There’s a lot riding on the sensational K-pop group’s first album in four years, but its generic songs ring hollow and lack the vim and vigor of the band’s best work.
The most fascinating song on ARIRANG features little more than 98 seconds of silence. Named “No. 29” after South Korea’s 29th designated national treasure, it is a field recording of the Sacred Bell of King Seongdeok. Legend has it that the bell wouldn’t ring until a child was cast into the bronze; its sound is said to resemble an ancient word for “mom.”
BTS are a lot like this child, sacrificing themselves for their mother country. Stated less romantically, it is impossible to read about the boy band without hearing of their many record-setting accomplishments, their importance in propagating Korean soft power, and in broadcasting something uniquely and impressively Korean to the rest of the world. ARIRANG is the group’s first album in four years—a gap caused by mandatory military conscription—and coincides with a Netflix-streamed concert at Gwanghwamun Square. Even President Lee Jae Myung chimed in: “We hope it will be a meaningful time to share the beauty of our cultural heritage and the appeal of K-culture.”
Given all this, ARIRANG’s generic pop music does in some sense represent one facet of broader Korean culture: the desire for Western validation and global dominance. There are numerous non-Korean producers and singer-songwriters throughout the album, and while this isn’t something unusual for a K-pop release, there’s plenty of overlap with those who made JENNIE’s sleek solo debut Ruby, most notably Diplo. But these songs don’t sound the least bit assured, partly because their sonic elements recontextualize them in the world of Western rap (fashion-rap cornball Teezo Touchdown has credits, as does JPEGMAFIA). Mike WiLL Made-It offers a throwaway beat on “Aliens,” the production lumbering around as members rap and chant in routine fashion. “FYA” flirts with the idea of pop-rap Jersey club but is noxiously self-serious, its half-energetic verve deadened by its Auto-Tune slurry.
A lot of these early tracks on ARIRANG harken back to the group’s first rap songs, but one of the only successes here is “Hooligan,” setting a sweeping and chopped-up string arrangement against clashing swords. The beat’s contrasting elements befit the whiplash in vocal deliveries: RM gives off a cartoonish villain laugh while V and Jimin deliver soaring vocals. While BTS’s rapping usually incorporates a dated style of aggression and braggadocio, the fire in the delivery was often enough. Songs like “2.0” and “they don’t know ’bout us” instead sound sleepy, as if the members are just clocking in at the Biggest Band in the World factory. What remains in a lot of these tracks, then, are dazzling little ornaments. On “One More Night,” it’s the plinking Korg M1 synth melody that flits atop an anodyne beat with ’90s house flair. On “Into the Sun,” it’s the audaciousness of the vocoder-drenched vocals. On “No. 29,” it’s just the bell; a flourish with purpose.
The final two-thirds of ARIRANG are more pop-friendly but no less banal. Tame Impala’s Kevin Parker offers yet another diluted vision of psychedelic rock on “Merry Go Round,” everything loping around as a nondescript haze. “NORMAL” is a gauzy ballad whose hook is laughably clunky, its lyrics delivered with unearned pomp. Most damning is “Like Animals,” a pop-rock ballad that recalls the group’s best single, “Spring Day.” The major difference here is how the vocals lack pathos, the key element that elevates BTS’s songs beyond mid-level, market-tested pop production. Sometimes, all a song needs to do is make you believe in something—love, transcendence, yourself—but ARIRANG’s messages repeatedly ring hollow, like birthday emails from a mega corporation.
The only full-length song on ARIRANG that meaningfully grapples with its intended thematic concepts of Korean cultural identity is opener “Body to Body.” Atop rolling beats, RM asks fans to jump while Suga declares, “B-T-uh, from everywhere to Korea.” Its climactic bridge incorporates a moving rendition of “Arirang,” the country’s most famous traditional folk song. As clanging percussion and stirring vocal harmonies resound, their message is clear: Everyone’s looking at us, which means they’re looking at Korea.
But that message carries a weird, even depressing undertone. “Arirang” has long functioned as a polysemic anthem—of deep longing, collective resilience, even the reunification of North and South Korea. For an album this vacuous to wave “Arirang” as a banner of triumph makes any pride feel empty—an embrace of “good enough” as a national identity. With so much weight on their shoulders and money to be made, BTS could only crumble under the pressure. ARIRANG is the sound of their collapse.
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