When I first listened to Galapaggot, I was shocked. It differed from almost anything I had listened before — it was chaotic, upbeat, deconstructed, aggressive, fun, and danceable all at once. It was a bit hard to make sense of it on a first listen, but still, I was hooked. So naturally, I wanted to know more about the artist behind the album. His name is NET Gala, and he hails from Seoul, South Korea.
A staple in Iteawon’s vibrant nightlife, NET Gala has pushed the limits of the city’s club and queer cultures. He’s a force to be reckoned, a trailblazer, and his debut album further proves that. A founder of now-defunct collective Shade Seoul, he’s elevated the LGBTQ+ community to new heights in a country that still struggles with identities outside of the norm. Growing up, it was music that offered him solace, an escape from his harsh reality. Now, a fully realised adult, he helps others through his art too. “Music was my escape. My parents didn’t really mind what I listened to since they saw it as part of learning English. While everything else in life felt repetitive – reading the same books, studying the same subjects – music offered freedom,” he confesses in this interview.
Hello, it’s a pleasure to speak with you! To get to know you better, what does a ‘normal’ day in your life look like?
Hi! Great to speak with you too. A ‘normal’ day for me starts with waking up, grabbing coffee, and heading to my home studio. I’ll turn on the radio, usually BBC or NTS, and have it playing in the background while I work, have lunch, or hit the gym. If it’s the weekend and I’m in the mood for a drink or a party, I’ll stop by my favourite bar, Kockiri, or the club Cakeshop.
I live around Itaewon, where most of the nightlife happens, so there’s always a high chance I’ll bump into friends. That usually leads to impromptu coffee or drinks during the week. Honestly, I rarely leave home unless someone invites me out, so living here makes my social life very efficient.
I live around Itaewon, where most of the nightlife happens, so there’s always a high chance I’ll bump into friends. That usually leads to impromptu coffee or drinks during the week. Honestly, I rarely leave home unless someone invites me out, so living here makes my social life very efficient.
You wear your queerness as a badge of honour, but coming to terms with a dissident identity isn’t always easy, especially as a kid. What was it like to grow up queer in South Korea?
Growing up, it was definitely hard. I had a secret phone from middle school that I hid from my parents to access apps and online communities where I could meet people, learn about myself, and explore my sexuality. School was the centre of everything back then, so I often sought comfort and understanding outside of it. That led me to encounter ‘adult life’ much earlier than most of my peers.
When I discovered there were others like me beyond my daily life, I started seeking community. Itaewon became that place for me — a hub for creators, weirdos, and people like me.
When I discovered there were others like me beyond my daily life, I started seeking community. Itaewon became that place for me — a hub for creators, weirdos, and people like me.
What was that process of exploration like?
My parents were keen on teaching me English from a young age, which gave me access to information beyond what was available in Korea — even in pop culture. I remember singing along to Britney Spears on the US Army Forces broadcasting channel and reading magazines, which provided a second-hand exposure to foreign cultures. As a kid, I absorbed everything like a sponge, and that habit of curiosity stuck with me.
Once I learned about ‘real’ queer culture beyond TV shows and magazines, I began to understand queerness through a multicultural lens. Itaewon’s diverse community helped a lot. However, I also realised how limited queer representation was in Korea. Borrowing ideas from the global north was accessible but often felt surface-level. I didn’t want to merely fantasise about what I saw; I wanted to adapt those ideas to fit our reality.
Once I learned about ‘real’ queer culture beyond TV shows and magazines, I began to understand queerness through a multicultural lens. Itaewon’s diverse community helped a lot. However, I also realised how limited queer representation was in Korea. Borrowing ideas from the global north was accessible but often felt surface-level. I didn’t want to merely fantasise about what I saw; I wanted to adapt those ideas to fit our reality.
“I love drawing from diverse influences, so making a project feel cohesive has always been a challenge.”
Like many of us, you found solace and refuge in art. What are some of your earliest memories of wanting to be an artist, especially related to music?
Music was my escape. My parents didn’t really mind what I listened to since they saw it as part of learning English. While everything else in life felt repetitive – reading the same books, studying the same subjects – music offered freedom. I’d scribble lyrics and melodies on the back of my notebooks as a form of escape.
I got into hip-hop early, discovering producers like Timbaland and Darkchild, which sparked my interest in music production. When I bought my first laptop at fourteen, the first things I installed were GTA San Andreas, Photoshop, and FL Studio. I spent hours experimenting with FL Studio, just playing around.
I got into hip-hop early, discovering producers like Timbaland and Darkchild, which sparked my interest in music production. When I bought my first laptop at fourteen, the first things I installed were GTA San Andreas, Photoshop, and FL Studio. I spent hours experimenting with FL Studio, just playing around.
So you were more into the technical stuff, really.
In high school, I was into science and engineering and even joined a programming club. For a while, I thought that would be my path to university, but I wasn’t passionate about it. I lived an hour outside Seoul, in a suburban area where people rarely ventured out of their comfort zones. I didn’t want that; it felt like living in a bubble. So, I started skipping school activities and classes to explore Seoul.
Around that time, I met people outside of school who helped me figure out my career path. I found youth programs that offered lessons in music and art. Discovering SoundCloud in 2012 or 2013 was a game-changer. I began uploading sketches — mostly random ‘trap’ beats from FL Studio. Sharing music there opened up a world of underground sounds and made me realise I wanted to pursue music and art instead of engineering.
Around that time, I met people outside of school who helped me figure out my career path. I found youth programs that offered lessons in music and art. Discovering SoundCloud in 2012 or 2013 was a game-changer. I began uploading sketches — mostly random ‘trap’ beats from FL Studio. Sharing music there opened up a world of underground sounds and made me realise I wanted to pursue music and art instead of engineering.
You’re releasing Galapaggot, your debut album, after several EPs. What did you learn from those previous works that you’ve incorporated into your first LP?
The biggest lesson was maintaining consistency in sound and texture. I love drawing from diverse influences, so making a project feel cohesive has always been a challenge. In my earlier work, I experimented with interpreting ‘voice’ through synths and textures. With Galapaggot, I expanded that into developing my own soundscape and weaving ideas more cohesively.
I also learned the value of stripped-down arrangements. I’m naturally a maximalist, but I’ve been exploring minimalism in production. Oh, and the most important thing I learned — not to work on anything too long tbh.
I also learned the value of stripped-down arrangements. I’m naturally a maximalist, but I’ve been exploring minimalism in production. Oh, and the most important thing I learned — not to work on anything too long tbh.
Galapaggot is a funny name, and as I understand, you had thought about it years ago. It’s a reference to the Korean-English pronunciation of ‘Galápagos’ (the exotic islands) and also to the Galápagos Syndrome. Could you tell us a bit more about it? To me, it also sounds like ‘Galápagos’ + ‘faggot’, wanting to reclaim that slur, but maybe that’s my imagination.
Yeah, it’s a mashup of ‘galapagos’ and ‘faggot.’ The original idea came from something personal, but at the same time, it relates to where I am right now and where I’m from. I think that one word sums everything up and describes it perfectly. A lot of my titles are wordplays. I’m always incorporating these not-so-serious ways of injecting humour into my music, trying to show people my idea of humour. For me, a lot of my music ideas come from humour, twisted wordplay, concepts, and reinterpretations. I think the magic happens when an unserious theme clashes with very noisy, grainy textures and sounds, or when there’s a rather serious matter lying beneath all that.
Usually, I write songs based on a concept, and that naturally forms into an album. 신파 (Shinpa) was a graduation project I worked on back in uni, and even when I was making that EP, I was really immersed in the concept for so long. I just pinned it at the top of my iPhone notes so that I would stumble upon it naturally. My notes are always filled with random ideas and words revolving around the theme. Everything is a snapshot of what happens or where my mind is at during the time I’m working on an album. That’s how it was with Galapaggot. Everything that happened while making it just naturally fell into place.
Galapaggot is such a bold title, and I wanted to make a bold statement, almost like saying, ‘This is what I think our life is about!’ I don’t want to reclaim anything — it’s definitely a mashup of two words, but the title itself came about as a wordplay, so there’s nothing too serious about using that word (laughs). Reclaim feels like such a strong word.
Usually, I write songs based on a concept, and that naturally forms into an album. 신파 (Shinpa) was a graduation project I worked on back in uni, and even when I was making that EP, I was really immersed in the concept for so long. I just pinned it at the top of my iPhone notes so that I would stumble upon it naturally. My notes are always filled with random ideas and words revolving around the theme. Everything is a snapshot of what happens or where my mind is at during the time I’m working on an album. That’s how it was with Galapaggot. Everything that happened while making it just naturally fell into place.
Galapaggot is such a bold title, and I wanted to make a bold statement, almost like saying, ‘This is what I think our life is about!’ I don’t want to reclaim anything — it’s definitely a mashup of two words, but the title itself came about as a wordplay, so there’s nothing too serious about using that word (laughs). Reclaim feels like such a strong word.
The overall sound of the album is very extreme, and it amalgamates many different genres. There are ‘calmer’ (if that’s a word I can use) tracks like No More Drama and Retrograde (But I Won’t Run Away from You), and then extremely upbeat ones like Kick Comes the Time or Vulgaress (Eh, Eh). But it somehow sounds cohesive. Could you give us some insight into the creative process of the record?
First and foremost, I wanted to draw more direct inspiration from the dance floor compared to my previous releases, but I didn’t want it to feel like, ‘Oh, this is a club album.’ I wanted it to be something you could sit down and listen to from start to finish, or just put on anywhere, and still get something out of it. For me, the dance floor is such a neutral space, where, once you start putting your ideas and emotions to a certain threshold, your expression becomes quite aggressive. Not in a negative way, but the energy can become very intense.
So, my inspiration mainly came from jumping between these thresholds and playing with that aggressiveness. I experimented with things like removing snares, or sometimes overusing them on a track, pushing synths to the forefront of everything else, or hiding a key rhythm within a synth or percussion loop — that sort of thing.
One of my main inspirations for starting to make music was SOPHIE. I think sonically, I was heavily influenced by her. I really tried to showcase that in this album in particular, not by recreating her signature sound, but by adopting her approach to sound design, mixing, and rhythm, so it’s very much a learning process for me. One of the things I did was recreate the Monomachine (her signature instrument) in Ableton and build a lot of sounds from it. I love using hyper-saturated or digitally distorted sounds. Living in a 4K-AAA world (coming from a gaming background), it’s so easy to make everything sound ‘beautiful’ and ‘well-compressed’ these days, but I tried to experiment outside of that box.
So, my inspiration mainly came from jumping between these thresholds and playing with that aggressiveness. I experimented with things like removing snares, or sometimes overusing them on a track, pushing synths to the forefront of everything else, or hiding a key rhythm within a synth or percussion loop — that sort of thing.
One of my main inspirations for starting to make music was SOPHIE. I think sonically, I was heavily influenced by her. I really tried to showcase that in this album in particular, not by recreating her signature sound, but by adopting her approach to sound design, mixing, and rhythm, so it’s very much a learning process for me. One of the things I did was recreate the Monomachine (her signature instrument) in Ableton and build a lot of sounds from it. I love using hyper-saturated or digitally distorted sounds. Living in a 4K-AAA world (coming from a gaming background), it’s so easy to make everything sound ‘beautiful’ and ‘well-compressed’ these days, but I tried to experiment outside of that box.
The opening song, Joappa, was also the first single you released. I think it’s a perfect introduction to the album’s identity: chaotic, noisy, distorted, and experimental, yet club-oriented and perfect to get lost to on the dance floor. What does the track encapsulate or represent to you?
I actually wrote this track a week after the Itaewon crush incident in October 2022. My studio was a two-minute walk from where the incident happened — I used to walk past that street every day. I couldn’t go to the studio for a couple of days due to the trauma, and the main road was completely blocked by the police and news reporters, so I had to take a bus that went all the way back through the hills, which meant a long detour.
There were rumours about the incident, right-wing propaganda banners all over Itaewon, hate speech, and, most of all, the entire area of Itaewon suffered from a drastic decrease in visitors. I live here, and it was really sad to see Itaewon so empty and soulless. I was also really angry about everyone staying silent about what had happened, and about people saying that politics shouldn’t be involved in Itaewon. It was a mix of anger and chaos, and I think this track was my way of coping with the trauma.
While I was finishing the album, it just naturally ended up as the first track. For the final touches, I wanted to really bring out the essence of the album and what the record could offer. That’s why it starts with a noisy loop, then jumps into a rhythmic frenzy, and eventually becomes more rhythmically chaotic.
There were rumours about the incident, right-wing propaganda banners all over Itaewon, hate speech, and, most of all, the entire area of Itaewon suffered from a drastic decrease in visitors. I live here, and it was really sad to see Itaewon so empty and soulless. I was also really angry about everyone staying silent about what had happened, and about people saying that politics shouldn’t be involved in Itaewon. It was a mix of anger and chaos, and I think this track was my way of coping with the trauma.
While I was finishing the album, it just naturally ended up as the first track. For the final touches, I wanted to really bring out the essence of the album and what the record could offer. That’s why it starts with a noisy loop, then jumps into a rhythmic frenzy, and eventually becomes more rhythmically chaotic.
In The Dog, you tap artist Supermotel K, which gives it a spicy, horny touch with their vocals. When and how did you two meet, and what sparked this collaboration?
I’ve been really interested in Supermotel K’s records on Bandcamp for a while, and I finally had the courage to ask him to collaborate with me on this album earlier this year. I’d always wanted to incorporate recorded vocals into my tracks, but I was too shy about recording my own voice. I think what really drew me to working together was his raw, almost vulgar energy that he brings to his records. It was almost a kind of ‘wow, I want to be like him one day’ sort of reaction.
I think that raw energy is what really drove us to finish this track (and actually improve it!), because the original version only had English lyrics recorded back in 2021 by another vocalist. Supermotel K came up with the idea in the studio of recording Korean gay slang, and it really struck me like, ‘I’m talking about gay sex, and I didn’t even think about recording it in Korean?’ We only rented the studio for three hours, but we managed to cut the vocals, and everything was done the following week.
I think that raw energy is what really drove us to finish this track (and actually improve it!), because the original version only had English lyrics recorded back in 2021 by another vocalist. Supermotel K came up with the idea in the studio of recording Korean gay slang, and it really struck me like, ‘I’m talking about gay sex, and I didn’t even think about recording it in Korean?’ We only rented the studio for three hours, but we managed to cut the vocals, and everything was done the following week.
Ballroom culture is very predominant in songs "Cistem Boom" and "Katrinakatrinakatrina." What is the scene like in South Korea? It originated from Black and Brown communities in the United States, and now that it’s being whitewashed due to its mainstream reach, I’m curious to know how it’s been adapted and received in Asia.
Ballroom culture and music have been some of the sounds I was exposed to a lot when I started going to the club. Qween Beat, GHE20G0TH1K, Night Slugs releases, Fractal Fantasy, etc. — everyone had their take on ballroom music, and hybrid club sounds were predominant in the music scene as well. These two tracks are almost like a reminiscence of what I grew up on and a reimagination of what I can offer. The ‘has’ are kind of shoved behind, and everything else mimics the functionality of a ha sample or a ballroom structure.
As for the ballroom scene, I am not really involved in it, apart from the ballroom girls who I’m good friends with, and all my friends really bring something to the table. My friends Lindsay and Seesea and I, we’ve pushed different aspects of culture in the queer scene through Shade Seoul, our collective, like ballroom, even before there was a kiki house in Seoul, for more than eight years. Fun fact: I was learning voguing back in 2015 (and mind you, back then there was only one class in Seoul), and one night I brought all my classmates to Cakeshop to Lindsay’s event. Our teacher, UU, asked, ‘Where’s the stage?’ and she just went in front of the dance floor, grabbed the front panel of the DJ booth, and started performing New Way. The rest goes down in (a very unofficial) Korean ballroom history, and the history of Shade Seoul.
So in theory, a lot happened around ballroom in my journey as a musician and as a DJ, but I think my position is a bit tricky to really explain in one answer (laughs). It’s all very intertwined.
As for the ballroom scene, I am not really involved in it, apart from the ballroom girls who I’m good friends with, and all my friends really bring something to the table. My friends Lindsay and Seesea and I, we’ve pushed different aspects of culture in the queer scene through Shade Seoul, our collective, like ballroom, even before there was a kiki house in Seoul, for more than eight years. Fun fact: I was learning voguing back in 2015 (and mind you, back then there was only one class in Seoul), and one night I brought all my classmates to Cakeshop to Lindsay’s event. Our teacher, UU, asked, ‘Where’s the stage?’ and she just went in front of the dance floor, grabbed the front panel of the DJ booth, and started performing New Way. The rest goes down in (a very unofficial) Korean ballroom history, and the history of Shade Seoul.
So in theory, a lot happened around ballroom in my journey as a musician and as a DJ, but I think my position is a bit tricky to really explain in one answer (laughs). It’s all very intertwined.
You’re part of the queer collective Shade Seoul, and you play at the LGBTQ+ venue Cakeshop. What can you tell us about the collective (who’s a part of it, what are their goals, etc.)?
Actually, the collective Shade Seoul is no more — it ended. I just started this new collective called Gwangheungchang. Also, Cakeshop is not an LGBTQ+ venue; it’s just that they host a lot of queer-related parties. But I can say I was nurtured by Cakeshop and by the music and artists that have graced the dance floor since I started going out in 2015. I’m sort of in between the first generation of crews and DJs who started the scene and the newer generation (if that’s the right way to put it) of musicians pushing the scene in its current direction.
I think it’s one of the only clubs in Seoul that promotes a whole variety of music, both international and local. It’s been twelve years since Cakeshop opened, and I’m probably one of the few people who have been doing events there for over eight years. One of my (and Shade Seoul’s) favourite moments at Cakeshop is hosting Yaeji back in 2018 and having Arca for her afterparty in 2019.
After Shade Seoul, I wanted to experiment with my approach to queerness in Seoul, about what we can discover and give a new take on clubbing culture. So my friend Mokhzolla and I started Gwangheungchang (which is a double entendre for an area in Seoul, and also reinterpreted and retranslated letter by letter as ‘crazy, cheerful sluts’ in Korean) and have been trying to find our ways of enjoying club culture.
For our parties, we put a big flag outside the plaza in front of Cakeshop, which apparently no one had done before. It was quite a visually striking moment for people to remember for sure (laughs). Now everyone talks about the logo, which is a traditional Korean ‘Hyukpilhwa’ — rainbow calligraphy. That flag, big penises we installed at the DJ booth, and most of all, the raw and vibrant energy that the party brought to the dance floor.
I think it’s one of the only clubs in Seoul that promotes a whole variety of music, both international and local. It’s been twelve years since Cakeshop opened, and I’m probably one of the few people who have been doing events there for over eight years. One of my (and Shade Seoul’s) favourite moments at Cakeshop is hosting Yaeji back in 2018 and having Arca for her afterparty in 2019.
After Shade Seoul, I wanted to experiment with my approach to queerness in Seoul, about what we can discover and give a new take on clubbing culture. So my friend Mokhzolla and I started Gwangheungchang (which is a double entendre for an area in Seoul, and also reinterpreted and retranslated letter by letter as ‘crazy, cheerful sluts’ in Korean) and have been trying to find our ways of enjoying club culture.
For our parties, we put a big flag outside the plaza in front of Cakeshop, which apparently no one had done before. It was quite a visually striking moment for people to remember for sure (laughs). Now everyone talks about the logo, which is a traditional Korean ‘Hyukpilhwa’ — rainbow calligraphy. That flag, big penises we installed at the DJ booth, and most of all, the raw and vibrant energy that the party brought to the dance floor.
Would you say your music and DJ sets are some sort of activism? There’s definitely a political intention behind everything you do, I’d say.
I think my queer artist friends and I have a weird relationship with activism here. Since there aren’t a lot of us, everything we do tends to get put inside the ‘queer’ frame and becomes political. Like, ‘Oh, your set today’s not very queer,’ or ‘I think what you did here with your music maybe relates to something gay.’ It’s not all the time that I make music and play music about queerness, and it’s so easy to categorise someone and put them in a box.
I used to hate it so much, how all the time I’m ‘representing something,’ but also, it’s inevitable. I’ve been throwing queer events and been vocal in the scene for so long. It felt like a burden for such a long time, but I’ve managed to turn that frustration into something more productive and consider it a blessing to even have a chance to hold a vocal position in the community. You can call this a positive tantrum, I would say.
As long as I live here and live through the experience as a Seoul queer kid in the underground music scene, there are still lots of things that need change and are still frustrating. The queer club scene is dominantly gay, playing mostly K-pop and pop. There is still a lack of queer visibility and representation in Korea and a lack of those who really showcase that in their music and speak out about their lives and experiences. Queer art and culture here are not really archived well, and what better way to capture that moment in time than sharing the timeframe through music? It’s the living experience that really matters to me and what I strive to reflect through what I do.
I used to hate it so much, how all the time I’m ‘representing something,’ but also, it’s inevitable. I’ve been throwing queer events and been vocal in the scene for so long. It felt like a burden for such a long time, but I’ve managed to turn that frustration into something more productive and consider it a blessing to even have a chance to hold a vocal position in the community. You can call this a positive tantrum, I would say.
As long as I live here and live through the experience as a Seoul queer kid in the underground music scene, there are still lots of things that need change and are still frustrating. The queer club scene is dominantly gay, playing mostly K-pop and pop. There is still a lack of queer visibility and representation in Korea and a lack of those who really showcase that in their music and speak out about their lives and experiences. Queer art and culture here are not really archived well, and what better way to capture that moment in time than sharing the timeframe through music? It’s the living experience that really matters to me and what I strive to reflect through what I do.
Your work is a great reflection of the times; music genres are rapidly dying as artists are mixing more and more influences in their work, making it harder to classify. Deconstructed club music is also taking nightlife by storm, and of course, the queer revolution is more alive than ever despite the efforts of the conservatives. But tapping into the zeitgeist isn’t always that easy. What would you say keeps you grounded or connected with your surroundings, and how do you transform that into art?
For me, ‘deconstructed club’ is something more nostalgic. It was huge when I first discovered club sounds back in 2015, but now there are rapidly growing, exciting movements in the music scene that tap into different genres and sounds. It comes and goes, but it all comes down to keeping your ground, just taking things you consider valuable, and making them your own. After all, for me, it’s all about the archives, the core values in the history of music, and the question of ‘What would my works mean in the future?’ And most of all, ‘What makes me fascinated in music?’ is the real deal.
It could be honestly anything; one day I would just download something random off an online plugin store and play with it for a whole day and record a bunch of samples, or, I don’t know, have a sudden urge to buy a Monomachine? That happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I just bought it on a whim during a dopamine spike at a random 4 a.m. Almost a stupid sense of curiosity and fascination is what really drives me to make music.
I’m really bad at accepting change, and these days I worry that I might lose track of what everyone’s up to because a lot of times I just stick to what I think is cool. Like, I don’t even have TikTok, and I haven’t updated my Twitter because X is such a horrendous name, but I try to keep a light head and say yes to everything when it comes to new ideas — unless it involves something related to a strong value that I think makes music ‘music.’
Recently someone asked me about what my songs’ lengths usually are, to point out that some of my tracks’ intros are too long or not compact enough. I was like, ‘It’s all over the place because some tracks just happen to be short and long because they belong that way and I like it.’ They were like, ‘Woah, I respect that,’ and then started talking nonstop about how they’re not having fun making music anymore because now they’re just aiming for TikTok hits and dance challenges (laughs).
It could be honestly anything; one day I would just download something random off an online plugin store and play with it for a whole day and record a bunch of samples, or, I don’t know, have a sudden urge to buy a Monomachine? That happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I just bought it on a whim during a dopamine spike at a random 4 a.m. Almost a stupid sense of curiosity and fascination is what really drives me to make music.
I’m really bad at accepting change, and these days I worry that I might lose track of what everyone’s up to because a lot of times I just stick to what I think is cool. Like, I don’t even have TikTok, and I haven’t updated my Twitter because X is such a horrendous name, but I try to keep a light head and say yes to everything when it comes to new ideas — unless it involves something related to a strong value that I think makes music ‘music.’
Recently someone asked me about what my songs’ lengths usually are, to point out that some of my tracks’ intros are too long or not compact enough. I was like, ‘It’s all over the place because some tracks just happen to be short and long because they belong that way and I like it.’ They were like, ‘Woah, I respect that,’ and then started talking nonstop about how they’re not having fun making music anymore because now they’re just aiming for TikTok hits and dance challenges (laughs).