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Boba and Ashley from the documentary K-Polys (Image: K-Polys)
Boba and Ashley from the documentary K-Polys (Image: K-Polys)

Pop CultureMarch 21, 2024

Pacific people and the allure of K-Pop

Boba and Ashley from the documentary K-Polys (Image: K-Polys)
Boba and Ashley from the documentary K-Polys (Image: K-Polys)

Korean pop music and Pacific cultures may not sound like an instant match, but they’re both all about community.

Well over a decade ago, a few of my Pacific friends told me they were going to teach in South Korea. At the time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world given their interest in Asian cultures. What also seemed natural was our shared love for K-Pop. We were all in Ōtautahi Christchurch and attended or worked at the University of Canterbury which is where my love for K-Pop really grew.

You might be thinking a couple of things. 1) There are Pacific K-Pop fans? And 2) in Christchurch? Really? 

Both are valid observations but hear me out – there are certain phenomena occurring beneath the surface/on the edges/in the margins/between the lines that largely go unnoticed until something big happens that thrusts them into the spotlight. One such phenomena was a dedicated K-Pop fan base in Aotearoa and that ‘”something big” for K-Pop was probably PSY’s 2012 hit ‘Gangnam Style’

But while it’s tempting to attribute much of K-Pop’s current popularity to the forces of globalisation and consumer capitalism (all that serious stuff), a deeper dive would reveal a more nuanced picture. Such a picture might include recognising South Korea’s rapid development over the past 70 years, and the government’s investment into the country’s creative industries in the 1990s, which laid the foundations for K-Pop as we know it today. 

Then we have other parts of the picture – Seo Taiji and Boys, the “Big 3” entertainment companies, the different generations of K-Pop (FYI we’re in the 4th generation now #iloveNewjeans), the role of digital technologies in disseminating popular culture,  the scandals (there’s always a dark side) and of course, the fans.

The Hallyu Wave, which is the term given to the increasing popularity of Korean culture around the world, began in the early 2000s when a k-drama, Winter Sonata, became super popular in Japan. The Hallyu Wave is recognised as having first diffused regionally to Japan and China, then to Southeast Asia before spreading to the rest of the world. While earlier iterations of the Wave were industry-driven, this current iteration is more fan-driven.

How do we fit into all of this though? Given our geographical distance from South Korea, you’d think that K-Pop got here much later in comparison to places like the Philippines or Vietnam. However, those underground flows of Korean popular culture reached our shores sooner than you might have expected. And this is due to a combination of several factors, namely strong relations between the Republic of Korea and New Zealand (diplomatic, historical, trade and so forth), New Zealanders teaching English or working in South Korea, people to people linkages ie. Koreans migrating to Aotearoa, Korean exchange students and earlier flows of culture from Asia. 

Those earlier flows of culture are not only limited to anime being part of our cartoon diet in the 90s (RIP Akira Toriyama), those classmates in intermediate who were huge J-POP fans or your gamer brothers. In my research, which looks at Pacific K-Pop fans in Aotearoa, other instances of consumption and engagement enabled exposure to Asian popular culture early on. Anecdotally, I know that many Pacific peoples watched martial arts movies, Filipino dramas, and Bollywood cinema – and even in the islands, from as early as the 1970s! (I feel like I’ve vicariously watched Gulong ng Palad and Sa Piling Mo through friends and extended family lol.)

Ashley teaches K-Pop dance in Tāmaki Makaurau and features in the documentary K-Polys (Image: K-Polys)

It might seem like I’m reaching a bit but it’s necessary to mention these points as they help us to better understand why Pacific peoples gravitate towards K-Pop. It also adds context to the oft-mentioned familiarity of sound as an entry point into the genre. As a lot of K-Pop music was influenced by hip-hop and R&B, the songs sounded familiar to many Pacific fans thus generating further interest (it was this plus the dancing!). 

Seen in isolation, you might connect this to fans calling out the industry on issues of cultural appropriation in recent years. And while this highlights just how global and fan-driven the Hallyu Wave has become (which is a good thing in these instances), it does miss the importance of positioning when looking at the cultural phenomenon, particularly at the local level. 

Amongst the Pacific K-Pop fans I’ve talked to over the years, there was a distinct awareness of cultural positioning and self-reflexivity in relation to their love of the music. It’s the awareness that as part of migrant, minority, diasporic communities in an increasingly multicultural Aotearoa, they were choosing to intentionally invest in and engage with a non-mainstream, “non-Western” form of popular culture. And though their reasons were personal, in that multifaceted engagement lay the potential to expand notions and understandings of culture and identity expression.

Boba dances K-Pop at Freyberg Square (Image: K-Polys)

What makes this awareness unique is that it is both individual and collective. Individual in the sense that K-Pop is still disseminated and consumed online, facilitating a hyper-personalised fan experience; and collective as it pertains to Pacific ways of being and engaging.

And so we return to Ōtautahi. Despite the city not having critical mass in terms of Asian or Pacific population numbers and exposure to Asian culture, digital technologies meant that K-Pop still gained a following there and in some of our smaller regions. 

Recent research from the Asia New Zealand Foundation Te Whītau Tūhono has found that after Asian New Zealanders, Pacific peoples are the most frequent consumers of Asia-related entertainment. It’s great to see this long-term engagement coming to the surface but the bigger picture of course is that it’s more than just the entertainment. There is a notable rise in the popularity of Korean culture overall as well (food places, language classes, Korean festivals and so on). And the K-Pop fan scenes you might encounter today in Tāmaki Makaurau, whether in Freyberg Square, Ōtara Youth Club or various tertiary hubs, shows that more than active consumers, Pacific K-Pop fans are active creators too, especially of spaces for engagement.

These spaces – such as Project:Legacy, KDA, NZ BTS ARMY, NZ KPOP FANS – currently have or have had Pacific and Māori K-Pop fans at their helm. Notwithstanding individual, diverse lived experiences, it seems a happy convergence that the creation of community and community spaces speaks mutually to the K-Pop fan experience as a whole and to the relational, collective character of Pacific cultures. 

Though they’ll continue to evolve with the times (and K-Pop generations), I’d like to think that the spirit of that initial conversation that as fans we’re all too familiar with  – “oh my gosh you like K-Pop too??! I love that artist/song/dance!” – will always permeate these spaces, making them safe and nurturing for anyone who happens to give K-Pop a chance.

K-POLYS, a one-off documentary, presents intimate portraits of three Pacific K-pop fans. Directed by Litia Tuiburelevu and made with the support of NZ On Air.

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a man with brown hair and blue jacket gazing into the distance
Scott Silven is still delighted when his tricks work (Image: Supplied/Shanti Mathias)

Pop CultureMarch 21, 2024

At the illusion show, everyone wants to believe

a man with brown hair and blue jacket gazing into the distance
Scott Silven is still delighted when his tricks work (Image: Supplied/Shanti Mathias)

Mentalist, illusionist and performing magician Scott Silven says that he cares about storytelling and connecting to audiences. The thing is, it kind of works – even if you’re a jaded, panicked, uninspired journalist.

It is 9:30 am in the morning and Scott Silven has just asked me to think of a piece of art or media that inspires me. Unfortunately, my mind is completely blank. No thoughts, head empty. It’s a high stakes question, because he wants to read my mind. 

The renowned mentalist, here for the Auckland Arts Festival, is dressed entirely in black: chunky loafers, a v-neck shirt with an unsubtle Prada decal, a textured jacket. He arrived in Aotearoa last night and doesn’t seem even remotely jet lagged. I prepared for this interview last night but I didn’t know I was supposed to be inspired.

“Perhaps it’s a piece of music?” he suggests. Does my face look panicked? Is this how he reads minds, because he is good at interpreting people’s faces? Piece of music, piece of music – Beethoven? But I can’t remember the name of the song he dedicated to his blind student… suddenly the flotsam of my brain turns up the band A-ha; I read an article about the Norwegian band yesterday, because their lead singer Morten Harket has been involved in the push for electric cars in Norway. Out of the hundreds of works of art I’ve consumed, I guess I’m going to go with this one. 

I don’t have time to think about it, because Silven is getting me to Google the release date of the song (‘Take On Me’) on my phone so I can keep it fixed in my mind during the interview. At the end, he’s going to try to guess what I’m thinking of. 

a man with floppy bron hear and the misty scottish mountains behind
What are you thinking? Mentallist Scott Silven wants you to connect with yourself in his show. (Image: supplied via Auckland Arts Festival)

Silven calls himself a mentalist. “Traditional magic involves putting people in boxes and strange things happening on stage, my work doesn’t involve any of that – instead of tricking people’s eyes, I work with people’s minds.” To the general public, these distinctions between branches of magic performance are innocuous: in essence, it just means that these are not flashy, leaping through fire, women in shiny dresses being cut in half kinds of tricks, but something more subtle. “There’s no smoke and mirrors in Wonders,” Silven says, referring to his show that is on until the end of the week as part of the Auckland Arts Festival. He laughs. “Well, there is quite a lot of smoke.” 

This is definitely easy to prove: a few days later at Skycity Theatre, where Wonders is being performed, the room is filled with blue-tinged smoke. Silven walks in from the audience, speaking quickly in his smooth, soft Scottish accent. The set is theoretically based on his grandparents’ attic, his childhood secret place, where he would spend hours looking at the mountains out the window, waiting for it to get dark. Mountains, stars and the moon are a recurring motif in the show: at times the audience is invited to close their eyes and think of moments in their childhood. “I wanted to share the story of my childhood in Scotland and then mirror that with the audience’s experience,” Silven says, snapping his fingers – a move he deploys throughout both our conversation at my workplace and his stage show. 

Watching the show, I’m not entirely convinced about the narrative. The story is vague, filled with evocative objects (an hourglass, a dictionary, a necklace) but devoid of personal details. I can’t read minds so throughout the show some of my wondering is personal: what did it really feel like to be a child in Scotland who was obsessed with magic? How does it feel to be an adult now, performing to thousands of people? 

scott silven wearing a tailored blazer sitting on an armchair in a fancy looking house
Silven says that mentalism is a different, more intimate skill than flashy magic (Image: supplied)

Magicians don’t reveal their secrets, though: what I am convinced of is that Silven works very hard. “I do four or five hundred shows a year,” he says. “I don’t really like the showmanship – standing on the stage speaking about how amazing the things I’m doing are is my least favourite part. But I like getting the audience to come with me.” He’s been performing wonders since before the pandemic, as well as another show that features magic tricks and a three course meal, with a smaller audience. 

If he ever goes to a show with interactivity himself, Silven will be slouching his shoulders in the back of the room, trying not to make eye contact. “I really hate interactivity in shows!” He says – he’s more inspired by film artists, like David Lynch and Alfred Hitchcock. He’s perceptive enough to pick up on when an audience member doesn’t want to be called on, and no-one he beckons on stage looks grumpy or reluctant – nor do they seem planted, thanks to the random methods he uses to select people, like getting people to throw balls. “I’m a huge sceptic, but the hope is that when you get into the flow of the show, it’s about this collective journey.” 

There’s definitely something to this: because so many audience members are part of the show, and everyone has a task to do, whether it’s distributing shreds of paper or collecting drawings, I definitely felt more connected to my fellow audience members than I do at most theatre productions, even if it was just through a sheepish smile to the woman next to me as she passed me a card with an inspiring word written on it.

a guy in a white shirt and dark coat and jeans sanding on a shiny silver cube in a theortically scottish misty valley with his reflection beneath him
Theoretically inspired by the wilds of Scotland, Silven’s narrative is hard to identify, but there are tricks aplenty (Image: supplied)

But maybe this is beside the point: does the mentalism actually work? While not as flashy as other magic shows, people come to a mentalism performance to be amazed. Without excessive spoilers, perhaps the most delightful moment of the performance I watch is when Silven tries to guess a word in the mind of a teenage volunteer. At this point in the show, there’s something of a rhythm: audience member thinks of something, Silven writes it down and calls it out.

But this time, he gets it wrong – or does he? The trick is slightly more complicated than just a word on a piece of paper. The audience member does the whole jaw-dropped, hand-clapped-over-mouth thing when the word she was thinking of is revealed, and it’s difficult to resist that excitement. Even Silven looks gleeful. “People often say I get very excited on stage but when things work, I’m so thrilled that the audience made it work.” 

He admits that “the story I’m telling on stage and everything you see might not be entirely true.” Silven appreciates that magic is something that has always drawn people in, and cites the recent increase in astrology and tarot as proof that people are drawn to mystery and the inexplicable. “In the skills that I do, I know the secrets of psychics,” he says. 

Despite spending years of my life voraciously gulping down fantasy novels, I think I’m a sceptic too, but I know that Silven’s abilities don’t just work when he has the smoke and spotlights of the theatre. At the end of our conversation, Silven asks me to look deep into his eyes, and focus on the song I chose, my palms resting on his. 

three retro lookin' boyband members, chiselled, tousled hair, moody smoulder, the whole shebang
The contents of this journalists brain when asked for inspiration: A-ha circa 1985: from left, Pål Waaktaar, Magne ‘Mags’ Furuholmen, Morten Harket

I suddenly feel worried: what if this world renowned magician gets it wrong, with my recorder on and everything? I don’t believe that he can really look into my mind, but how could he guess a song I picked at random on a Friday morning? “Does the piece of music have … it has three words, doesn’t it?” he says gleefully. “I’m just going to go through the letters of the alphabet here.” It’s strangely intimate staring into the eyes of a stranger, wanting and not wanting him to guess what I’m thinking about.

I’m trying to focus on the words of ‘Take On Me’ (there’s not that much to them after all) but simultaneously panicking: what will I do when he gets to the letter T? Do I want to somehow give him a clue? In my stress, certain my hands are sweating, my fingers twitch when Silven gets to Q. 

I have no idea what my eyes do, but somehow Silven is onto it. “It’s a T, isn’t it!” he crows, grinning. “I’m thinking this is synth – it’s ‘Take On Me’ by a-ha! I love that song, it’s still such a banger.” In the recording, my voice is slower, confused but happy. “Yes, that’s amazing,” I say. 

“You come to a theatre and you know it’s artifice, and you know it’s not real, but it’s an experience – it’s about how it makes you feel,” Silven says. Part of why hypnosis and mentalism work is that the audience wants to see it work: I’m sure I participated in this in some way, but I am nonetheless completely impressed. Afterwards I search through the transcript of our interview in case I said “take on me” as a Freudian slip, but I didn’t.

Just by talking to Silven and going to his show, I found myself a little more willing than usual to be amazed. It doesn’t really matter what’s real, or how it’s done: preparing yourself to be delighted is its own kind of magic.

Wonders is showing until Sunday, March 24 at Skycity Theatre

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