K-pop has never been bigger. High schoolers across the world trade photo-cards of their favorite stars like currency, Mexico has a K-pop telenovela, and hopefuls line up for auditions in India.
But for all the billions of dollars in sales and the soft power the industry generates for South Korea, K-pop remains dogged by complaints of physical, emotional and financial abuse.
The root of the problem, former K-pop stars and industry insiders say, is K-pop’s economic model. Every year, hundreds of aspiring stars, some barely in their teens, sign up as trainees with record companies, which pay upfront for singing and dancing lessons, housing, food and plastic surgery. But only a tiny fraction of those performers end up turning a profit for the labels.
In effect, the labels operate like high-risk investment funds: A breakout act pays for dozens of failed bets. So the companies seek tremendous control over artists and use highly restrictive contracts. This can also be true, as The Times reported this week, in the case of superstars like NewJeans.
“Korean music artists oftentimes enter into contract situations where they feel less like business partners and more like corporate assets or, worst-case scenario, like meat puppets,” said Bernie Cho, a former MTV Korea executive.
Giving artists more leeway is a nonstarter for labels, industry insiders say, because that could upend the K-pop business. This model existed in the United States but has largely faded away.
Punitive Contracts
Record companies can spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to develop and launch a so-called K-pop idol group, South Korean government data show. To make the investment pay off, labels ask artists to sign contracts that manage nearly every detail of a performer’s life. For instance:
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Contracts typically last seven years and include punishing penalties if the artist wants to leave early. An exit clause was written into the NewJeans contracts, and it included steep fees.
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Stars need to maintain a squeaky clean image. K-pop sells an illusion of perfection and intimate access to fans. A scandal, weight gain or a dating rumor can tank an idol’s value overnight.
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Companies manage their artists’ time, health and bodies to keep them performing, posing for magazine covers and selling the latest face cream because tours and brand deals are often more lucrative than the music itself. Hybe, the label behind BTS and NewJeans, has an in-house clinic.
The industry has defended the contract terms.
“Compared to the amount of investments made by companies, K-pop contracts seem fair,” said Yun Sunmi, a former marketer at JYP Entertainment, one of the biggest K-pop companies.
But former trainees and idols say the restrictions take a heavy emotional, physical and financial toll.
Jain Ros had just become a teenager when she started training, eventually joining the group Brave Girls. For over a decade, she said, her life was governed by surveillance cameras, confiscated phones and mandatory curfews. She survived on near-starvation diets while performing up to six times a day, relying on IV drips at clinics to recover from exhaustion.
“It was simply not an environment where a human being could live,” she said.
When the artist Grazy Grace attempted to quit her label in 2017, the company demanded $300,000 under a penalty clause requiring her to pay three times its investment, according to the artist and documents reviewed by The Times. Though a judge later cut the damages to $15,000, Ms. Grace was barred from television and prevented from releasing music throughout the dispute.
What Are the Authorities Doing?
The South Korean government has sought changes. In 2009, after a boy band sued its label over 13-year deals, known as “slave contracts,” the authorities created a standard contract template capping terms at seven years.
On paper, the move looked like progress. In practice, the template is voluntary. Most labels say they use it, but government surveys show that most rewrite the terms, particularly the provisions on profit splits, content rights and exit penalties.
Performers are classified as independent contractors, not employees, and they are not covered by South Korea’s strong labor laws on minimum wage, working hours and harassment.
In a statement, the Culture Ministry said that contract terms were private matters settled by performers “based on their own free will.” The ministry offers perks to labels that appoint youth protection officers. But those that ignore the rules face no fines and no penalties.
The government has little financial reason to crack down. K-pop album exports hit a record $301.7 million last year, and the industry fuels sales for Korean beauty, fashion, food and tourism.
Last year, Bang Min-su, a former K-pop star, tried to form South Korea’s first union for performers to guarantee basic pay and to end trainee debt. The effort failed, he said, because politicians had different agendas and other stars stayed quiet.
Mr. Bang quit the industry in 2023 and has since worked odd jobs, including at McDonald’s.
“Why is K-pop a place where we expect teenagers to live on passion alone while their lives are systematically ruined?” he said.
Lee Jiyoun contributed reporting.
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