut thru tempo-fluxing noise like a serrated blade. Utterly essential listening, whatever you're into, buit esp if you hover in the vicinity of Raja Kirik, SOPHIE, Liturgy, Pisitakun, Senyawa.
It feels as if 2024's only just begun, and already we've been served with a clear contender for album of the year. 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' is a dazzlingly complete statement from bela, who already impressed us with 2021's 'Guidelines', an EP that examined the tempo-modulating rhythms that underpin Korean Nongak folk music, disrupting them with skillful, alien sound design. Here, they unleash their voice for the first time, and it's a revelation. bela grew up in Seoul, and when they were exposed to Western music via the internet, they were dumbfounded by the guttural, growling vocals they were hearing in industrial music and death metal. Removed from their context, these sounds provide bela with a powerful aesthetic to manipulate, and on 'Noise and Cries (굉음과 울음)' they act as the album's sonic anchor, a way for bela to contemplate stifling gender stereotypes and the concept of death itself. They snatch words from the Korean pansori aria Jungtaryeong on 'The Sage', bellowing through an FX chain while pinprick synth prangs form a chiming melody and plasticky, maximalist drum hits redefine the 10/8 eotmori jangdan rhythm. Dazzlingly original, it's music that feels brassy and contemporary in a landscape riddled with mimicry; bela's influences are clear - the quirky intensity of hyperpop, the perpetual motion of experimental club music, the catharsis of extreme noise - but they manage to emerge with a sound that's far greater than the sum of its parts.
'Deathwill' and '죽음이 두려울 때까지 Until Scared of Death' unfurl the album's themes in no uncertain terms; the former is an anguished cry from the afterlife that wonders if the rift between a queer child and their parents can ever be healed, while the latter squeezes ugly, phantasmagorical gurgles over mangled folk-y string sounds and distorted drums. bela imagined the album as a way to investigate the concept of death and eventual rebirth, seeing death as not a negative but a way to shake off cultural strictures and regain an appreciation for traditional sounds. And on '풀이 Unwinding' they give us a moment to reflect, transforming their growl into an angelic cry and layering it into clouded euphoria. We're reminded of Enya's enduring 'Orinoco Flow' on this one (really!), as muted string plucks underpin bela's horizontal lament; bela is looking down from the heavens, watching the confusion below and offering sanctuary. It's a necessary pause, 'cause when we reach '나락 Pit' - the album's most fanged missive - we're slapped with collapsing hwimori and dongsalpuri beats that bela amalgamates with a pneumatic gabber thump.
This track - a "riot song" in bela's own words - is the album's fulcrum moment. It was written in response to bela's experience playing DJ sets at tiny South Korean clubs, where they would feel out the ecstatic mid-point between anti-fascist hard dance music and fervid noise. Their lyrics, screamed menacingly through a wall of static, confront the Buddhist concept of hell: narak, or the infinite abyss. They use this as an analogy for the despair young, working class Koreans are confronted with and make the track a call to action, a punk anthem for a despondent digital age. It's dance music, on some level, but it's not avoidant or escapist, it shores us in the here and now, wherever our roots might lie. We've been absolutely awestruck by this album; not only does it pick apart Korean themes and sounds that might be unfamiliar to Western ears, it reaches across the wider cultural spectrum, ushering in a new era of hybridity that stands in opposition to globalism's perpetual flattening. It's a message of hope to outsiders anywhere that while the constant friction of existence might be challenging, it can shape art that's genuinely transformative.
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