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Chinese performers dance to "Nobody" by Wonder Girls in Shenyang, China, in 2010. Courtesy of Jon Dunbar |
By Jon Dunbar
One of the appeals of visiting North Korea is the chance to escape a lot of the trappings of modern society. We leave behind a world of advertising, of colorless high-rise complexes, of hypercompetitive consumer capitalism. We say goodbye to our phones and sign off on social media; at least that was the case on my first visit in 2010. And we are not subjected to K-pop ― or so I had hoped.
As residents of Korea, K-pop is foisted on us against our will all over the place: in public, on mass media and all over the internet, reminding us that women should be simultaneously demure and sexy, beauty is everything and keep consuming. It is not pleasant for people who are immune to boy bands and girl groups dancing in unison. South Korea has been actively exporting idol groups in an effort to spread its soft power diplomacy. In those days, the big girl groups were Wonder Girls and Girls' Generation, and even people who hated K-pop could recognize their songs due to overexposure.
On our way to North Korea, first we had to spend a night in Shenyang, China. The hotel we booked that was recommended for us turned us away, saying "No foreigners." We found another one last-minute and spent the night there.
When we arrived at our hotel, the streets were quiet and dark. But in the morning, they came alive with activity. Near what I think was a department store we found a cluster of fast food restaurants, both domestic and foreign, including a McDonald's.
Out in the street was a very Chinese-looking red-lined stage, on which four women ― two in Chinese-style "qipao" mini dresses and two in silver bikini tops and miniskirts ― danced to an upbeat pop song.
And then I caught a couple of English words: "Nobody, nobody but you."
It was "Nobody" by the Wonder Girls, apparently a Chinese version of the original for the local market.
"Aargh," I thought, "even in China I can't escape this damn song."
It made me more eager to reach North Korea, where surely I could finally escape the omnipresent drone of K-pop.
We caught a taxi to the airport, one in which the right passenger door didn't shut and we had to hold it closed, anxious to be out of China and back in Korea ― any Korea. I liked the idea of leaving behind K-pop for a week.
But it was not to be. After landing in Pyongyang, we were brought to the Yanggakdo Hotel, located on an island in the middle of the Taedong River. This was the only place we had a relatively free run of on the entire tour. It had shops and various entertainment facilities, plus a brewpub in the lobby. The basement was divided into two sides ― a Korean side that had bowling, billiards and a disturbingly low ceiling, and a Chinese side with a casino.
Most nights there were spent in that brewpub. Once, on a trip to the washroom, I passed by the stairs leading down to the casino. An energetic pop song blared up at me, and I heard those lyrics, again, "Nobody, nobody but you."
There was no escape. Even in North Korea, I was exposed against my will to K-pop.
Granted, a casino serving mainly Chinese tourists, located in the basement of a tourist hotel on an island secluded in the middle of a river might not be the sort of place where the general North Korean population will be exposed to K-pop. And it's doubtful any of the sizeable budget set aside for pushing South Korean pop culture globally (amounting to 319 billion won in 2013) was earmarked for ensuring the transmission of K-pop songs in North Korea.
But I took it as an implicit threat from the K-pop industry, that it can get to you no matter what country you are in.