K-pop fan Kim Na-yeon used to buy stacks of the same album when there was a new release, hoping to find one of the rare selfies of her favorite stars tucked between the plastic covers.
Over the years, her burgeoning CD collection expanded to every inch of her shelves, prompting her to question its impact on the environment.
“These things are made from materials that are really difficult to recycle,” Kim said. “That got me thinking about how much carbon must be emitted to produce or get rid of them.”
Photo: AFP
Kim’s collection is part of a growing mountain of discarded CDs and merchandise waste that has swelled alongside K-pop’s global popularity.
Made with polycarbonate, CDs can be recycled but only through a special treatment process that prevents toxic gases from being released into the environment. Along with the plastic packaging, producing a CD generates about 500 grams of carbon emissions, according to an environmental impact study by Britain’s Keele University.
Based on that calculation, the weekly sales of a single top K-pop group could be “equivalent to the emissions from flying around the Earth 74 times,” said Kim.
The fan has joined a climate protection group called Kpop4Planet, which wants to hold the industry responsible for its impact on the environment.
‘MANIPULATION’
Started in 2020 by an Indonesian K-pop fan, the activist group has held protests outside the headquarters of music labels, urging them to stop “Plastic Album Sins.” The group has also collected signatures for petitions demanding a reduction in plastic production and other marketing schemes that fuel consumption as CD sales continue to rise significantly.
More than 115 million K-pop CDs were sold last year, the first time sales breached the 100 million mark for the industry.
It was a jump of 50 percent from the previous year, even though most fans are now streaming the music online rather than putting physical CDs into music players.
But K-pop fans continue to snap them up because they are attracted by the labels’ marketing ideas, Kim said.
Using promotions like offering limited edition “photocards” of the stars in the albums or a chance to win a video call with the idol, the music labels tempt fans to buy more CDs.
“So each album is basically a lottery ticket,” said K-pop fan Roza De Jong.
“The narrative is very much ‘the more you buy, the bigger your chance,’” she said, adding it was “common to see piles of plastic albums stacked on stairways and scattered across the streets of Seoul” after the buyers had picked through them for the promotional photo or ticket.
EXPLOITATIVE
Albums are also sometimes released with different covers.
“We call all of these (sales techniques) exploitative marketing,” said Kim, accusing the music labels of “manipulating” fans’ love for their artists.
HYBE, the agency behind megastars BTS, said the company has been putting effort into becoming climate friendly.
“As part of our environmental initiatives, we are using ecofriendly materials for our albums, video publications and official merchandise, minimizing plastics,” the entertainment powerhouse said, without offering greater specifics.
Industry figures suggest that album production skyrocketed during the pandemic, with experts saying that labels were looking to sales to make up for the lack of touring revenues.
While CD consumption is not limited to K-pop, activists say the South Korean industry has to play a part in cutting the waste.
Seventeen, a popular South Korean boyband, alone sold over 5.5 million copies of their album FML last year, setting the record for the highest-selling single album in K-pop history.
To discourage CD manufacturing and purchases, South Korea’s environment ministry began charging a penalty in 2003, but the tiny sums involved have had little effect in the face of the huge revenues generated by album sales.
Entertainment labels last year were charged approximately 2.0 billion won (US$143,000), said Yoon Hye-rin, deputy director of the ministry’s Resource Circulation Policy Division.
While taking aim at the labels, Kim said she would not boycott the artists.
“They aren’t the ones who know or decide the marketing schemes,” Kim said. “Every fan wants to see their artist thrive, so boycotting isn’t an option.”
Last week the government announced that by year’s end Taiwan will have the highest density of anti-ship missiles in the world. Its inventory could exceed 1,400, or enough for the opening two hours of an invasion from the People’s Republic of China (PRC). Snark aside, it sounds impressive. But an important piece is missing. Lost in all the “dialogues” and “debates” and “discussions” whose sole purpose is simply to dawdle and delay is what the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) alternative special defense budget proposal means for the defense of Taiwan. It is a betrayal of both Taiwan and the US. IT’S
March 16 to March 22 Hidden for decades behind junk-filled metal shacks, trees and overgrowth, a small domed structure bearing a Buddhist swastika resurfaced last June in a Taichung alley. It was soon identified as a remnant of the 122-year-old Gokokuzan Taichuu-ji (Taichung Temple, 護國山台中寺), which was thought to have been demolished in the 1980s. In addition, a stone stele dedicated to monk Hoshu Ono, who served as abbot from 1914 to 1930, was discovered in the detritus. The temple was established in 1903 as the local center for the Soto school
Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another” was crowned best picture at the 98th Academy Awards, handing Hollywood’s top honor to a comic, multi-generational American saga of political resistance. The ceremony Sunday, which also saw Michael B. Jordan win best actor and “Sinners” cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw make Oscar history as the first female director of photography to win the award, was a long-in-coming coronation for Anderson, a San Fernando Valley native who made his first short at age 18 and has been one of America’s most lionized filmmakers for decades. Before Sunday, Anderson had never won an Oscar. But “One Battle
In Kaohsiung’s Indigenous People’s Park (原住民主題公園), the dance group Push Hands is training. All its members are from Taiwan’s indigenous community, but their vibe is closer to that of a modern, urban hip-hop posse. MIXING CULTURES “The name Push Hands comes from the idea of pushing away tradition to expand our culture,” says Ljakuon (洪濬嚴), the 44-year-old founder and main teacher of the dance group. This is what makes Push Hands unique: while retaining their Aboriginal roots, and even reconnecting with them, they are adamant about doing something modern. Ljakuon started the group 20 years ago, initially with the sole intention of doing hip-hop dancing.
RSS