※ Note: At the request of the artist’s management, the setlist has been omitted from this review.
Their arrival in Seoul felt less like a tour stop than a citywide festival. Beyond pop-up stores and the opening of a dedicated fan café, fan-made ads appeared simultaneously in Hongdae and Anam stations, while an Animate-hosted “kubo” event celebrating their catalog drew crowds of its own. Everywhere connected to the band teemed with people. On the day of the show, the area surrounding the venue was already dense with fans from early afternoon—some expressing their individuality through customized merchandise and cosplay, others exchanging fan-made works, and, in pockets, breaking into early sing-alongs. With the audience’s active participation, the entire week took on the atmosphere of something closer to a festival than a conventional concert run.
Formed around singer-songwriter ACAね, ZUTOMAYO (ずっと真夜中でいいのに。) quickly rose into the ranks of breakout acts with their debut single, and the devotion of their fanbase is unusually intense. There are several reasons for that: a voice that cuts through with sudden precision across a wide range; meticulously constructed productions that fuse the density of Vocaloid-informed sound design with the groove of African American music; and a carefully maintained aura of mystery reinforced by distinctive visual styling. But one thing stands out above all—what truly converts a listener into a committed supporter is witnessing the band live. Their shows draw on concepts from unexpected sources, staged with large-scale set pieces and powered by an ensemble that easily exceeds a dozen musicians. It is this relentless pursuit of something that can only exist in the moment—inseparable from the live setting—that keeps audiences coming back.
On the final night of their second Seoul run—a performance that felt all the more singular for its localized storytelling—the first thing to catch the eye upon entering the venue was a screen depicting a ship anchored in a storm-tossed sea. Around it, objects—stone, wood, earthen jars—were arranged across the stage. As the show began, two zombie-like figures appeared, enacting a ritual to summon the absolute presence known as “ACAね.” A coffin rose from the stage floor and opened in time with the intro of the opening track, revealing the night’s protagonist. Dressed in blue, ACAね lay still as she delivered a full line before slowly rising, stretching, and greeting the crowd with her signature, “ZUTOMAYONAKADEIINONI desu.” What followed was a massive ensemble performance—an overwhelming moment in which the entire venue seemed to slip into another world.
Rather than faithfully reproducing the architecture of their recordings, ZUTOMAYO’s live show leans toward reinvention—songs are reshaped through reconfiguration, exaggeration, and omission. The opening stretch made that intent unmistakable. Bass and guitar lines, along with bursts of scratching, laid down an entirely new foundation, while unexpected turns emerged from the interplay of new wave and city pop textures. Even without a string section, trumpet and trombone filled the space with ease, asserting a vivid brass presence. It was a headlong traversal across genres and arrangements—a clear demonstration of what makes a performance uniquely “live.”
After the initial surge, ACAね paused briefly to catch her breath, introducing a new song with an offbeat remark: “If we can’t move forward, maybe we can move sideways like a crab.” Set against a retro-tinged melody led by accordion, the band’s playful physicality shifted the atmosphere into a different register. It was a moment that rendered self-reflection tangible, while folding in the group’s characteristic eccentricity and sense of the uncanny. In the “random song” segment—staged like a round of golf putting—a jazz-inflected rearrangement once again highlighted the band’s technical depth. The playing moved fluidly between calculation and spontaneity, filling negative space as it went, while a swing rhythm introduced midway propelled each song’s transformation. Elsewhere, the band foregrounded their idiosyncrasies with precision: the electric fan harp—a modified electric fan repurposed as an instrument, open-reel tape textures brought to the fore, and even the audience prompted into rapid-fire rhythms with shamoji (rice paddles used as cheering props).
As the performance moved into its latter half, it grew markedly more audacious. A run of uptempo tracks—many of them new—drove forward without the slightest loss of tension, pressing the crowd into a sustained peak. One sequence, featuring “full-on choreography” performed in claw-shaped gloves, drew an especially explosive response. At the highlight, the band presented a series of songs reconstructed to the point where only the skeletal outlines of the originals remained, effectively reborn as entirely new pieces. It was the clearest expression of both the experimental ambition and the confidence underpinning this tour—a bold detour that ultimately defined its climax. In place of strings, synthesizers and brass filled the spectrum with ingenuity, while ACAね, seemingly unable to contain her own momentum, matched the band’s intensity with increasingly dynamic movement. Together, they pushed toward a state of total combustion, dissolving the boundary between performer and audience.
By then, the show had begun to edge toward its close. ACAね stepped forward onto the extended stage after offering a brief remark in Korean—“Even as different individuals, we can still find ways to connect”—and continued engaging the crowd at a closer, more intimate distance. What followed felt like a final surge: a vocal performance that bordered on full-throated belting, drawing out a lingering resonance as the end approached. In her closing words, she left the audience with a parting message—“Whether beneath the sea or beneath the ground, I will always be listening to your stories.” The final track, driven by rapid-fire keyboard runs and percussive footwork reminiscent of tap dance, moved toward its conclusion without ever fully conceding to the idea of an ending—a paradox that left you thinking, almost involuntarily, I wish this could remain live forever. The last image—an archer’s gesture releasing its final shot, followed by a giant crab engulfing the screen—brought the frenzy of two hours to a close, sealing it as another chapter in the band’s unfolding history.
It was a performance in which the band’s refusal to simply replicate their recordings came through more forcefully than ever. Each song underwent deliberate transformation, its structure rebuilt in ways optimized for the ensemble onstage, yielding a density that could only exist in that specific place and time. Across a setlist spanning twenty-three songs, ACAね’s vocals held steady throughout, demonstrating how accumulated experience and discipline have fully translated into control. The new material, too, filled the space left by familiar staples without strain, underscoring the consistency of their creative output. Even with several previously central tracks absent from the set, the sense of satisfaction never diminished—if anything, it suggested that their live shows are only becoming more expansive, capable of branching into ever more varied configurations.
What lingers most is how the seemingly eccentric motifs of “zombies” and “crabs” ultimately converge into a portrait of ACAね’s inner world: a being compelled to move forward without pause, yet one that must retreat into its shell, reflect, and emerge again with a newly formed layer of protection. Read alongside their recent release “形藻土,” that tension feels newly legible—most clearly in songs like “よもすがら,” which lays bare a self still tender enough to be wounded even by kindness, or “クリームで会いにいけますか',” where the state of protecting oneself while drawing close to others is described as something “creamy,” soft yet resilient. This tour, then, unfolded as a kind of stage-language translation of that contradictory self-awareness.
Even the farewell—phrased not as “See you again,” but “Will we meet again?”—seemed to follow that same logic. Rather than insisting on reunion, it carried an acceptance of distance and uncertainty as they are. Like a final message that felt close to “Let’s keep living this life together,” the performance suggested a way of enduring that uncertainty, of recognizing that stillness and detours, too, belong within the arc of living. Stepping out of that dreamlike stretch of time, a thought surfaced almost involuntarily: we move forward, yes—but we also stop, hesitate, and sometimes even step back. And what awaits at the end of that process may be a version of ourselves newly shed and reformed, carrying a fresh shell on our backs—alongside, perhaps, a clawed heroine keeping a quiet watch at our side.