P’ungmul and samul nori are two dominant rhythm-centered musical genres within the field of native Korean music (hereafter, kugak4). P’ungmul, regarded as yǒnhǔi (lit. performing arts for entertainment), is an outdoor art that intertwines acrobatic performance, dance, ground formations, and drumming with the communal labor of agricultural life. It embodies rural cultures whose diversity mirrors that of South Korea’s many regions. In contrast, samul nori was performed for Seoul urbanites for the first time in 1978 in concert settings5 by skilled musicians from namsadangp’ae (an itinerant performance group).6 While p’ungmul is woven into the quotidian, agricultural life of rural communities, samul nori reflects the ambitions of proficient musicians to contemporize tradition for urban audiences, restructuring p’ungmul’s rhythmic elements into urbanized, stage-based, and sedentary forms. Accordingly, samul nori’s canon is akin to a standard and eclectic language, in contrast to p’ungmul, which can be seen as a vernacular tied to its rural origins.

Despite pronounced differences in structure, performance length, rhythmic patterns, and aesthetics, these two genres overlap substantially in the technical aspects of percussion performance. Practitioners at a master level often distinguish between performance techniques based on their teacher’s lineage and regional style, especially within p’ungmul. However, in practical instruction for beginners, these subtleties of musical elements become less prominent. My own pedagogical experience suggests that, for beginners, it is less productive to draw rigid distinctions between these two musical genres. Instead, teaching should develop students’ versatility and independence as practitioners, empower them to make their own musical decisions (regarding musical arrangement and practical techniques), and encourage them to broaden a range of percussion sounds suitable for a variety of audiences, performers, and event organizers alike.

For example, I found that the somatic features of p’ungmul—particularly the emphasis on bodily movement—proved worthwhile for teaching efficient and expressive percussion techniques. By contrast, samul nori’s concise and well-structured rhythmic patterns lent themselves to classroom demonstration, as these are typically shorter and more digestible than the extended rhythmic cycles of p’ungmul (which can last for hours). Thus, mastering the foundational movement vocabulary of p’ungmul enhances the acquisition of practical percussion techniques needed for a samul nori repertoire.

On February 25, 2023, I attended a Korean drum workshop hosted by the Korean Performing Arts Institute in Chicago in the United States and taught by Ch’oe Su-wan [Choi Suwan]. Notably, Ch’oe began not by striking the drums, but by teaching students how to move their arms and upper bodies. This workshop, which formed the centerpiece of a three-day field trip I organized for Sinaboro members,7 aimed to expand the ensemble’s repertoire beyond what they had presented at the Korean American Student Association [KASA] Culture Show on April 16, 2022. During the workshop (see Figure 1), Ch’oe instructed participants to raise their arms in line with their shoulders and lower them slowly, as if exhaling, likening the motion to a bird folding its wings in flight. Bending the knees at the precise moment the arms came down was stressed as integral to the movement. While the ultimate purpose of the workshop was to teach a samul nori repertoire (Yǒngnam nongak), Ch’oe explained that the initial focus on bodily movement—drawn from p’ungmul practice—was foundational to playing Korean percussion instruments. It takes precedence over the acquisition of musical patterns themselves.

With Ch’oe’s instruction, I realized how important the motion was for playing the instruments. Six months later in 2023, I hosted a ten-week samul nori workshop9 in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I invited Katherine Lee to be a guest instructor on June 1. Although the workshop’s core focus was on samul nori, Lee introduced two fundamental p’ungmul movements: the shoulder dance (ǒkkaech’um) and a knee bend (ogǔm) (Figure 2). She demonstrated both a deep and shallow knee bend and coordinated them with vocalizations associated with the yich’ae (lit. two strikes) pattern, “tǒng tǒng kung tta kung” (Score 1). She did not provide any written instructions for this rhythmic phrase, instead delivering it verbally. The pattern she taught was as follows: The first two quarter notes are clapped with both hands on their respective thighs. For the third note—a dotted eighth—the left hand moves across to the right thigh. This is quickly followed by a sixteenth note, struck by the right hand on the same side. Finally, the fourth quarter note is clapped by the left hand on the right thigh. The musical score of yich’ae in single-staff music notation is shown below:

In this score, noteheads bearing both upward and downward stems denote clapping with both hands. The upward stem corresponds to the right hand, and the downward stem to the left. Lee instructed participants to vary the depth of their knee bends according to the syllables. Because the first two beats are stronger than the subsequent three strikes, this rhythmic pattern is referred to as “two strikes,” with an emphasis on the initial two beats. When participants sang “tǒng tǒng,” she showed them how to bend their knees deeper, then to bend their knees slightly for the “kung tta kung” part. The importance of circularity was central to comprehending the rhythms of Korean percussion genres. She stated:

During the thirty-minute session, participants learned to move their bodies and arms more naturally, which directly influenced the quality of sound they produced. Her illustration of rhythmic “circularity”—as opposed to angularity or linearity—was expressed through participations’ bodily movement during the workshop. Following Lee’s instruction, participants formed a circle, initiated a ground formation, and alternated knee bends and arm movements in synchrony.

The importance of the kinesthetic aspect of playing Korean percussion instruments is also supported by Donna L. Kwon, who pointed out the aesthetic practices of the P’ilbong style of p’ungmul—“mouth rhythm” (ipchangdan), “shoulder dance” (ǒkkaech’um), “breath” (hohǔp), and “bending knees” (ogǔm)—which she observed at a music training camp in Imshil county (2015, 53–55). In this regard, practicing p’ungmul helps develop the technical skills required to perform. Korean percussion instruments in an ensemble.

P’ungmul and samul nori both represent the development of aesthetic intuition, embodied knowledge, and communal ethics. Both genres share a commitment to cultivating not only technical skills but also a collective orientation toward rhythm and participatory music-making. This section elaborates on the intersection of art and virtue in these traditions by drawing upon oral testimony, aesthetic discourse, and pedagogical models rooted in transmission.

Building upon Hwang Byǒng-ki’s conceptual theorization of flavor (mat) and virtue (mǒt) in Korean musical aesthetics in folk and ritual practices (1978, 29–31), Robert C. Provine stresses “mǒt” in folk music practices and “him” in rhythmic patterns (2001, 851). In the context of kugak musical performances, both are colloquial terms: mǒt means one’s expression of praise for an excellent musical presentation, and him is a dynamic energy that encompasses more than articulation and represents the emotional appeal conveyed through variation, expansion, and spontaneous adaptation of rhythmic cycles in response to the moment. These terms extend far beyond mere stylistic or affective characteristics of kugak as a whole; they represent a performer’s intuitive understanding of rhythmic nuance and emotional expression. Achieving a musically compelling performance as a Korean percussionist requires not only proficiency in playing techniques, but also the ability to express versatility and demonstrate an internalization of rhythms and these aesthetic ideals. These expressions that signal an appreciation for Korean music are commonly observable beyond South Korea. Kim Su-chin invokes these metaphors of “flavor” and “vitality” to illustrate their significance within the practice of p’ungmul rhythms in both the U.S. and South Korea (2011, 77–78).

These aesthetic dimensions were apparent when I attended a music training camp for rural, village-based p’ungmul from February 22 to 26 in 2024. During the full moon festival, Imshil p’ungmul practitioners performed on February 24 as part of the ancestral ritual practices that are regularly enacted at this time of year. The spectators expressed appreciation for the skilled practitioners’ mǒt and the dynamism (him) of the performance. This was evident not only in the vitality of various p’ungmul rhythmic arrangements but also in shared moments of excitement, when the spectators initiated dancing and drumming at the end of the p’ungmul performance. Once audience members started to walk onto the playing field, the boundary between audience and performer became blurred. The spectators, who wore raincoats due to unexpected rain, began performing the shoulder dance and playing percussion instruments (Figure 3). It was natural for them to join the performance without any hesitation. Although the current National Intangible Cultural Heritage holder of the Imshil style of p’ungmul, Yang Chin-sǒng, had decided to begin the final performance earlier than scheduled, the practitioners ended up playing longer than expected as the crowd actively joined in and continued performing p’ungmul along with them.

In this sense, the production of flavor and vitality emerged communally in both participatory and stage contexts. The practitioners did not force audience members to join them. Rather, participatory performance was mutually expected from the audience as well as the practitioners. While the sedentary and staged format of samul nori creates a clearer separation between performer and audience, the expressive values remain. Here, as Provine and Hwang noted above, musical flavor (mǒt) and dynamism (him) are conveyed through precise rhythmic articulation and variation, encouraging audiences to become connoisseurs of musical taste in their own right and active participants in creating such taste.

Provine points out that the rhythmic structure of Korean percussion features metric regularity, tempo variation, and moments of improvisation (2001, 876). In participatory settings, performance quality is primarily judged not by technical precision but by a more holistic sense of resonance, atmosphere, and communal cohesion. The term p’ujida, literally meaning “abundance,” captures this ethos. As articulated by the late Yang Sun-yong, a performance is regarded as successful when it generates a full and powerful sound that embodies communal unity (Chǒn 2023, 171–76). This aesthetic ideal is illustrated in a recollection by practitioner Yi Sang-baek [I Sang-paek], who described Yang Sun-yong’s exceptional control over the soe (a small hand-held gong with a wooden mallet):

This communal orientation is further exemplified in the pedagogical philosophy of the Imshil P’ilbong Transmission Center. As Donna L. Kwon (2015) documents, the center prioritizes participatory learning over individual virtuosity. Regardless of prior training, participants undergo intensive sessions where musical knowledge is transmitted through embodied interaction. Intermodal feedback between teachers and students features heavily in this pedagogy, demonstrated not only through verbal instruction but also through gestures, movement, and bodily synchronization in the shared space of the village courtyard. One of the most crucial concepts that emerges from this practice is encapsulated in the expression habi matta (lit. all fits together), a term used by practitioners to evaluate rhythmic and collective cohesion. This phrase refers to a collectively held rhythmic sensibility, a precondition for effective group performance in which all instrumental parts align in time, energy, and intention. The evaluation of a performance, then, depends not on isolated skills but on performers’ capacity to attune themselves to others—a musical achievement and cultural consensus.

At advanced levels, expressing rhythmic flow is pivotal to the mastery of p’ungmul and samul nori to achieve the quality of “melodies,” which “need to be repeatedly tightened and loosened” (Provine 2001, 851).12 This melodic elasticity is called naego, talgo, maetko, and p’ulgo, translated variously as “produce, stir up, fasten, and unbind” (Lee 2018, 56) or “produce, heat up, tense, stir up, and release” (Hesselink 2006, 116–17). These concepts describe a formal structure through which rhythmic energy is built, intensified, and ultimately released. More than a compositional technique, this flow is an improvisation and affective progression delivered through embodied rhythmic knowledge, often referred to as nǔkkim (feeling).

Sachs elucidates rhythm as a significant discipline that shapes music or poetry by elevating it to sophisticated art (1953, 19). Likewise, music scholars such as Lee Hye-ku, Robert Provine, and Paek Tae-ung have emphasized rhythm as a key aspect in the practice of kugak performances. To explain this, they have discussed the concept of changdan (lit. long and short)—a fundamental Korean musicological term that frames how musicians experience and organize musical time (e.g., temporality) across diverse repertoires of kugak. In the p’ungmul context, gut (lit. ritual) also refers to changdan, and karak (lit. melody) refers to the rhythmic pattern. It is common for p’ungmul practitioners to use karak, changdan, and gut interchangeably to refer to certain rhythmic patterns. Building on these discussions,13 Nathan Hesselink refines and expands the definition of changdan for the context of p’ungmul and other Korean folk genres as follows: “Korean rhythmic patterns are determined by rhythmic models consisting of a series of accented and unaccented strokes or beats, often varying in metrical and repeat structure, use of tempo, and phrase length” (when applicable) (Hesselink 2006, 189).

Rather than treating rhythmic patterns as merely consistent or variable, Hesselink’s definition of changdan emphasizes the performers’ agency to actively shape tempo and rhythmic expression. This approach emphasizes the practitioners’ musical competence, demonstrated by their ability to expand upon and vary fundamental rhythmic patterns. Rather than imposing rigid boundaries on Korean rhythm in p’ungmul, Hesselink’s delineation underscores the musical responsibility and creative agency of practitioners. This understanding also aligns with the qualities of samul nori performance, which is often associated with “dynamism” (Kor. yǒktongjǒk). Robert Provine previously interpreted this concept using the Korean word him, which, in literal translation, is closer to “strength” or “force.” In contrast, yǒktongjǒk implies a condition of constant progress and fluidity. Rather than emphasizing only force or strength, as implied by Provine’s selection of him to convey “dynamism,” Lee argues that the flexible, progressive nature of rhythm in samul nori represents a musical form that extends beyond the boundary of South Korea (2018). I do not claim that samul nori’s rhythms merely result from one-way borrowing from p’ungmul. Instead, I adopt Hesselink’s definition of changdan, which characterizes the rhythmical examples from p’ungmul and recognizes the crucial role of percussionists in determining the tempo and arrangement of the rhythmic patterns.

From this discussion on changdan, I now turn to the meter theory of Lee Po-hyǒng, the late scholar who theorized and expanded the conceptualization of changdan in folk music (Sǒng 2023, 28). Through Lee Po-hyǒng’s interpretation of Korean rhythm, I explore how this theory has been applied to the system of Korean written rhythmic notation, called chǒngganbo (box notation), which has been widely adopted by p’ungmul and samul nori practitioners. Lee Po-hyǒng’s theory describes changdan collectively and grammatically by using the Korean mensural notation system (Sǒng 2023, 38). What is striking about his meter theory is that he suggests the concept of a unit in relation to sobak (beat) and pakcha (meter) (1995). Sobak refers to the smallest unit of a beat, which can be grouped into either duple or triple meters. Pakcha refers to a metrical unit, or beat, within a rhythmic cycle. For example, the rhythmic pattern, chungmori changdan (Score 2), consists of two sets of two sobak and twelve pakcha, which would be equivalent to twelve quarter notes within one changdan. Although the time signature provided below is written as six quarter notes, a duple meter in a quarter note is understood as sobak. In this case, the two sobak and twelve pakcha are interpreted within one measure of the rhythmic pattern. Whereas there are twelve boxes, which represent each beat in the box notation, changdan in the Western single-staff notation style is composed of two measures, as shown below:

With this meter theory describing sobak and pakcha, the box notation style provides a simpler framework for interpreting Korean rhythmic cycles than the single-staff notation style. The following section details how to read this box notation.

The expression of the nǔkkim (lit. feeling) in p’ungmul practice is how one delivers the versatile sound of Korean percussion instruments, as well as the expression of the intonation, stress, and accent of the rhythmic phrases. In p’ungmul and samul nori, such nǔkkim can be achieved through the subtle manipulation of rhythm, volume, and dynamics. When I attended a training camp of the P’ilbong style of p’ungmul for a second time in 2024, the current National Intangible Cultural Heritage holder, Yang Chin-sǒng, who is the son of the late Yang Sun-yong, led a group session on the morning of July 30. He encouraged students to practice diligently in order to elevate a rhythmic pattern to the level of a melody (Kor. karak). I later followed up with him to inquire about what he meant by turning a rhythmic pattern into a melodic phrase (karak) with percussion instruments. He explained:

Yang Chin-sǒng’s pedagogy as a percussionist focused on how to transform rhythmic patterns so that they could sound like melodies. To describe the development of musical sensibility (nǔkkim), he provided the example of a kkwaenggwari player. For this instrument, the left hand plays a crucial role in muting the sound—this is what he refers to as the “open and closed” sounds. While the right hand, wielding a wooden mallet, produces the strikes and creates the beats, the left hand, which holds the kkwaenggwari, manipulates its sonic quality through muting techniques. Yang’s metaphorical comparison of percussion to melodic instruments—through referencing pitch and melody—proposes that his ultimate pedagogical aim is to broaden the potential of percussion instruments. That is, he addresses the perceived limitations of single-pitched percussion by encouraging students to strive for musicality that goes beyond rhythmic accuracy. Although I was not yet familiar with Yang Chin-sǒng’s aesthetic when I first began directing Sinaboro, his pedagogical approach has since offered a lens through which to reflect on my ongoing teaching practice. This practitioner’s knowledge was in how the mastery of p’ungmul and samul was connected to the rhythmic flow explored above (naego, talgo, maetko, and p’ulgo).

In the development of samul nori, the canon is commonly divided into three regional styles: yǒngnam, honam, and utdari. However, as Hesselink remarks, practitioners are not limited to these regional models; he himself incorporated rhythmic patterns from yǒngdong p’ungmul as the basis for a new canon (2009). The form of samul nori typically begins slowly and gradually accelerates, with the pace steadily speeding up. In “Part 1: Learning Korean (Samulnori) Percussion: Pathway Through World Music Pedagogy,” Lim and Campbell provide a musical example of a rhythmic pattern called pyǒltalgǒri (two sobak eight pakcha), which is arranged at the end of the yǒngnam regional canon in samul nori (2023). Before pyǒltalgǒri is played, I added a transition section between yukch’ae and pyǒltalgǒri. With the articulation of this transition part, the next section will elaborate on how circularity, bouncy rhythms, and meter theory can function as effective concepts for students to embody nǔkkim.

As samul nori’s structure typically begins slowly and accelerates, I arranged a piece for Sinaboro that combines the first half of the utdari canon15—buk solo, tchǒktchǒgi gut, t’aryǒng, ch’ilch’ae, and yukch’ae—with pyǒltalgǒri from the yǒngnam canon. This piece was performed at the KASA culture show in April 2022. While teaching this arrangement to undergraduate students at the University of Michigan from January to April of that year, I found that it took longer to teach than any other piece I had arranged—particularly the t’aryǒng changdan and the transitional passage from yukch’ae to pyǒltalgǒri. These sections required more time for students to master, as each instrument’s part needed to be articulated clearly, and the ensemble had to synchronize offbeat and upbeat strokes across four instruments. Unlike most rhythmic patterns in this arrangement, which underscore the downbeat and involve less separation between instrumental parts, t’aryǒng has syncopated rhythms that presented a particular challenge for the students.

From this experience, I developed my own pedagogy around how to teach two rhythmic patterns: t’aryǒng and the transitional period between yukch’ae and pyǒltalgǒri. First, t’aryǒng is a rhythmic pattern that is characterized by its polytimbral structure. The transcription below (Scores 3, 4, 5) is based on the recording provided by the National Gugak Center (2018). Score 3 below shows a mensural notation of it. From the left to right, one box represents each beat, and the empty box indicates the sustained length of the prior note. The size of the circle shows the loudness of each strike, which is divided into strong, moderate, and soft. The smallest circle represents ornamentation. Whereas Western musical notation has time signatures, the length of patterns in Korean musical notation is given by the number of squares. All four instruments, except changgo (a double-headed hour-glass drum), have only a right side upon which to strike. Changgo has two sides to hit. A mallet is used to hit the left side, whereas a stick is used to hit the right side. In this way, changgo has three symbols in the grid: a circle with a stick inside for both hands, a stick for the right hand, and a circle for the left hand. In the notation for kkwaenggwari (a small hand-held gong with a wooden mallet), the black colored circle represents the dampening skill of the left hand, while the right hand hits the drum with a wooden mallet. In the buk’s (a barrel drum) notation, the black colored circle indicates that the player should hit the upper part of the buk instead of the leather part. At the very bottom of the three sets of this mensural notation in Score 3, the sixth beat of the buk should place the strike at the right time so that the other instruments will listen to it. The sixth beat of the buk will be a sonic indication for the other instrumentalists to strike the eighth and ninth notes.

The most challenging part of instructing my students in t’aryǒng was the final section of the twelve pakcha. In particular, the fourth beat of the last section is played on the buk, followed sequentially by the kkwaenggwari and changgo. The strike on the right side of the changgo has to be precisely timed to resonate simultaneously with the final eighth note on the tenth beat. In this case, the concept of circularity, as discussed by Katherine Lee, is instrumental in addressing this challenge. Every three beats in these three sections can be counted using a circular or bouncing rhythmic phrase, which can help students embody the timing and better express the feel of the pattern. This nǔkkim of the rhythmic pattern also relates to how Kwon describes “the bouncy singsong quality” in the enunciation of the vocables of the two-strikes pattern, which are rendered as the elongated sounds “Tǒ Tǒ—ng Tǒ Tǒ—ng” (Kwon 2015, 48–9).

Second, I examine a transitional passage presented to the Sinaboro ensemble by Ch’oe Su-wan, as well as an example of a rhythmic pattern featuring irregular groupings. This transitional period occurs after the rhythmic pattern yukch’ae. The part functions as the bridge, which moves from an iambic meter to a triambic meter. Score 4 presents the basic rhythmic pattern of yukch’ae. The first ten beats can be considered to be two and three sobak, which is the complex rhythm, and ten pakcha, as the first five beats are composed of two and then three small beats.

After repeating the basic rhythmic pattern of yukch’ae or playing its variations several times, the musicians speed up the tempo. When the tempo increases, the musicians must compress the rests indicated by these “empty” boxes. Those “cut-off” beats (top three rows) are shown in the empty boxes in Score 4. As the pace quickens, performers move over the empty boxes more swiftly and maintain the number of strikes in the original yukch’ae. Finally, the strikes shown in Score 5 present the triambic meter which is used to connect to the next rhythmic pattern, pyǒltalgǒri.

As the speed of yukch’ae becomes faster, the meter of the rhythmic pattern changes. It is important that all four instruments remain synchronized, which will lead to what is called habi matta. The transition in Score 5 features a recurring accent on the first of every six strikes, functioning as a metrical cue that ensures phrase stability among the ensemble. At this point, the buk practitioner plays on every third strike of the kkwaenggwari, which provides downbeats for the pyǒltalgǒri changdan. By knowing these technical practices along with the concept of changdan, I found that my students engaged with practical challenges rather than articulating theoretical knowledge. Producing melody-like sounds on single-pitched percussion instruments was one of the key performative aspects for Yang Chin-sǒng. This knowledge—including karak, dynamism, flavor, and vitality, as observed in scenes of p’ungmul and samul nori—lays a foundation where nǔkkim can be generated to develop students’ musical sensibilities.

Although the musical examples in this article are drawn from my experience teaching non-music major students at the university, my approach bridges the gap between academic insights and the practitioners’ perspective. I incorporated various theories of knowledge production developed by theorists ranging from music scholars, such as Katherine Lee, Donna Kwon, Nathan Hesselink, Robert Provine and Lee Po-hyǒng, to instructors, such as the artist Ch’oe Su-wan, as well as a former National Intangible Cultural Heritage holder Yang Sun-yong and current holder Yang Chin-sǒng. This combination of scholarly and artistic perspectives guided my discussion of a practice-based understanding of Korean rhythmic aesthetics. The conceptual and analytical nexus for appreciating Korean rhythm within specific musical genres brings to light how one can become immersed in music culture. This is particularly applicable to the realm of Anglo-American higher education, where teaching and learning diverse music is highly encouraged.

This study investigates strategies for effectively integrating Korean percussion genres into Anglophone music curricula, navigating the limitations of time and space as part of a broader effort to diversify musical traditions within academic contexts. To that end, I have compiled important facets that can be helpful in understanding the cultural and practical knowledge embedded in performance practices. While Lee Po-hyǒng’s theory may appear overly theoretical for the purpose of helping students grasp Korean rhythmic structures, his emphasis on analyzing rhythm through the comprehensive lens of kugak and his concentration on Korean box notation are crucial. This allows students to understand that the sustenance of Korean folk traditions relies not only on musical literacy, but also on vernacular linguistic structures and the development of technical skills in Korean percussion. In doing so, the intellectual community that advances the musical knowledge of Korean percussion instruments, genres, and theories will contribute to the diversification of Anglophone academia.