Believe it or not, it’s been approximately one month since the last installment of “Kacie on K-pop” ran. Since then, a lot has happened in my personal life: a lot of skipped classes, a few therapy sessions and too many iced Dulce lattes to count.

When I’m going through things, I turn to online shopping as one of my main sources of solace. They say money can’t buy happiness, but in the capitalist environment in which we live, sometimes I really think it can. But instead of spending most of my disposable income on food or books, most of my extra funds go toward fueling my love for K-pop — physical CDs and merchandise, clothing and makeup from brands that partner with my favorite artists and concert tickets make up the bulk of my nonessential purchases. 

When I first became a K-pop fan, I was 16 years old with little to no disposable income. The only way I could engage with my idols was by watching the content they released for free on YouTube or V Live or streaming their music on Spotify, and I was OK with that. In fact, I loved it; the night I spontaneously pulled an all-nighter to watch all the episodes of my idols’ variety show in existence is still one of my fondest memories. 

Yet, over time, I began to notice that other fans of my favorite group at the time would trade photo cards with each other (photo cards I never had because I could not buy any albums) or had seen certain types of exclusive content (content I never watched because I could not access it behind their paywalls). Although I had been a fan for a few months at this point, I felt as if my fan credibility was lessened because I wasn’t as dedicated financially to the group’s success. 

While in no way is it mandatory to make these types of purchases to be a fan of a K-pop artist, the unspoken rules of many K-pop fandoms suggest that fans who have money are more valuable, or even considered better, fans to their idols. Not only do these fans have physical items to display as “proof” of being a fan, they also have tangible evidence of their support for their artists — paying for Korean music platform streaming passes to boost their idols’ songs on the charts, or buying memberships to mock text chat platforms to “message” their idols and official fan club memberships to give even more money to their idols’ management companies. These paid activities not only benefit the fan, but in theory, are also a way to give back to their idols. 

Similarly, the lack of opportunities to interact directly with K-pop artists contributes to a culture of clout surrounding fans who are able to pay large sums of money for these opportunities. When fans are “recognized” by their idols for having interacted with them at multiple events or concerts, these fans are often considered “better” and are idolized by other fans. 

During the coronavirus pandemic, many K-pop management companies began offering fansign events virtually. An opportunity for fans to meet their favorite idols in person and get a physical copy of the artists’ album signed, fansigns were traditionally only offered in South Korea, making it extremely difficult for international fans to get the same sort of exposure to their idols without spending a large amount of money to get there. 

Yet, when the events were offered more frequently online, it became very common for global fans to enter and win opportunities to video call their idols. These calls were often screen-recorded and posted online, opening up even more opportunities for fans with more money to be seen as “better” fans than those who didn’t have the financial means to participate in these events. 

I distinctly remember a time during the pandemic when it felt like each one of my friends had participated in a virtual fansign event with their favorite idol, with the screen-recorded videos of calls being all that I would see online. At that time, I hadn’t been able to participate in a similar experience, and admittedly, it did make me question my credibility as a fan, even though I was already spending money on other activities my idols offered and would eventually attend a virtual fansign myself. 

Now, five years after I initially became a fan and, admittedly, a lot of money spent on my favorite artists later, I think it’s interesting to reflect on the tie between money and perceived fan loyalty in the K-pop community. After spending so much of my disposable income on the activities of my idols, you would think that I feel like a “better” fan because of it. 

Am I more loyal to my favorite artists because I’m financially invested in their success? Am I happier when they do well because I feel as if I contributed something to them? Perhaps. 

But when I look back on my time as a K-pop fan, I still believe that the time when I was most dedicated to my chosen artists was at the very beginning — when I was giving them my time more than anything. In the capitalist industry that is K-pop, perhaps it’s time to remember that genuine love is free.

Kacie Yamamoto is a senior writing about Korean pop music. She is also the editor-in-chief of the Daily Trojan. Her column “Kacie on K-pop” runs every other Friday.

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