CADEJO (까데호) Live
Funk trio Cadejo jams with a piper, imbibes (as usual) and becomes a quartet for their "whenever" show.
The word “free” appears so many times across Cadejo (까데호)’s discography it might seem like the funk trio is affecting a far-out Beatnik philosophy, but they’re true believers. To know that, you have to see the band play in the flesh.
For one, you know its guitarist Lee Taehun is liberated, because he plays like he’s possessed. He jerks, sways and twitches with the notes. Sometimes he swerves into the crowd, or hops one-legged. As the music’s tempo shifts, he drops his body low, knees bent like a skateboarder about to glide off a halfpipe ramp. His playing doesn’t fall short of virtuosic at any point.
For the show on Jan. 25, the 39-year-old Lee sauntered in, clad in a hoodie, sweatpants and Adidas kicks, and picked up the chili-red Gibson guitar leaning against an amp, accompanied by two bandmates. Instead of the raised stage, they had set up their instruments on the floor amid a salad of cables. Over 100 people surrounded them like a bonfire.
This was the 10th edition of Cadejo’s flagship show, called “FREESEASON.” There was a special appearance by an ex to the band, its former drummer Camelo, who had quit and moved to Jeju Island to escape the city with his school-aged kid. Once a year, Camelo would return to play with Lee and the bassist Kim Jaeho, 39, and this was one of those yearly occasions.
Cadejo’s three original members opened with a throwback, the melodic lead track of their 2018 EP, “YOURSIGHT”(니가보여). As the crowd started filming on their phones and moving to the rhythm, Lee energetically thumped his guitar until one of the strings broke.
Since Camelo’s departure, another drummer had taken his place. Kim Davin, 33, became the only nineties baby of the band, though he claims to “live like it’s the fifties.” He joined the trio onstage, and the quartet played a seamless stream of instrumentals and songs, including “Dirty Beats,” a jam with a slinky, urban feel; “Free Verse,” a youthful anthem about doing whatever one damn well pleases; and “today” (오늘), a banger for a bleak commute to work.
One of the great joys of watching Cadejo perform is their spontaneity. When Lee spotted a pair of fans headbanging, he flipped his chin-length hair back and forth with them. Camelo entrusted one of his drumsticks to a fan by his side to work the cymbal. Someone from the audience named Shi-ne took center-stage with a piri, a Korean traditional pipe, and sprayed a soulful solo over “Silver Sand” (은모래), a sprawling song inspired by a scenic beach on Korea’s southern coast.
Once they had cycled through the setlist, Lee joked, “Hang out, get a drink and lie down, and we’ll put you in a cab,” as though the show would go on forever. It went on for another thirty minutes, in a feat of stamina, and the band manager came around with four glasses of white wine to keep the musicians sharp. (He had water the first time, and Lee asked for booze instead).
Before playing one of the last songs, “US” (우리), Lee seemed awash in euphoria. “This environment is what we’ve always dreamed of,” he said. “This size of crowd, occupying this kind of space, comfortably.”
Indeed, the venue, KCS Seoul, had good acoustics and a charming constellation of orb lamps under exposed ceiling joists. But there was something heartwarming about a musician putting the comfort of fans before other ego-feeding markers of mainstream success, like a sold-out show at a packed stadium. These achievements are, of course, not mutually exclusive. In 2024, Cadejo headlined block parties; the year before that, the band received the top prize in hiphop at the Korean Music Awards for its collaboration with the rapper Nucksal.
But Cadejo’s success can't be measured by critical reception, or by the number of hits for that matter. A better metric would be the intensity of hypnotized funkheads that let loose and vibe to their music. They collectively emitted enough body heat at the Saturday-evening show to prompt the venue to switch off its indoor heating in Seoul’s coldest month of the year. Cadejo’s in it for the long run, and at the end of the day, these are the people that will determine the band’s longevity, not the critics.
The members perform every week, with other groups or at solo gigs. Their frequent availability means some devotees get so acquainted with the band they feel at the liberty to act like hecklers, leaving Lee, now a seasoned showman, with more to skillfully manage.
In the final moments of the show came the announcements. Next month, they will record a new album in Chuncheon, to be released Jun. 6. A single will drop before that, in March. There’s more T-shirts for sale by the exit. And mark your calendars, Lee said, turning 360 degrees to scan the audience. The next “FREESEASON” show is scheduled for Mar. 1, Independence Movement Day in South Korea — they’re a “patriotic band.”
One can’t help but to root for the profitability of this self-booked, self-promoted series of shows, the last few of which have occurred roughly 40 days apart. Something about it seemed to transcend Cadejo’s artistic determination and glinted with possibility for a precarious profession. How many working musicians have a regular payday, free from the thumb of streaming giants and label executives?
And what does “FREESEASON” mean, anyway? Is it when the band’s not hustling on the festival circuit? Or when it’s not scrambling on a multi-city tour?
Lee, who was milling around after the show, aglow with a post-show high and embracing fans, gave me a one-word answer: “Whenever.”
Follow Cadejo (까데호) @cadejo___ on Instagram for updates about future shows.