YOUSUN CHO OF CIFIKA

From her earliest musical memories and understanding the counterpoint of choral harmonies, South Korean electronic artist - yousun cho, a.k.a cifika- has pushed through cultural and personal barriers and harnessed the fortified attitude of Jonber wins in the end. Constantly seeking new musical frontiers and navigating her way through the industrial complex of the musical business, a commitment to her personal aspirations and DECADE-LONG perseverance has resulted in her rightful place on the world stage.

What are your earliest musical memories, and how did they go on to shape your career as a musician?

My earliest musical memory goes back to when I was six years old, singing in a church choir for a Christmas event. I performed a gospel song using sign language, standing on stage with about 15 other kids—all of us dressed as characters from the Bible. I’m not Christian anymore, but that early experience with the church choir had a lasting impact on me. I still love choral music to this day.

When I write harmonies, I naturally gravitate toward counterpoint—something deeply rooted in choral tradition. I was part of a choir in every school I attended, from elementary to high school, and I’ve always enjoyed the feeling of layered harmonies blending together.

Now, I’m actually planning to write my next album as a fusion of choral music and electronic sound. In many ways, those early choir experiences laid the foundation for how I think about voice, texture, and emotional connection in music.

How would you describe the current South Korean scene and how it is playing out on the global scene right now?

The South Korean music scene is incredibly dynamic—beyond the global spotlight on K-pop, there’s a quiet but powerful underground shaping a more experimental and emotionally honest sound. The international fascination with K-pop has also led to broader curiosity about Korean artists in general, sometimes giving us visibility simply by being based in Korea.

In the aftermath of the martial law crisis, many small and mid-sized shows were canceled or scaled back, but artists have shown remarkable resilience, finding new ways to create and connect. Musicians like mount XLR, Haepari, Kimdoeon, Kirra and Hwi and many more continue to push forward, offering deeply personal and culturally rooted work that’s slowly gaining global attention.

When it comes to seeking out sounds and stylistic points that you touch upon, are there local artists you are referencing in your work?

I’d love to get to know Hwi in person these days. I just haven’t found the right time since the Martial law situation has a very heavy impact on me and her personal mood. She is an electronic musician based in Seoul, offering a very unique sound that’s avant-garde and pop. I recently listened to her latest album, “Humanly possible”, and was inspired by her style, especially the fun dynamic of each song and cool swing to its beats. Want to meet her in person and get to know about her music world.

Blending traditional music with modernity, what idiosyncratic South Korean elements do you channel and what Western approaches do you incorporate to produce your signature style?

To be honest, the music we’re all creating and listening to today is already deeply rooted in Western traditions. From the DAWs I use to the synthesizers I record with, the scales, the structure of mixing and mastering—almost everything comes from a Western framework. But what gives my work its own identity is the particular kind of emotional texture I carry as a Korean. I like to describe it as my version of “Han”—a deeply rooted, complex feeling that’s somewhat analogous to “soul” in Black music. I feel that it lives in my voice. I also often mix Korean and English lyrics in my writing, and when it comes to scale and harmony, I sometimes borrow from various musical cultures, not just Korean. It’s less about replicating a tradition and more about letting all those elements shape something personal.

There is a softness to which you approach the subject matter you tackle, and in doing so is there an approach you take that makes addressing it a little easier?

I think it has a lot to do with my lifestyle. Outside of music, I’m quite expressive—my emotions can be intense, and the way I speak can be pretty animated and direct. But when I’m making music, I tend to become very still. I listen inwardly, and the moments when I’m writing or using my voice feel like the only moments where I truly exist alone in the world. Especially with this album, themes like healing and emotional holding are central. I think that softness you’re sensing comes from my desire to create space—for myself and for others—to feel safe and to be heard.

That said, when I perform live, the energy of the space and the people in it completely changes the way the music moves. It often becomes more powerful, more raw—even aggressive at times. I love that contrast.

Producing all of your works in English rather than your native tongue is certainly understandable when it comes to getting your message out to a wider audience, although in doing so, do you feel that anything is diluted in the process?

I do write in English partly to reach a wider audience—but more than that, I think it’s about the nature of language itself. Some things feel closer to my intent when I express them in English, and other ideas feel more honest or resonant in Korean. So, I tend to choose the language depending on the feeling or nuance I want to convey. I don’t really feel like anything is being diluted in translation—though I do admire artists like Thom Yorke, who embed their cultural history or social context so naturally in their lyrics. It makes me want to reach that kind of depth, too. I’ve always leaned toward a more abstract, poetic approach to lyrics. And on a practical level, there are phonetic differences too—Korean has a sharper tongue position, which can sometimes limit the way notes connect, while English often flows more smoothly in vocal delivery. But beyond all of that, when I listen to music myself, I often respond more to the overall feeling than the lyrics alone. The emotional impact, for me, comes first from the atmosphere and texture of the sound.

As a female artist, what specific pressures have you had to withstand in order to create your music, get your message across, and reach your audience?

To be honest, I haven’t personally experienced overt discrimination or unfair treatment as a woman in music. Being a female artist working in electronic music has often been a strength for me—it’s made people more curious about what I do. I’ve had moments, though, like during a rehearsal in the U.S. where I received a sexual joke from an engineer. I addressed it directly and got a public apology. Another time, a promoter crossed a boundary with me, and I chose not to work with him again. But I don’t carry those incidents heavily—they’re unfortunate, but I believe they can happen to anyone, regardless of gender, and the key is how we respond and move forward.

One thing I sometimes wonder, though, is whether I’d have a stronger, more loyal female fanbase if I were male. In Korea, fandom culture is incredibly powerful, and female fans often offer significant support—both emotional and financial—to the artists they admire. That kind of support system can be enviable at times.

As for appearance, I’ve always found it amusing that many of the electronic musicians I admire go on stage in oversized t-shirts and worn-out jeans (-maybe because they spend all their money on gear, I’m not sure). I sometimes wish I could do the same, but I studied visual art, and I genuinely love dressing up. I usually perform in pieces by contemporary designers or wear archival looks from designer brands I admire. I’m not sure if fashion, hair, or makeup should be considered a “pressure” for female artists, but for me, it’s not something I feel forced to do. I love it. It’s another way I express who I am.

Your latest release Bonfire is your third studio album. In what ways would you say that your music has evolved, and what particular sonic boundaries were you looking to push on this record?

For Bonfire, I wanted the album to have more of a narrative structure, so from the very beginning, I worked closely with two collaborators—Nancy Boy and Umaka. We selected the tracks together from the demo stage and made a conscious effort to showcase diversity while maintaining sonic cohesion throughout the album. Nancy Boy is such an experienced producer when it comes to shaping an album’s flow, so the process felt smooth and intentional. Umaka, although a newcomer, shares a very similar musical sensibility with me—we both come from art school backgrounds, so our conversations naturally went deep and conceptual.

Sonically, I challenged myself in new ways. In my previous albums, my vocals were heavily processed, but this time, I wanted to keep things more raw and honest—so I used minimal vocal effects to reveal my voice more truthfully. I also experimented with more “dry” mixes, which felt unfamiliar but refreshing.

Another big shift was in the composition process. For the first time, I allowed someone else to shape the structure of the songs. Nancy Boy and Umaka took the lead in that area, which was a huge leap for me—I’ve always written and structured everything myself. This album also features more complex chord progressions, longer instrumental sections, and, for the first time, guitar sounds on almost every track. These may be standard elements for other musicians, but for someone like me who comes from an electronic background, moving away from loop-based structures and incorporating acoustic textures felt like a big step forward.

You have collaborated with artists such as Crush, Umaka, and Nancy Boy. When working with fellow artists, what do you try to offer of yourself, and what qualities do you absorb when working with other creatives?

It’s been a while since I was featured on someone else’s track, so I honestly don’t remember that experience too clearly. But I can definitely talk about what collaboration means to me. I think I have a good sense of my strengths and weaknesses, and I like to be upfront about them when starting a project. For example, I might say, “I can write strong, catchy melodies and deliver a great vocal performance, but I’m not confident when it comes to drum programming—could you take the lead on that?” I believe setting that kind of tone early helps build trust and makes the process more efficient.

When a collaboration begins, I also like to plan our sessions and detailed plans in advance—both for conversation and for working. It helps keep the momentum going. I’m also a very observant person; I tend to absorb good habits from others. While working on Bonfire, I spent a lot of time with Nancy Boy and Umaka, and I learned so much just by watching how they approached things. Now, even when I work alone, I sometimes ask myself, “How would Umaka structure this part?” or “Would Nancy Boy add a delay here?” It’s a fun and effective way to push through creative blocks. To me, that kind of exchange is the most valuable part of collaboration.

What has been one of the steepest learning curves you have experienced in the music industry, and how did you navigate your way through it?

One of the steepest learning curves for me was realizing that music is not just art—it’s also an industry. That reality still gives me a lot to think about, but it also drives me. When I debuted in 2016, I ended a three-year contract with my first company, and unfortunately, they responded by filing a lawsuit against me. I spent nearly three years unable to properly release or perform music while dealing with legal conflict. That wouldn’t have happened if music were just a hobby. But it’s not—it’s a business involving budgets, contracts, collaborators, and long-term consequences.

I’ve learned that if I want to live as a full-time artist, I can’t simply say, “I do this because it’s fun.” That mindset isn’t sustainable. It’s not that I believe my music has to make a lot of money, but I do believe it needs to be taken seriously as a real project—with plans, structure, and accountability. Before I start any new project now, I ask: What’s the financial plan? Who’s involved? How will it be promoted? I need that kind of clarity.

I feel incredibly lucky to make a living as a musician, but there’s so much work behind the scenes—emails, meetings, contracts, logistics. It’s not just about creating. It’s about protecting what you create and building something that can actually last.

Music itself—I can create that on my own. But the process of bringing it into the world takes a lot of people. It requires trust, collaboration, and support from others who believe in the work. That’s why I always tell younger artists or those just starting out: be humble, be grateful, and have a clear sense of purpose. Talent is important, but how you carry yourself—and how you treat the people who help you—matters just as much.

Is there a musical mantra that you go by that you channel it in times of need?

“Jonber wins in the end,”

“Jonber” is a Korean slang term, short for a phrase that roughly means “fucking endure.” It originally came from gaming communities, referring to players who grind for hours without giving up. Now, it’s used more broadly—about life, careers, art—basically, the belief that if you endure long enough, you win. So when I say “Jonber wins in the end,” it’s a reminder that staying strong and with endurance —especially in art—is often more powerful than talent or speed.

I’ve experienced many failures in the last nine years of making music—probably more failure than success. After the lawsuit, I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I seriously considered quitting music because I was so afraid of what might happen if I continued down this path. I was living in a small studio, had no money in my bank account, and most of my friends had left me, labeling me as “dangerous” because of the legal issues.

During that time, I went to Zeze, a member of the legendary band Idiotape. He generously shared his own experience dealing with legal struggles and told me, “Just try for 10 years and see what happens.”

Well, it’s my 10th year now—so I really want to blame Zeze. Just kidding.

I’m super thankful to him for encouraging me because it’s totally been worth it. I got to release my third LP, and I’m visiting Australia for the first time ever—as CIFIKA.

Life can be unfair and cruel sometimes, but if you stay strong and keep your art consistent over time, the opportunities will come—actually, not just one, but several. And when they do, you’ll be rewarded in all kinds of ways: honor, recognition, money—whatever it is you’ve been dreaming of.

What does music give you that nothing else does?

Music gives me hope—every single time. In the beginning, a demo always feels rough and incomplete, sometimes even disappointing. But if I stay with it, care for it, spend time, give it love, refine my thoughts, and stay patient—at some point, something truly beautiful starts to emerge. I’m rarely 100% satisfied with the final result, but the journey from that first messy idea to a completed piece always feels like a small personal victory.

And it’s not just about me. Throughout this process, I’ve been lucky to have producers, engineers, promoters—and most importantly, listeners—who understand and love my music without judgment. The fact that someone, somewhere finds comfort or healing in something I made… that gives me hope. It feels like a quiet miracle every time. I know it’s such a boring answer, but it’s true.