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BloombergBusinessweek November 11, 2019rubshoulderswithSouthKorea’swealthiestandmostcon-
nectedcitizens,as“amale-dominatedsociety”thattreats
womenasdisposable.Theidolsystem,hesaid,hascontrib-
utedtothisculture.“AlotofK-popidolstrainfromage9.When
theygainsomesuccessandpopularity,theybecomelikekings.”heBurningSunscandalwasn’tembarrassingforK-pop
onlybecauseit touchedthethirdrailofsex.Italso
showedtheindustrylosingsomeofitsultimatecurrency:
control.K-pop’smostimportantactorsaremanagement
companies,whichserveastalentagencies,recordlabels,and
concertpromoters.Eventhebiggeststarsareeffectivelyemploy-
ees,paida shareofrevenueandexpectedtohittargetsforout-
put,touring,andpublicity.
Thesystemhasbeenlikenedtoa seriesoffactories,butit also
sharescharacteristicswithmedievalguilds.Idolstypicallysign
contractsforsevenyears,aneternityina professionwhere 30 is
theagelimitformarketability.(Decade-pluscontractsusedtobe
common.)Almostallperformersbeginastrainees—apprentices
whospendseveralhoursa daydrillinginsinging,dancing,and
whatmightbelooselycalledcomportment.Oncetheyreach
adolescence,managementcompaniesassemblethemostprom-
isingonesintogroups,whichrehearseforanotheryearortwo
beforetheirpublicdebut.
Executivesmoldeachgroup’smusicalstyletothefashionsof
themoment.Manyofthemostsuccessfulsongsarecomposites,
combiningrap,electronica,andevenreggaewithcatchyhooks
andchorusessungpartlyinEnglish.SinceK-popwentinterna-
tionalintheearlyyearsofthemillennium,rapidlydisplacing
Cantopop,a fadingHongKongexport,managementcompanies
haveshiftedmorelyricsintoEnglishandintegratedforeigntrain-
eesintotheidolsystem—mainlyfromtheKoreandiaspora,but
alsoThailandandChina.
It’snothardtoseewhymanagementcompanieslikethe
factorymodel.Havinga reserveofhighlytrainedperformers
makesoneofthecriticalanxietiesofWesternlabels—scouting
actsandsigningthembeforerivalsdo—anonissue.If execu-
tivesbelievethenextbigtrendwillbehip-hopormixedboy-girl
groups,theysimplyassigntheirtraineesaccordingly.Intheory,
idols’replaceability and rigid contracts make them easier to con-
trol than Western stars. No one can fire Justin Bieber, but every
K-pop idol has a boss.
The system has plenty of critics. Feminist groups have con-
demned the industry’s treatment of women, who are often paid
less than male peers and confined to an even narrower physical
and behavioral tightrope. Female stars who defy these expecta-
tions are subject to vicious digital harassment, sometimes with
tragic results: In October the well-known singer Sulli, who’d
spoken frankly about mental health challenges and tested some
of the industry’s other taboos, died in an apparent suicide after
years of online criticism. Some idols have sued their manag-
ers, claiming to have been deprived of almost all the financial
gains they generated. While some performers write their own
songs, it’s rarely a priority to foster creativity or unique voices.
The aim is to mimic, tweak, or combine formulas.The ingredients are prepared in places such as DSP Media’s
trainee school. A midsize management company on a narrow
street in northern Gangnam, DSP hasn’t been involved in any of
the recent scandals. Its school has nine male and three female
trainees, who practice from midafternoon until the late evening
five days a week, then put in more hours on weekends. It’s less
grueling than it sounds, at least by local standards. Korean stu-
dents spend more time studying than their counterparts virtu-
ally anywhere in the world; if the trainees weren’t doing this
they’d likely be putting in similar time at so-called cram schools.
On a recent Friday afternoon, four of DSP’s male trainees
filed into a mirrored rehearsal room in T-shirts, loose black track
pants, and sneakers, bending over to stretch their calves and
hamstrings. An instructor cued up Wave, a dancehall-style track
by the boy group ATEEZ. The students began a polished rou-
tine, lip-syncing lyrics as they went through tightly synchronized
moves that offered only a brief opportunity for each boy to strut
his stuff. It was hard, athletic work, but they seemed to be hav-
ing fun, smiling and joking when the music stopped.
Afterward the boys and one of their female peers gathered to
discuss how they’d come to the business. “When I was watching
TV as a young girl, I thought those idol groups looked so good,
and I wanted to become like them,” said a 15-year-old trainee.Her motivations, though, were more material than artistic. “My
goal is to buy my parents a house,” she said with a giggle.
Next to her, another trainee, Song Jae-won, cast his ambitions
in terms perhaps never heard in the history of American record
labels. “My biggest hope is to please my parents,” he said. One
of the oldest of the group at 18, with braces on his teeth and sil-
ver hoops in both ears, Song is the closest to grappling with the
dilemmas of stardom, if all goes well. As an idol, he said, “it will
be a little bit stressful to keep trying to have a clean image. I’ll
think about how to deal with that stress once I reach that level.”
Asked about the recent scandals, he laughed nervously. Two
instructors were sitting in, and the students appeared to know
they were on touchy terrain. “This systematic process is good,”
Song said. “I’m establishing my ethics, getting guidelines.”n a postcard-perfect evening in late August, a few dozen
women gathered with placards and a microphone in a
concrete plaza near Seoul City Hall. Not long before,
members of South Korea’s feminist movement had
begun holding weekly protests, each time highlighting a different“THE BEST TEACHER FOR
YOUNG IDOLS IS TO SEE
FELLOW IDOLS GET INTO A
SCANDAL AND DISAPPEAR”