A parallel reality where idols became flesh popped up in south London’s Southwark Park last weekend. Billed as “the biggest Europe outdoor K-pop festival ever”, Made in Korea brought out heavyweights of a genre defined more by global earning power than national identity. Entertainment businesses listed in Seoul raised a record $3.8bn last year as acts — or rather corporate management — criss-crossed borders to cash in on obsessive fandom.
With its ruthlessly curated selection of functional bangers, from teenybopper kitsch to “poppin’ soju bottles” in the strip club, Made in Korea opened a portal to a globalised utopia: a post-racial Y2K fever dream where cash can suspend reality. For the thousands who shelled out up to £168 to stand in a parched field with shambolic catering and a site-wide alcohol ban, the otherworldly talent onstage was worth every penny.
Notions of a “K-pop” Saturday and “hip-hop” Sunday proved as broad as the festival’s title: it turned out that acts had been categorised not by genre but by their target consumers. Saturday felt like seven hours of Disney Channel programming; Sunday’s headliner was kicked out of a boy band after writing “Korea is gay” on MySpace in 2005.
K-pop’s cutesy, innocent image — and the undercurrent of exploitation — echo the American model that gave rise to Britney Spears and NSYNC in the 1990s. Made in Korea’s family-friendly Saturday offered relentless positivity and unattainable perfection: a top-notch primary-school disco soundtrack with Korean lyrics and fiendishly difficult dance routines.
Ten-man group Golden Child appeared in uniform, epaulettes bouncing fetchingly to the tropical house beat of “Burn It”; girl group Cherry Bullet cavorted to the syrupy synth-pop of “Love in Space” with hair and make-up impervious to the oppressive heat. A clear hint of the forces marshalling these tween hormones came when Suho, formerly of megaband EXO, introduced the Coldplay-esque ballad “Grey Suit” as “a metaphor for my military service”.
Tightly scripted fan service began to jar around the third hour: acts hailed their “first time” in London as “very lovely”, made ultra-PG double entendres and extracted a vow of brand loyalty from the hysterical crowd. The ingénue mask slipped a little with Chungha, a ferociously charismatic solo act with the vocal chops and anime-inflected fashion sense of Ariana Grande; the twinge of sarcasm in her Dallas accent was welcome after her battle with the faulty sound system. But the post-American dream returned in force with headliners Red Velvet going for the Noughties jugular in denim and rhinestones to the delight of a crowd ranging from children to a thirtysomething woman who had travelled solo from Iowa.
By Sunday the last clusters of ponytailed white men in the audience had dispersed; in their place came rave shades, Prada bum bags and bucket-hatted lads staggering towards the welfare tent. Made in Korea’s programming replicated both the mainstream and the subculture of westernised Korean music, and “hip-hop” turned out to denote performers targeting actual diaspora Asian people. Opener Jessi set the tone, living up to a memorable if baffling sign at the front of the audience hailing her as the “sexist mommy” of “NY boss rap”. Sporting fuzzy cowboy hat, hoops and K-hip-hop’s ubiquitous “blaccent”, the New Jersey native electrified the crowd with swaggering bilingual bangers.
Elder statesmen Epik High took the crowd back to their 2003 debut with riotous oldskool emceeing, but a young, diverse crowd, in which hijabs mingled with Balenciaga and bondage gear, was stoked to a frenzy by the last three acts. Gray and Loco revelled in their virtuosic flows and rap-god swagger; their breakbeats, beanies and hometown shoutouts felt like authentic nods to hip-hop culture, with Gray joking to the crowd that “man’s not hot”.
Picking bras off the stage as they worked through lascivious RnB tracks — aided by female soloist Lee Hi, bringing more than a hint of Aaliyah — the two had worked the audience into a sweaty, shrieking mess by the time Jay Park and his dancers finally appeared. Decisively purging Saturday’s atmosphere of well-behaved repression, K-hip-hop progenitor and professional bad boy Park closed the festival with bass-shaking, trap-tinged twerk anthems. “Pulling up in K-town, yeah I’m feeling like the President/ You an outsider, why you acting like a resident” he snarled, whipping off his shirt to reveal an expanse of carefully waxed and tattooed muscle.
It seemed that Made in Korea really had brought “K-music” to London: the thrill of fandom and fantasy, with a reminder of the underlying financial interests. Fans who had camped out since noon faced long queues for a £5 cup of water or bowl of instant ramen. Having screamed themselves hoarse in the raucous, drill-laced finale, the crowd drifted off to the broken portable loos without complaint.
