Written by Stambekova Aida
The past couple of years have been big for K-pop, albeit only on paper. The boom caused by BTS and Blackpink at the end of the 2010’s spread to smaller groups, K-dramas, and animated movies. HYBE, the industry’s giant, started a rapid global expansion, introducing to us international groups – the LA-based girl group KATSEYE, and the Mexico City-based Latin boy group SANTOS BRAVOS.
Despite all this, major scandals involving senior executives, disbandments, and group member departures are perpetually plaguing the industry. A once huge market is now bleeding relevance, desperately trying to keep the sales high. Since 2024, digital music consumption has fallen by 6.4 percent. This is an appalling 49.7 percent drop compared to 2019, the genre’s peak year. Groups are debuting faster than ever, yet fewer are breaking through; the market is getting oversaturated with concepts that even hardcore fans struggle to differentiate. In the pursuit of global recognition, the industry is holding onto what seems to be a lifeboat – authenticity. Recognizing that the public requires a raw, unfiltered image instead of the familiar reputation of hyper-produced, disingenuous pop, K-pop companies are now selling authenticity the way fast fashion sells uniqueness. Take CORTIS, HYBE’s newest boy group, for example: their entire debut campaign was built around “artistic integrity” – framing the members’ efforts as “resisting creative pressure”. Rookie groups like CORTIS are now arriving with “self-producing” labels attached to their names. Companies tout songwriting credits before the music can be heard. Authenticity comes in bulk, for a limited time, and almost always falls apart.
But what are the roots of this obsession with authenticity? How come an industry that is known for selling concepts, visions, and fantasies is now failing to sell yet another concept?
From BTS to brand fatigue
For much of its international lifespan, K-pop has been quickly dismissed as hyper-produced and rather fictitious. Groups were assembled without members having to know each other well. Songs were written by Swedish producers without having to communicate with the performers at all. Idols weren’t and still aren’t allowed to date, let alone express political opinions.
BTS were able to slightly disrupt the narrative – not by entirely rejecting the system, but by credibly claiming a degree of authenticity that was enough to make a breakthrough and form a dedicated fanbase. Their involvement in songwriting and their infamous “underdog story” – from a small label on the verge of bankruptcy to Billboard wins and Grammy nominations – became proof points that K-pop could actually give birth to authentic artistic voices. The phenomenon of BTS made people look at newcomers in the market differently. The old model of perfect execution and anonymous production suddenly felt dated. BTS’s direct juniors under the same label, TOMORROW BY TOGETHER, were now subject to completely new standards. Fans now valued heavy involvement in music production more than they did music show wins. Two of the biggest boy groups of the 4th wave of K-pop – Stray Kids and ATEEZ – claimed their places under the spotlight partially due to the “self-producing idols” image.
But here’s a catch: you cannot scale or sell authenticity. K-pop’s entire business model of multiple groups per label, standardized training, and rapid comeback cycles is, at its core, hostile to the concept of authenticity. In 2025, seven out of ten spots in the top digital chart in Korea were occupied by solo artists, most of whom are not even known internationally. Only three idol groups made the cut. The Korean public has always resonated more with ballads and rock-infected songs – something that allows for better individual expression – rather than overly marketed pop tunes that lack emotional depth. So the reality is that the domestic market is tuning out of English-heavy lyrics and flashy concepts of K-pop.
However, it would be too simple and too convenient to place all the blame on the labels, wouldn’t it? They are obviously the ones to decide how to market their artists, but any form of supply is dictated by demand. The industry’s authenticity paradox has another parent: the domestic and now growingly international fanbase. While Korean listeners claim to crave emotional depth and honesty from artists, they impose unrealistic beauty standards, behavioral codes, and constant scrutiny that make authentic expression difficult. How can idols be real if they are punished for any unconventional shows of vulnerability?
The demand-side trap
Zap through any Korean drama, and you’ll notice something strange: actors are often cast for their faces, not their acting skills. There is a particular phrase for this – “배우 얼굴,” which means “an actor’s face” and is usually thrown as a compliment to an idol. To have “an actor’s face” is to transcend the standard beauty markers and become worthy to play in a drama or a movie. It’s not a secret that being attractive in South Korea can get you far, but the extent of such a pervasive and totalizing beauty-centric culture is far beyond comprehension.
Survival shows are the most apparent examples of harsh beauty standards. A trainee can be the most gifted dancer or a vocalist, but if they don’t meet the height, weight, facial symmetry, or skin tone criteria, their debut is suddenly at risk; and this isn’t a mere speculation. If you watch survival shows like Produce 101, Boys Planet, Girls Planet, I-LAND, you will see that each one is filled with stories of highly talented and skilled trainees that end up falling behind less skilled, but highly attractive contestants. The unspoken and spoken rules of the “beauty over substance” book remain dictating idols’ careers: people have noted a sharp increase in obvious plastic surgery and modifications, alongside extreme weight loss transformations. Ningning and Giselle (aespa), Taemin (SHINee), Wonyoung (IVE), and Wendy (Red Velvet) are just a few examples that have raised concerns among fans. While most idols don’t disclose any information about plastic surgery, extreme transformations are hard to sweep under the rug. When the product is a flawless face and a simple catchy tune, the marketing engine runs on beauty, not honesty. How can idols be authentic when the selling point is not the story they have to tell, but the look they can serve?
On top of the beauty standards, K-pop idols have to strictly comply with behavioral constraints. Swearing (even accidental), dating, smoking or drinking, expressing political opinions, or showing even the slightest mood change – all will lead to a scandal. The public offers no grace. Idols are taught the important skill of “표정 관리” – controlling or watching one’s facial expressions – because everything they do on camera and sometimes beyond is monitored for transgression. Idols that never slip, maintain a perfect smile, never express frustration or anger or sadness in an “unbecoming way,” get praised for being “true, professional” idols.
The current K-pop apparatus rarely provides an off-stage experience, especially to the rookies. Between official comebacks, idols have to produce tons of curated content: from livestreams to behind-the-scenes vlogs to variety show appearances to fan calls to social media posts. Each one of these presents a trade-off: an opportunity to connect with fans and show personality or a risk of backlash for a tired expression? Idols learn to internalize the enforcement of conformity and quickly self-censor, usually before managers even have to.
Given this demand-side reality, the labels’ hyper-cautious controlling behavior suddenly appears not irrational, but adaptive. If a single minor scandal can tank album and concert ticket sales, of course, contracts will include dating bans, and every major media appearance will be preceded by briefings on what not to do and what not to say. The most dangerous thing an idol can be in this environment is unpredictable. And authenticity is, by nature, unpredictable.
Down the manufacturing line
Let’s look at the industry from the inside. A 2025 study published in the Strategic Management Journal examined how K-pop agencies respond to demand and manage artist identity shifts. Their findings are damning for anyone who wants to believe that K-pop artists evolve organically.
The researchers describe K-pop as a “producer-driven production model,” highlighting that producers exert significant control over artists: from recruitment and training to determining the groups’ concept. Once concepts are chosen, companies will oversee all production aspects, including music arrangements, choreography, wardrobe, makeup, and promotional media. This leaves very little room for the artists to come in and contribute to the creative process. Agencies don’t wait for artists to develop authentically; instead, they monitor market trends, assign concept categories, and reposition groups accordingly.
Middle-status producers, constrained in their resources, leverage, and fanbase loyalty, tend to align their artists with what is prevailing on the market. In a rapidly developing environment, this is the best way for small and medium companies to capitalize on trends and opportunities in hopes that their artists might get a breakthrough. High-status agencies such as HYBE, SM, YG, and JYP tend to build distinct identities and concepts for their groups first and pivot later, once they have established loyal fanbases. This has been especially apparent within SM, YG, and JYP, where groups debut with already unique and highly distinct concepts to separate them from other groups, and shift identities later to increase longevity and prove versatility. This can also explain the shift from strictly assigned positions such as vocalist, rapper, dancer, to more ambiguous and open-ended concepts. Such labels constrain the development of multifaceted identities, something that is vital for the long-term credibility and success of artists.
One interesting finding of this study is that since male groups tend to have more proactive fan bases, female groups are left to rely on broader audiences. Hence, they face greater pressure to conform to societal gender norms and follow predefined career paths, regardless of their label’s status. Female idols are usually expected to progress from innocent images to more mature, sexualized identities.
Once you add these insider motivations, it becomes apparent that authenticity is not reported, but thoroughly created. Nothing has changed much about the invisible production system; while some producers work with idols directly and more personally, most songwriters and producers don’t know the artists as individuals. Companies still optimize for efficiency, and expression suddenly falls between the cracks. If you look at any behind-the-scenes by SM Entertainment, you will see how title tracks are still merely served before idols on a platter – artists are often just left with the choice between pre-written tracks.
And this is the main paradox of the industry: the more systematically you manufacture a group’s image, the harder you must work to convince people that nothing was manufactured at all. And so, authenticity becomes another concept to be assigned – except this time, the concept is the absence of a concept. The race now becomes about who can sell said authenticity better. Was it supposed to be NewJeans, the industry’s loudest phenomenon, before their sudden disbandment? Is it going to be KATSEYE, whose image of “genuineness” and “unfilteredness” is crumbling down now that Manon is rumored to leave the group? Or is it going to be CORTIS, an up-and-coming powerhouse that gives fans a hope at actual authenticity?
NewJeans: Freshness mistaken for authenticity
NewJeans exploded into the scene as a breath of fresh air – five girls with shiny, untouched hair – and their concept was clear as day. “Authentic” and “natural” – those were the words used to describe HYBE’s new big phenomenon. Their Y2K aesthetic, minimal makeup, and relatable lyrics stuck like a sore thumb among maximalist and excessively produced groups. But the case of NewJeans reveals the market’s biggest misconception: freshness does not equate to authenticity.
NewJeans debuted when the industry was hungry for something quiet and reserved. Instead of high-level production and green screens, they offered nostalgic VHS tape images full of ordinary moments. But their “candid” music video style, their “effortless” choreography, and their “natural” styling are nothing but a pre-designed and pre-approved vision of their creative director, Min HeeJin. The concept was well-executed and well-timed, but it was a concept nonetheless.
KATSEYE: Does authenticity lie beyond the Korean market?
HYBE has moved beyond exporting K-pop to franchising the system of idol training and group production. KATSEYE, a six-member multinational girl group, was created through a reality competition and trained in HYBE’s methods, but with the goal to capture the American market. Due to this, KATSEYE has considerably more freedom than any other K-pop group, not just within HYBE. The members are openly dating, partying, and interacting with other celebrities. The survival show that formed them revealed many conflicts and contradicting personalities – despite the mandatory PR-training, KATSEYE appeared to be much more “real” than your regular LE SSERAFIMs and ILLITs.
The discussion around what is considered K-pop has been heated for a while: Is K-pop just pop made by Koreans, or is there something that can define it as an entirely separate music genre? Within such a dichotomy, one would expect KATSEYE to completely fall outside of the definition of K-pop, but the truth is that K-pop is less of a music genre and more of a system – a system of producing and managing idols. According to NPR, KATSEYE reveals that K-pop is “just a workflow and its processes aren’t primarily musical or indigenous.”
Now that Manon, one of the more popular members of the group, is on a hiatus and is rumored not to come back to KATSEYE at all, this pushes us to look at their marketing strategy differently. Zachary Hourihane (also known as “The Swiftologist”), a music content creator, outlines that the label behind the group does not want a single protagonist. A single protagonist would have more leverage than other members, making it hard to replace her. He theorizes that the KATSEYE girls are being reduced in their capabilities – Lara and Sophia in singing, Daniela in dancing – specifically not to make any of them the “main act.” How can a group be authentic when its members are asked to tone down their talents to balance the group’s marketability and avoid possible departures?
If KATSEYE keeps operating as a K-pop group, they will eventually lose the very thing that made them appealing to Western audiences: their unfiltered, real image. The K-pop system and Western-style authenticity are fundamentally incompatible. KATSEYE can swear on camera and date however much they want, but as long as they are trained, managed, and marketed through HYBE’s workflow, their long-term legacy as artists is in jeopardy.
CORTIS: A step towards true authenticity
CORTIS, the same-label juniors of BTS and TXT, presents an interesting case: a beam of hope for real artistic authenticity.
The group’s name derives from “color outside the lines,” and the members are said to be heavily involved in music production, choreography, and videography. To showcase their involvement, the label released a four-part documentary, where the boys write lyrics, record songs with big-name producers, and direct draft versions of their music videos. Their visual concept is similar to NewJeans: ordinary boys with minimal makeup, but this time with a rebellious “self-made” look.
The concept of authentic, self-produced idols that is being pushed onto CORTIS is transparently a strategy. Consider BOYNEXTDOOR, another HYBE boy group under the subsidiary KOZ Entertainment. Like CORTIS, BOYNEXTDOOR members are heavily involved in their music – writing credits across nearly every release, guided by their CEO Zico’s “artist-first” reputation. By any objective measure, they are just as “self-produced.” Yet BOYNEXTDOOR is rarely celebrated in the same authenticity discourse – only silently within the fandom. CORTIS has the documentary, the punk styling, the “resistance to pressure” narrative. BOYNEXTDOOR does not. Ceteris paribus, the difference is merely in the marketing strategies.
And so at the heart of CORTIS lies a contradiction: they come from HYBE, the industry’s near monopolist. Big Hit Music is no longer the small firm it was in 2013, when BTS saved it from collapsing. This is not an indie underdog story, but a deliberate concept cultivated by the largest entertainment corporation in K-pop history. Hell, one of the members, Keonho, did not even want to be a musician, a story that is extremely common among idols who get street-casted. CORTIS serves as proof that high-status agencies have learned that authenticity sells. They are willing to restructure group promotion around this marketable concept without actually restructuring the power dynamics of the industry.
And yet, despite the marketing machine, despite the contradictions, CORTIS is more creatively involved than most of their peers. They stormed 2025 not just because of cool songs, but because they were able to awaken the same interest and intrigue BTS did. People recognize real effort, albeit curated and filtered. So perhaps CORTIS is not the pure authenticity people expect from K-pop, but considering the realities of the industry, they might be the closest we get to it.
So, where is real authenticity, and does it even exist?
Real authenticity exists in forms that the industry does not actively reward. The most genuine K-pop moments often happen between comebacks, or, even better, when idols get to start their own offshoots – solo projects, personal Instagram accounts or YouTube channels. Authenticity requires tenure: idols who survive beyond their first contract term often become genuinely involved in their creative process – not because the system suddenly values them, but because they have earned enough leverage to demand it. Look at BTS, Blackpink, EXO, SHINee, BIGBANG: once the first contract terms end, the members suddenly start going solo – each with their own unique style and input. The industry doesn’t grant freedom to rookies, so if you want authenticity, look for it among the veterans.
The study’s findings reveal another important nuance: authenticity is a luxury good. High-status agencies can produce authentic evolution, but only when they have a fan base stable enough to absorb the risks that come with it. Established groups with locked-in fans can afford to experiment. New groups, however? They get pre-assigned concepts that perfectly fulfil market demands.
The reality of K-pop is that groups cannot succeed without claiming authenticity. Not every group has the reputation and the leverage to sidestep the need for true artistry. So, authenticity becomes a marketable category, a mere label. “Self-produced” and “self-made” rarely make sense anymore – most of such groups come from big established labels, and their input is cautiously supervised by dozens of managers, creative directors, and producers. The same way fast fashion sells you a “unique” jacket that ten thousand other people bought online, K-pop sells you an “authentic” group that was assembled, trained, and marketed by the exact same machinery as every other group. The fantasy feels real. The product itself is not.