Beyond K-Pop: Jennie's evolution

By David A. Tizzard

At the end of the 20th century, Talking Heads frontman David Byrne wrote a provocative piece titled, “I Hate World Music.” To be clear, he wasn’t talking about the genre (because world music isn’t a genre), he was talking about the music industry’s habit of lumping everything that wasn’t western into one pseudomusical catchall term.

For Byrne, the term world music operated as a containment strategy, a way of neutralizing difference by rendering it consumable -- exotic, yet ultimately irrelevant. It wasn’t just a label but an ideological mechanism, one that quarantines the non-Western Other into a realm of aestheticized safeness: colorful, curious, and ultimately subordinate to the hegemonic center of Anglo-American pop. In its very structure, world music affirmed Western dominance by defining everything that is not us as them — a vast, undifferentiated field of sonic otherness, conveniently compartmentalized for easy consumption without disruption.

This is how cultural hegemony sustains itself—not through outright exclusion, but through the careful orchestration of visibility. Music from outside the Anglo-Western orbit is allowed into the marketplace, but only under strict conditions: it must be authentic (a term whose definition is controlled by the West), it must conform to pre-existing fantasies of the primitive or the spiritual, and crucially, it must not look too much like us. But if the Other is no longer exotic, no longer quaint, then what remains to justify the West’s continued dominance?

In an effort to reflect changing sensibilities, both The Grammys and The Oscars eventually changed the names of their categories: The former from best world music album category to best global music album; the latter from Best Foreign Language Film category to Best International Feature Film. Many laughed at these changes as they didn’t really achieve much beyond a linguistic slight of hand. That’s because capitalism excels at rebranding its contradictions rather than resolving them. Institutions and corporations, desperate to appear progressive while maintaining the same extractive logic, engage in an endless cycle of linguistic reframing — what Steven Pinker calls the euphemism treadmill. Structural exploitation doesn’t disappear; it simply adopts a new name. Workers aren’t underpaid anymore; they’re part of the gig economy. Companies don’t fire employees; they engage in rightsizing. Oil giants don’t pollute; they engage in sustainable initiatives. The illusion of change is enough to deflect scrutiny, to allow business as usual to continue under the comforting glow of sensitivity. The same exploitative conditions persist, but now they come packaged in language that soothes rather than provokes.

K-Pop as other

Jennie has made some absolute bangers recently. And she’s not just collaborating with global stars — she’s standing on the same level as them in artistry, appeal and influence. This is not like teaming up with Coldplay to do a commercial for the Olympics or something. This is going to the heart of popular culture, to those respected in the industry, building both bridges and vibes. Her recent collab with Doechii is a perfect example. Their track "ExtraL" isn’t just a partnership — it’s a statement. Both artists benefit, pushing each other higher.

But while some of the world’s most respected media outlets will continually call Jennie (and other artists like GD) K-pop stars, continually reinforcing this label, the actual reality of what is happening is far different.

First, K-pop isn’t a genre — it’s a designation, a branding mechanism that consolidates disparate musical styles under a single marketable label. It’s also a process – an industry that packages idols and sells them to women while creating parasocial relationships. Like world music before it, K-pop functions less as a meaningful category and more as a way of othering — flattening a complex, trend-responsive industry into an exoticized spectacle for global consumption. In 2024, we heard the following: IVE’s “Blueheart” was jump-up drum and bass while their track “All Night” was stutter house, RM’s “Heaven” was neo-psychedelia, Jimin’s “Be Mine” was flamenco nuevo, Kep1er’s “Tipi Tap” was U.K. garage and, like TXT’s “I’ll See You There Tomorrow” and YVES’ “Loop,” “Sync Love” was deep tech. Fidget House was used by Hwasa for her track “Na”; Aespa’s “Whiplash” was tech house. Phonk, a subgenre of hiphop became popular in tracks like Enhyphen’s “Teeth,” Le Sserafim’s “Crazy,” and Badvillian’s “Zoom.” Seventeen even used “Psytrance for their track Maestro.” They are the genres. K-pop is the package. They are called K-pop because they come from a certain part of the world and are generally made utilizing a certain process. However, in music terms, K-pop doesn’t really exist. It’s a blank canvas on which all these other genres are placed to move the product.

So rather than being recognized as part of the same fluid, transnational pop ecosystem as its Western counterparts, K-pop remains marked as foreign, an object of fascination rather than full participation. And this is the paradox of K-pop’s global success: it proves the permeability of cultural boundaries while simultaneously reinforcing them. The West does not call its own pop industry “A-pop” or “E-pop” (a lot of Chinese people call it that though!) because its hegemony allows it to remain unmarked, the default. K-pop, then, operates as both proof of Korean pop culture’s hyper-modernity and a reminder that it is still seen as not quite pop, not quite us.

Beyond the "K"

For years, Jennie was the face of K-pop. Blackpink shattered records, sold out arenas, and performed at Coachella. She was an idol — carefully crafted by an entertainment company to be marketable and accessible.

But now she’s proving that an idol can transcend the "K-pop" label and become an artist. No longer just a product of an industry; a global musician. And that shift might actually be a good thing for Korea. She’s not just successful in her niche; she’s successful, period.

This shift could redefine how some Korean artists are seen. Instead of being labeled as "K-pop" stars, they can simply be pop stars. No extra tag needed. And that’s not a loss — it’s progress. It means Korean music is being judged not as a separate category but as part of the same global conversation. Obviously those with vested interests in Hallyu as a brand and concept will be disappointed. But the term itself feels tired and the whole Korean Wave idea is pretty cliché now. It’s at least a decade old or something. No-one’s surprised by it anymore. The country and culture has been analyzed and done to death. All the mystery and freshness that came with the K has been lost.

And Jennie and G-Dragon are leading the way. No longer just idols. No longer just K-pop. Just artists, making music that stands on its own. And listening to tracks like “ExtraL,” “Zen,” “like Jennie,” and “Handlebars,” you realize that with the complete absence of Korean lyrics, with all the swearing, the collabs with Dua Lipa and Doechii, if it were anyone else doing this, it wouldn’t be called K-pop. And it probably shouldn’t be.

David A. Tizzard has a doctorate in Korean Studies and lectures at Seoul Women's University and Hanyang University. He is a social-cultural commentator and musician who has lived in Korea for nearly two decades. He is also the host of the "Korea Deconstructed" podcast, which can be found online. He can be reached at [email protected].