Like Oh

Like Oh arrives like the musical equivalent of late afternoon light through a café window — unhurried, warm, and slightly hazy at the edges. Sumin's production draws heavily from jazz-inflected R&B: brushed percussion, soft upright bass that walks rather than thumps, piano chords voiced with the wide, open intervals of someone who studied harmony seriously. Her voice is the central instrument, and she uses it with a jazz singer's sensibility — phrasing that floats slightly behind the beat, melisma that feels conversational rather than showy, a tone that sits in the smoky middle of her range and doesn't strain for effect. The song captures the feeling of low-stakes infatuation, the giddy lightness of noticing someone and not yet having anything complicated to say about it. There's an almost onomatopoetic quality to the title — the "oh" is genuinely that, a small involuntary response to something pleasant. Sumin exists at the intersection of Korean indie and contemporary jazz R&B, part of a generation of Seoul artists building something sophisticated and domestic in the best sense. This song belongs to a particular Sunday morning register — slow starts, coffee going cold, the comfortable feeling of nowhere urgent to be and someone worth noticing nearby.