DoYeon Kim may very well be the only contemporary improviser whose instrument is the traditional Korean zither, the gayageum. That alone grabbed my interest, but from the opening moments of Wellspring, her debut as bandleader (and oh what a band it is: Tyshawn Sorey, Henry Fraser, and Mat Maneri), it’s obvious this music is something special. There are so many unexpected moments throughout, a drama and fluidity that is absorbing, fueled by Kim’s desire to use music as a tool to bring people together. Her voice comes through in all the right moments, shining bright against sharp-angled, undulating aural forms. Unfamiliar sonic worlds bridged into more familiar structures elevate the complicated feelings embedded here into something magical. Wellspring is unrelenting, each twist revealing another layer that pulls us closer together and helps us find connection with hidden parts of ourselves. This is a powerful document from an incredible artist.
Wellspring is out tomorrow, May 1 via TAO Forms. Listen and pre-order HERE.
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What are your earliest memories of sound? Before the gayageum, before music lessons, what were the sounds that made the biggest impressions on you as a child?
When I was young, I was completely obsessed with Disney films. My father often tells me that even before I could properly talk, I would sing the songs with exact rhythm and pitch, which still amazes him. What stayed with me are those joyful, dreamlike sounds—the way I would dance and hum along, fully absorbed in that world of imagination.
Growing up, what music were you drawn to on your own, separate from what you were studying or what your parents played at home?
I was naturally drawn to Disney music because I loved Disney films so much. Whenever I listened to those songs, the scenes would come vividly back to me, and I felt like I was part of that world, almost like I was the main character. I would dance and hum along, sometimes even imagining myself as a princess. I really loved those beautiful, joyful, and exciting Disney songs.
The gayageum chose you as much as you chose it, it seems. There’s something in what you’ve described about the physical connection, the bending of strings with your hand, that sounds almost like finding a voice rather than an instrument. What was that moment of recognition like?
Some of the things I feel and experience are hard to fully put into words, and sometimes I don’t even want to. I started playing the piano when I was four, and at the time, it felt more like interpreting composed music and focusing on technique rather than expressing myself. (Of course, I love the piano now.)
With the gayageum, it was different. I was directly touching the strings—pressing, plucking, shaping the sound with my own hands. It felt much closer to me, and within that closeness, I found a sense of comfort and warmth. Also, as I studied Korean folk songs and sanjo, I naturally came to feel that the music is deeply connected to singing. Folk songs are literally songs, and sanjo is derived from pansori, which is a vocal tradition. So when I play the gayageum, I think of it as singing. My teacher would often sing while teaching me, and that really shaped how I approach the instrument. Over time, that’s when it began to feel less like an instrument and more like my own voice.
That teenage trip to Canada sounds like it planted something deep. The impulse to become a kind of ambassador for Korean culture, how has that relationship to that idea changed over time? Is “ambassador” still the right word for what you feel like you’re doing?
When I first moved to Boston, I definitely had a strong desire to share and represent Korean culture. But at the same time, I was also facing certain limitations I had felt back in Korea. I knew I wanted to express something, but I didn’t quite know how, and I had this sense that there were other sounds out there that I hadn’t yet discovered. Through my studies, I think I gradually moved closer to those questions. Now, my perspective has shifted. Rather than feeling the need to promote or represent something, I’m more interested in how I can exist in this world as myself—as DoYeon Kim.
So instead of thinking of myself as an “ambassador,” I see myself as someone who simply tries to make honest music. And through that process, my background and culture naturally become part of the sound. If that creates a sense of connection with others, then that feels meaningful enough.
When you arrived at NEC and found your colleagues’ improvisations jarring, you described it as “cement, concrete, and plastic culture.” I love that image. Looking back, do you think the resistance was really about culture, or was there something else underneath it?
When I first arrived at NEC, I was honestly quite shocked. There were many cultural and musical differences compared to what I was used to. I especially noticed how much more emphasis was placed on individuality and personal expression. But looking back, what struck me wasn’t just cultural difference—it was the honesty in my colleagues’ expressions. They were very direct and open with their emotions and ideas, and I think I was surprised by that level of openness. In contrast, I realized I had been approaching music with a kind of mask on. Being in the U.S. pushed me into a space where I started having much deeper conversations with myself—not only as a musician, but as a person. Questions like who I am, what I like or dislike, why I made certain choices, and where those emotions come from. Over time, that process has helped me understand myself on a much deeper level.
The voice entering your playing through sheer necessity, shouting in Korean to be heard over Tony Malaby’s group, is one of my favorite origin stories. How did the voice change the way you heard the gayageum itself afterward?
When voice entered my playing, I began to feel how directly and quickly musical energy and meaning could be communicated. Things that were difficult to express only through the gayageum—like limitations in volume or long, legato-like phrasing—became much more immediate through the voice. Before that, there were moments when I would play with all my physical strength, yet still feel that the intensity I intended wasn’t fully reaching the audience. For a while, I was almost entirely focused on that idea of ‘projection’ and communication, and the physical limitations of the instrument were a real struggle.
Even now, I’m still thinking about amplification and sound, but the experience with voice has given me a different perspective. I feel like I now have more space to listen more closely—to the left-hand techniques, to the subtle details of the instrument itself—rather than only focusing on how far the sound reaches.
Wellspring is described as a debut as a leader, but it carries the weight of a lot of years of work. What did it feel like to finally make a record entirely on your own terms? Was anything harder than you expected?
At that time, I was beginning to feel a strong desire to move away from making music only for myself and instead create music that communicates with the world. But I was still in the process of figuring out exactly what that meant, and the compositions from that period reflect that in-between state. There were feelings of longing, curiosity, excitement, and also a certain amount of fear all at once. Rather than being difficult, it felt like I was starting to see a new kind of light.
And most importantly, there was this collective energy created by the four of us together—something very difficult to put into words. Through that experience, I was reminded again of why I love music and why I need to keep making it. After that, the fear gradually turned into hope and anticipation for what’s next. I’m deeply grateful to Tyshawn, Mat, and Henry for believing in me, listening closely, and sharing that journey with me.
“Linear System” / “Calculus of the Soul” is an enormous piece. The idea that life’s mystery lives inside numerical formulas, and that’s how we live together, is such a specific and beautiful thing to try to put into sound. Where did that come from?
Seeing my husband, I deeply respect the way he works to contribute to the world in a meaningful way. He is a physicist, and through our conversations, I often find interesting parallels between science and art. He observes the world and formulates his own equations to understand nature, and in a way, to make the world better through those systems. It makes me want to become someone who also tries to do good through music.
As an artist, I do something almost opposite—I take my internal world and bring it outward, sharing it with others, and in that exchange, I receive energy that feeds back into my music. Looking at my own journey, I feel like I have arrived at a moment where I want to bring my internal world outward and connect it with others through sound. And I also think life itself is a cycle of constant transformation. Like stones being shaped over time—breaking down into sand through countless encounters, and then slowly forming again into rock over long periods of time—our experiences and emotions also break apart, shift, and re-form into new shapes. I feel that this cycle is very much reflected in my music.
One idea that has deeply influenced me comes from Mae Jemison: ‘Art and science are different sides of the same coin. Art is about taking the internal to the external, and science is about taking the external to the internal.’ That idea became the conceptual starting point for Linear System and Calculus of the Soul. For me, it reflects the idea that although art and science approach the world differently, they are ultimately two directions of the same human attempt to understand it.
Pansori, as a tradition, is so tied to storytelling, to a kind of sustained emotional intensity that builds over time. How consciously do you draw on that lineage, and where do you feel yourself departing from it?
I have not formally studied pansori in a direct way, but sanjo—a genre of Korean traditional music that I primarily work with—originates from the pansori tradition. So in that sense, I would say I am naturally connected to it through my musical roots. However, this influence is not something I consciously analyze or try to apply. Having studied gayageum sanjo for a long time, it has become something embodied—something that lives in my physical and musical instinct.
In that sense, I don’t really think of it as being strictly inside or outside of tradition. Rather, it feels more like a sensibility that lives in the body, rather than a set of rules. Ultimately, what matters most to me is what I want to say and what kind of sound I want to communicate. And everything else emerges naturally from that process.
After the pandemic, you said you were no longer interested in talking about yourself (so thanks for doing this interview! Ha!), that you wanted to understand why you were born in this era and how you could contribute. Has making Wellspring clarified any of that for you?
First of all, thank you for such thoughtful questions. They allowed me to reflect more deeply and revisit ideas I had been carrying for a long time.
When I was creating Wellspring, I was still in a very unformed state of thinking. In some ways, I was trying to separate myself from my earlier work and from my own sense of identity as an artist. Music, at that time, began to feel less like personal expression and more like something much larger—almost like nature itself. In front of that, I sometimes felt very small as a human being. Because of that, my relationship with my past work also became complicated. There were moments when I didn’t know how to understand it, or how to position myself in relation to it. But over time, I came to realize that the past is not something that can be erased or rejected—it is part of who I am. And without it, I would not be here today.
In that realization, I began to feel that everything I had experienced was not something to overcome, but something that had strengthened me. It felt like a kind of rising again—an emergence. I began to think of it as a force of return. Wellspring comes from that feeling. It is about a human being returning to their own source, trusting it again, and allowing that source to move outward into the world. It is about reconnecting with what is essential, and through that reconnection, finding a way to speak and exist again through sound. I also think of this source not as something fixed, but as something constantly flowing. Like a spring that becomes a river, and then opens into the ocean, it keeps expanding and transforming. Within that movement, individual life stories meet, overlap, and connect. Through that process, I came to feel that music can go beyond personal expression. It can become something that offers courage, something that allows us to keep moving forward even in moments of fear.
Ultimately, Wellspring is about that shared movement—returning to one’s source, and allowing that source to flow outward into a larger world where we can meet, understand, and connect with one another.
You’ve talked about wanting people free from their instruments, more concerned with how a sound is made than what role they’re playing. Is that also how you approach the gayageum itself, trying to get free of it in some way?
What is important for me is that I don’t want to confine myself to any genre or even to the instrument I am playing. I also don’t consciously approach my music with those boundaries in mind. For me, the starting point is always the same question: what I want to express, what I want to say through this music, and what kind of sound needs to exist in that moment. Everything else—genre, technique, or categorization—comes after that, if it comes at all.
I have never felt the need to move away from the gayageum. I believe that every sound that comes from the instrument is, ultimately, the sound of the gayageum itself. I don’t see the gayageum as just a tool. It feels much closer to me. Because of that, thinking about what I want to do through it often feels even more freeing, not restricting. Since the sound already exists within me, it becomes a question of how I choose to look at it and how I choose to shape its direction.
And, as always, to close… What are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
My favorite sounds in the world are my mother’s laughter, my grandmother’s voice saying ‘hello,’ and her words, ‘I love my granddaughter.’ These sounds are not just words to me—they feel like warmth itself, something deeply human and irreplaceable. They carry a kind of tenderness that no other sound can replace. Whenever I hear them, I feel the most at ease, and at the same time, the most connected to something deeply human.
Foxy Digitalis depends on our awesome readers to keep things rolling. Pledge your support today via our Patreon or subscribe to The Jewel Garden. You can also make a one-time donation via Ko-fi.
