It is brighter, more dynamic, and more calculated.

Its styles and genres constantly shift, and the song sections rapidly change.

From the high-cost music video sets to the tightly coordinated choreography, it seemed like the end result of work done by a large number of people with the utmost technicality.

I decided to look into the history behind the genre, and although I always knew that the process would be highly manufactured, its extent surprised me.

To understand K-pop, we must look at several factors, beginning with South Korea's history.

From the very beginning, South Korea was built partially as a US proxy state to combat the rise of communism.

It was established in 1948 during the Cold War, when preventing the rise of communism was one of the USA's top priorities.

Because of this, the US appointed anti-communist dictator Syngman Rhee, as South Korea's first president, who began extrajudicial imprisonments and executions of leftists, even leading to civilian massacres.

The government received such vast sums of American aid that it would almost near the total size of the entire national budget.

Following a student uprising, Syngman Rhee resigned, and the following political turmoil was broken by General Park Chung-hee, who took over as president in a coup.

Being an anti-communist dictator, Park Chung-hee was supported by the US as well, and continued South Korea's political repression against leftists.

The US especially increased their economic and military aid because of South Korea's alliance with the US in the Vietnam War.

Six days after Park Chung-hee was assassinated, another dictator, General Chun Doo-hwan, took over, and facing national protests, enforced martial law, leading to another civilian massacre.

It was only in 1988, following nationwide protests against the government, that South Korea finally enacted democratic reforms and held presidential elections.

These were won by Roh Tae-woo, making South Korea a liberal democracy, which led to a liberalization of South Korea's culture.

This history relates to K-pop in three ways.

An increase in South Korea's wealth, strict media censorship, and few workers' rights.

Because of the dictatorial nature of South Korea's history before this, there was almost no thriving pop industry in the country until the 90s, which explains the lack of documented South Korean record labels founded earlier than the 90s.

The censorship and traditional values enforced by South Korea's dictators were overarching, and entirely changed the trajectory of South Korean pop culture.

Western pop music developed with phonographs and radio stations.

South Korean pop music, on the other hand, developed with the television.

Until the 90s, South Korea had only two TV channels, which meant they essentially had a monopoly on the country's popular music.

Because of its development in television, South Korean pop music has the focus on looks, fashion, and choreography that we see up to this day.

The music segments on those TV channels were known as the star system.

The broadcasting station would provide studio bands, choreographers, music arrangers and conductors, lyricists and songwriters, and dance groups, and then require the star to sing on stage with them.

Because the TV channels had a monopoly on pop music, pop stars would have absolutely no control over the creative process.

The songwriting, the choreography, the production would all be chosen for them.

This is another aspect of South Korean pop music that we see up to this day.

What we know as K-pop now really started in the early 90s, when with the advent of the internet, South Koreans became familiar with Western pop culture.

This led to the formation of The Boys, who combined Korea's pop music with the Western influences of rap, rock, techno, and R&B, and started the craze that we know today.

Additionally, the 90s were marked by a shift in the South Korean economy, from a focus on automobile, chemical, construction, and electronics industries, to a vast increase in the culture industries, which incentivized the establishment of K-pop managerial companies, the biggest of which to this day are SM Entertainment, YG Entertainment, and JYP Entertainment.

However, despite this shift to cultural industries, the work ethic remained the same.

SM Entertainment, led by Lee Soo-man, initially produced musician Hyun Jin-young, whose debut was a failure, leading to a net loss for the company.

After this, Soo-man decided to create a new system, in which the creation of K-pop stars would be entirely systemized, calculated, and under the control of the company.

As Hannah Waitt describes in The History, Development, and Future of K-pop in the Korean Music Industry, Soo-man therefore developed what is now referred to as the in-house system.

No longer would SM only produce their artists, they would control every aspect of the artist's career, as seen in the company objectives, to plan, make, and circulate discs, to control music publishing, licensing, and advertising, to provide agents and managers, to organize events, and to operate a star-making academy.

Everything was now housed under the roof of that shabby white building in Apgujeong.

In the SM building, every position was staffed, lyricists, songwriters and arrangers, recording engineers, managers, agents, choreographers, design coordinators, image consultants, dance, vocal, and acting instructors, marketing executives, and of course, the CEO and The system ended up being a great success, and every major South Korean managerial company to this day follows it.

But what is the process behind generating South Korea's idols?

It typically begins with young students participating in company-run auditions.

If the company decides that an applicant is talented enough, they become a trainee.

As a trainee, you begin intense musical and choreographical training.

They have to sacrifice all guarantees of personal freedom, sleep, and comfort.

While living in small apartments, trainees are monitored for height, weight, and figure.

Some contracts include agreements to undergo plastic surgery.

Social media and dating are not allowed.

Several hours of singing and dancing classes have to be attended every day, all while attending school.

The training period can last up to five years, sometimes even more, and at absolutely any point, the company can drop you without a second chance if you do not live up to their standards.

It is not only musical and choreographical capabilities that are tested.

Trainees are often deliberately put down, hurt, and discouraged to test their mental endurance.

Stories of abuse abound.

Trainees have been forced to stand in line in front of a scale where their weight would be announced for everyone.

People whose weight had not gone down from last week would be bashed.

Idols are forced to decrease their calorie intake, often leading to long-lasting eating disorders.

Idol Jay Park has revealed that he was systematically abused during his training period, being hit for accidentally messing up lyrics or dance moves.

Once a trainee is selected to finally become an idol, the struggles do not end.

The intense schedules persist.

The group Infinite was reported to have no furniture in their living room to make space for nighttime dance practice.

There are images of idols sleeping on the practice floor or of being half-awake while waving at fans, as well as countless videos of them fainting from exhaustion while on stage.

The contracts they sign as trainees have long-lasting effects, as they often have to repay their debt for the cost of singing and dancing lessons, their wardrobes, and living costs, among other things.

They even have the term slave contract, specifically to refer to unfair K-pop contracts, some of which last up to 13 years.

The unrealistic body standards persist, idols often being shamed for their weight or being encouraged to undergo plastic surgery.

And even after all this, idols are still often surprised and disappointed at the low wages they receive.

Most of the money goes to managers, choreographers, producers, and wardrobe assistants, among others.

How do you slice a fraction of a penny and give that to an artist?

You physically literally cannot do it.

But how could a company have such a tight grasp on someone's contract?

I believe it to be mainly three reasons.

First of all, the state of workers' rights in South Korea.

In 2007, South Korea's minimum wage was $3,481, which is barely more than $3.

The state of labor unions is dire.

Businesses often hinder union activities without being sanctioned by the government.

Some companies set up so-called yellow unions, which are not independent and do not meet standards for collective bargaining.

Other companies design union-busting measures or hire private security firms to harass union members.

Often, South Korean businesses rely on hiring temporary workers, who they are not required to provide insurance benefits to, and fire full-time workers to save costs.

Even after the intense education that the majority of South Koreans go through, they still find difficulties becoming financially stable.

And so they, as well as their parents, look for any chance to find a an increase in leisure time after World War II led to many musicians starting out independently, using their free time to start bands, write songs, and record music, where a record label deal would only come in later.

The material conditions of South Korea did not allow for this.

The necessity of intense studying and work leaves very little free time for common people to engage with music without the help of record labels and management companies.

Because of this, South Korea's culture of pop music was entirely dominated by capital from the very beginning.

People who dream of a career in music often have no chance but to sign up for such managerial companies.

Thirdly, it is the age at which many trainees begin their career.

For instance, Jessica Jung, now a member of Girls' Generation, was 11 years old when she was approached by a talent scout and accepted as an SM trainee.

Her six-year-old sister was invited to audition as well, but was deemed too young by her mother.

Regardless, she also joined the company a few years later.

Seo Hyun, also a member of Girls' Generation, was only 11 when she auditioned.

When asked to sing a song, the first song that came to her head was a nursery rhyme.

This shows just how young a lot of trainees are when they begin their career.

At this point, they might not realize the full implications of what they're signing up for.

The fact that they are sacrificing their leisure time, their ability to have long-term friends, social media, in some cases their health and self-esteem.

Their childhoods are robbed from them and given up entirely to shape them into tools of the company, sculpting every aspect of their being.

Their childhoods are robbed from them and given up entirely to shape them into tools of the company, sculpting every aspect of their being.

Not just their singing and dancing capabilities, but their appearance, behavior, outward personality, and life schedule.

In a heartbreaking moment on the South Korean show Big Brother, the lead singer of Girls' Generation, Taeyeon, was asked which traits of her she would like to be passed on to her children.

The other band members immediately suggested that it would be her voice, but Taeyeon, after some thinking, disagreed.

The fact that Taeyeon wouldn't want to wish her own life upon her children, as a famous and admired idol which she worked for almost her entire childhood and teenage years, is telling.

You might think that trainees, having to spend years living together and practicing together, develop healthy and lasting friendships, but for the most part, the system hinders this.

Trainees, being in danger of being dropped by the company at any time, must adopt a competitive attitude and can never be certain of the future of their friendships.

Seohyun of Girls' Generation, talking of a previous trainee friend, recounts, She was training to be in Girls' Generation with us, so for five years she slept, ate, and practiced with us.

For five years we had the same dream and we had no doubt that we were going to be in the same group.

For five years we worked hard together as trainees, and after our showcase we were convinced that we were going to be in the same group.

But people at our agency always told us, don't get too close to each other.

I thought, why are they saying that?

They told us, what if you aren't in the same group?

You shouldn't be too close to each other.

I thought, that's not going to happen.

We're definitely going to be in the same group.

We have the same dream.

But after our and my friend's name should have been there, but it wasn't.

Rather than being happy that I was debuting, I was so sorry to my friend that I couldn't even talk to her.

After the decision was announced, I couldn't even look at my friend's face.

I was preparing to debut, and she was still a trainee.

Since I still had to go to the practice room, I would see her.

I couldn't even look her in the eyes because I was so sorry.

One day, my friend grabbed my hand and took me to the bathroom.

She looked at me and started to cry, and we cried together.

We didn't say anything, but we knew how the other was feeling.

So we kept crying while holding hands.

Honestly, we cried like that for several weeks.

The company has no regard for the emotional traumas it causes, for the family-like dependencies it creates only to break them, for the terrible mental health that a lot of its trainees have to endure.

Once the contract is signed, the trainee has no say in any decision process.

After the creation of this highly effective in-house system, another problem rose up.

Piracy.

As it became increasingly common to illegally download music for free, the next development for managerial companies was to connect their idols with commercial products and saturate the media.

In addition to already being singers, dancers, actors, and TV personalities, K-pop idols now became advertisers, appearing in commercials for everything from water purifiers to fried chicken.

Conversely, K-pop music videos themselves became advertisements for external products.

Even more than before, the importance of appearance rose above that of reality.

Because of this, K-pop ended up influencing not just pop music, but advertisements, consumer products, movies, TV shows, fashion, and all of these things would end up influencing K-pop in turn.

This feedback loop created an entire culture that was mainly run by just three managerial companies.

As Hannah says, with a firm hold on the Korean domestic music economy, these three companies are able to manufacture culture in Korea, defining what the masses deem to be popular, and as a result, what they spend their money on.

They create their products, Korean idol stars, in accordance to what their consumers want, but in turn are able to define exactly what the end product will be, thus manipulating what the consumers want into what they have already created.

This reminds one of The commodities circulating in a market gain their significance not from their inherent qualities, but from their relations with each other, to the point where no reality exists outside of these relations.

The entirety of South Korean pop culture becomes fully manufactured because K-pop idols are influenced by what is popular, but what is popular itself is already influenced by fully manufactured K-pop idols.

The commodities produced by the contemporary Korean wave are prime examples of simulacra, copies without originals.

Because of the nature of the business, the individual idols have virtually no autonomy in the production process.

The division of labor is extremely strict and disciplined, with each department trying to push its limits.

Such a way of making music can only be achieved by almost inhuman levels of calculation and technicality, and this is why K-pop appears to be so overproduced.

Compared to its western counterparts, K-pop music are brighter, more saturated, the choruses are larger, and the hooks sharper.

It is all delivered with forcefulness.

Genres, fashions, color schemes, and dance styles are crammed into single music videos, desperately trying to fit the visions of a multitude of different people.

Everything is characterized by an excess, an excess in the visual and the sonic, an excess in the group structures, and an excess in touring and expansion.