15. One night only

Christmas in Seoul is a bitterly cold affair. Hands are stuffed deep into the pockets of winter coats or are being rubbed vigorously in front of faces, stopping every so often to gain the benefits of a puff of hot air, blown through the lips of their owner. My hostel didn't fare much better. The soju-and-fried-chicken induced laughter warmed spirits, but didn't do much for the frigid draught that seeped in through the gap in the doorway.

"We're going to a gig, you guys wanna come?" came the enticing proposition from a pair of off-duty American soldiers spending the night. The rest of us looked around and thought "Why the heck not". It wasn't long before we tumbled out of the hostel and onto the chaotic streets of Hongdae, the University district full to the brim with Christmas Day revellers.

In our haste, none of us had actually bothered to ask what kind of gig we were going to. Slowly losing feeling in our extremities meant it didn't really matter, as long as it was indoors. Our final ascent came up a steep flight of dimly lit stairs, before we parted ways with 20,000 Won in a plush hallway.

The bouncer slowly swung the door open and the back alleys, dim lighting and cushioned walls finally made sense. Smooth jazz baby. A genre I'd only experienced listening to Cole and Sinatra in my parent's Mondeo, was now, quite unexpectedly, being seductively crooned by a songstress and her 5 piece band a mere 5 metres away. We settled into the back corner of the intimate lounge with a couple of Cass beers, our thrown together hostel attire well out of place in a venue populated by smoky turtle necks and smokier lensed glasses. We'd arrived atrociously late and 20 minutes later, the band played their last jig. After a polite round of applause, much of the crowd began to filter out and the musicians began to pack up their gear.

We began to rise, a little disappointed, but the barman waved us to sit back down. There was more to come. The crowd had dwindled to about 10 hardy souls and we watched (a little disbelievingly) the scene in front of us unfold. A quartet of teenage boys ambled their way up the stairs and began to set up on the stage in front of us. These kids wouldn't have been old enough to order a drink at the bar, let alone play at one? I should have checked my opinion. I was about to undergo what can only be described as a religious experience.

The boys kicked off and even to my inexperienced ears, I realised we were in for something different. Gone were the timeless, soulful melodies of the last band - replaced by a high tempo, chaotic whirl of fingers, strings and hair. Jaws slowly began to drop across the lounge as the quartet sent the whole room into the next dimension for 50 straight minutes. My eyes struggled to keep up, darting between the guitarist's hands ripping across his instrument and the bassist's four strings vibrating in a single blur. The drummer didn't miss a beat, yet I could swear he wasn't even looking at his set. The keyboardist played like he was in a trance, hands splayed across the keys, his board producing the soundtrack to a psychedelic fever dream. Notes that had no business being played together brought the room to stunning crescendo after stunning crescendo. It was a crazy jazz acid trip. I was hooked, my breath taken away in so many different ways I was lucky I wasn't asthmatic. Never before had music had such a physical effect on me. I had never heard anything like it and genuinely don't think I ever will again. There is no sane way I can communicate what I experienced that night.

It's been three years already, but I still remember every moment of that set on that wintery Christmas evening in Seoul. It was something else, man. Jazz has dominated my spotify playlists ever since.

Next time you find yourself in Seoul - take a look at Club Evans in Hongdae. And stay past the main event. You might like what you hear.