A legacy-driven media platform documenting Korean excellence in culture, economy, and identity
By Choi Ga-bi
Photo by Mee Rainny
The day of Jeon In-Kwon's concert, known as the "Emperor of Rock," in New Jersey had arrived. An interview with the artist was scheduled before the performance, so I hurried to the venue, the Bergen Performing Arts Center, to avoid being late. The organizer, Studio FAV, expressed concerns about the lengthy rehearsal. Despite rehearsing for over six hours in LA and performing for three hours before flying straight to New Jersey and practicing all day, Jeon—a man not considered young and enduring jet lag—elicited concern from even a seasoned journalist like myself.
As we awaited the end of the rehearsal in front of the dressing room on the second floor, the organizers sternly suggested expediting the interview due to lack of sufficient meal time. Just as this seemed unreasonable, Jeon In-Kwon emerged from the elevator. With his long, tied-back white hair and striking sunglasses, his unconventional celebrity pose brushed past like a summer heatwave—leaving one quite awestruck. Seizing the moment, I joined him in the dressing room with a hesitant greeting. While he wasn't impolite, it was apparent that his interest in the interview was somewhat lacking, so I promptly started recording.
"Is this your first performance in America?" I asked.
"Well, I came about 32 years ago once. It wasn't our concert; I was a guest. But this time, everything went as promised, so I'm really pleased," he responded in his characteristically informal speech, often referred to as "Jeon In-Kwon's style." He offered me a donut, to which I politely declined. There was minimal eye contact, adding to my apprehension about the interview's success.
"You came right after the LA concert; you must be exhausted. Is there a special reason for your first American performance?" I inquired.
"I've always wanted to perform here. The visa was the issue. I couldn't perform on a tourist visa. Thanks to Mayor Park Won-soon, I received help in getting a visa."
When asked about the difference in mindset between performing in Korea and abroad, he mentioned focusing on the American audience as if they were Korean emigrants. Reflecting on his social involvement in events like the Sewol disaster, candlelight rallies, and labor disputes, he emphasized that it stemmed from personal conviction rather than sudden interest. Jeon recounted the political challenges his band, Deulgukhwa, faced during Korea's military regime, yet credited public support for their survival.
When asked why his music captivates the public, Jeon humbly attributed it to his straightforward singing style, reminiscent of his aspirations since his youth. Envisioning a world stage, especially in spontaneous settings like parks in Bali or Europe, he hopes this would inspire future musicians. Reflecting on his enjoyment outside music, he shared his love for painting—a passion that transforms him into a child-like joy.
Acknowledging over three decades since his debut, Jeon mentioned his desire to continue music until physical limits press him into retirement. In such a future, he plans to paint murals—an ambition accompanied by evidence of his sketches of band members, vividly showing his artistic side.
Asking about the upcoming concert repertoire, Jeon reeled off a list including "Please," "After Love," "Walking and Walking," and a few more. He vowed to give his best, relishing in the simple joy of music.
Despite the staff's urgency to wrap up the interview, Jeon remained unperturbed, indulging in taking pictures with the Mom & I magazine. Through art and performance, audiences sometimes discover artists' true essence. One speculates whether the raw outpouring of his voice hints at his genuine personality. Leaving the dressing room, I gestured with a thumbs-up, hoping his pure inner self reaches the audience, and fosters an intimate human connection. Jeon’s indifferent reaction left my thumb hanging in midair.
