Since arriving in Korea, I always knew that the Nori Bang (singing room) would be the death of me. I would walk past them and feel a cold chill. I lived in terror of them. Just thinking about Nori Bang's would give me a fit of diarrhea or an anxiety attack. If the truth were known, I have never felt comfortable in Korea knowing that THEY existed.
Music leaves me feeling chilled and nauseated, light headed and weepy. I have no explanation for it. When I was an infant, I would ball at the sound of music and continue on inconsolably, much to the consternation of my mother, grandmother, or other caregivers, long after the music stopped. Even the Cajun music of my native Southern Louisiana could not please me. I was practically disowned as a child because of it, and, consequently, suffer serious emotional scars regarding music.
It�s not that I dislike music; it�s not that I can not enjoy music; it�s that I have the worst sense of music ever endowed upon a human being. I can�t even tune a radio. I have no sense of tone, or pitch; rhythm, or beat; notes or harmony. To me most music sounds like your average car hitting a trash can, mixed with a train passing and a cat in heat.
So, every time the Korean teachers at my hagwon invited me to go to a Nori Bang, I always found some reason not to go. No matter how lame the excuse, I would smile my pasty panic-stricken sweaty smile and stammer whatever remotely plausible reason I could think of at the time. They always looked disappointed and we would agree that next time nothing would stop us from going.
Unfortunately, word of my birthday wormed its way out of the hole I bury such vital information about myself in. I am a private and shy person by nature, and abhore being the center of attention. Birthday parties are particularly lothesome.
The teachers were bound and determined to take me out drinking and then to the Nori Bang. To them it was inconceivable that anyone would not want to go into such A PLACE. To them, no celebration was complete without a visit THERE. To me, it would stink of death.
As the day approached, my feelings of dread mounted. I could barely make myself come to school that day. I could barely make myself look at my fellow teachers. Luckily, we ate and drank ourselves intoa riotously noisy group at the soju room before going to THE PLACE. As we stood at the foot of the stairs of the place, I had to steady my nerves. I was dizzy from the noise of all of the joyous mix of melodies, and voices.
Eventually, I had to sing a song. I sang "Cotton Fields" by Credence Clearwater Revival. Tentatively, I held the mic in my hands, and my head began to swim. The words began to appear on the screen, their color changed, the music rang out, and someone gently kicked me under the table, to let me know I should be singing now. Weakly, my deep froggy voice began its journey from my throat. It went so well, I felt like I was Barry Manalow or John Denver or somebody. All of the Korean teachers clapped and sang along, and I registered a paltry, but satisfying 45 on the machine's obscure scoring system. Next, I tried "My Way" by Frank Sinatra. The response from the teachers was less enthusiastic, but still encouraging. It didn�t seem so bad. I even began to sing quietly to myself when the other teachers choose English songs.
When my turn rolled around again, I tried "Jambalaya," that venerable old Cajun tune, attributed to the Carpenters(?). I was drunk. I was deliriously happy -- maybe, I was part of the human race after all! I was singing with reckless abandon. Suddenly, the music stopped. I continued "singing" until I realized everyone was staring and that it was only my voice. Mouths were a gape; no one would meet my eye. The shiest teacher in my hagwon was crying quietly in the corner, while my English co-teacher tried unsuccessfully to console her. The large science teacher, who could play strong safety for the Pittsburgh Steelers, snatched the mic from my hand. I looked with doubt and fear into the eyes of my friends. They looked upon me with an odd mixture of terror, anger, and pity.
"It is time to go now, Jack," the head teacher said quietly. We all sat for several minutes, not knowing what to do. A loud banging sounded at the door. The manager burst in sweating profusely, and looking as if he had been wrestling a tiger.
"Out," he shouted in Korean. "You must leave immediately!" he said as he pulled at the math teacher�s arm. "No more singing," he panted, stuffing a 10,000 won note into the math teacher's hand. "Now go!"
As we left the entire place was eerily quiet. No one was singing! No one was there! We walked down the stairs hearing our foot-steps echo in the deafening maddening silence. Out on the streets no one was entering. As our little party broke up, no one said a word; we simply quietly went our separate ways. During the three months since then, no one has ever mentioned a word to me about my birthday, or invited me to another Nori Bang.