When I was in undergrad, I ran a college radio show called Keep it K-pop. It had, on its best days, a maximum of 6 listeners, but I didn’t care—I was technically sharing K-pop with the entire city of Boston! In that dank, cramped studio, covered with indie band stickers and faded underground show posters, I felt like an enlightenment coach, a curioso tastemaker unveiling the curtain on a world of sparkling melodies, earwormy hooks, and precise choreography. Who else but me was playing BTS on the radio in the mid-to-late 2010s?
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that K-pop propelled me to study music in college. From the time I discovered the pastel, dreamy soundscape that was Girls' Generation's “Gee” in middle school, I loved K-pop. I lived K-pop—my life quickly became swirled up in watching glossy music videos, ripping poor quality mp3 files of EPs and albums from YouTube (this was before DSPs had the dedicated K-pop hubs they have now), and dancing sloppy versions of intricate choreography in front of my bathroom mirror. I bought CDs direct from South Korea (along with Korean makeup and skincare brands advertised by my favorite idols), taped up posters across my bedroom walls, and even started learning Korean so I could better understand the lives of the singers I was listening to.
What was it about this genre that captivated me so, despite having no personal connection to its country of origin? As K-pop has spread past its borders, many newcomers to its rise like to comment on the “idolatry” of it, the girls and boys with perfect faces and perfect bodies, who dance in perfect synchronization after years of training to attain that perfection—”factory” dolls, as I’ve seen them called. I understand these perspectives, to a point. Part of what I loved about K-pop was the package it came in: with each single, I could expect a glossy music video, multiple live performances a week, appearances on Korean variety shows—there was a structure to every album that was easy to follow. And there’s no doubt that what initially drew me to my favorite K-pop idols was their beauty—I was a 14-year-old girl, so duh.
As I near 30, I definitely do not have the same fangirl fervor for many of K-pop’s newest cohort of idols; I would not be able to tell you the names of all of NCT’s 26 members with the same fervor of someone half my age. But that doesn’t matter—as the genre has gone from my humble college radio station to mainstream recognition on Top 40 airplay charts, it’s the music that has kept me a fan all this time. From 2NE1’s ferocious electro-hip-hop hits to the genuinely odd faux-retro melodies in groups like T-ara and Secret, K-pop’s biggest strength is its malleability in familiarity. I love that no matter if I’m listening to WJSN’s dramatic orchestral sweeps or EXID’s sassy funk-pop, I can almost always expect a rap break and a chorus I won’t be able to shake off for years.
I think the ultimate reason why K-pop entered my life, and never left it, is because it put to sound the way I feel when I listen to any music. My favorite songs—not just K-pop—don’t just enter my ears, but leap into my heart. Something inside me soars, and I can imagine a new world of sound, beckoning me in. The songs I’ve collected here have opened numerous creative pathways for me—I hope, as you Keep it K-pop, you might make your own discoveries.
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