Nonetheless, the culture industry does not emerge from the masses and, in fact, encourages the masses to adapt to the ‘banal’ entertainment they present until they get used to it. Without high audience expectations, the industry does not have to work very hard. Despite making millions per film, the superhero film company Marvel comes under fire each release for poor VFX quality and reportedly pays its workers 20% less than other production companies (Vulture). Adorno expands in his essay that under late capitalism, the culture industry is the opposite of culture: it is not art; it is the systemic production of a cultural product. These products are thus infected with a ‘sameness’ that flattens audience sensibilities and pacifies the viewer. Kracauer believes that such banal entertainment is a coping mechanism for the worker and, therefore, doesn’t necessarily encourage deep critical thinking. It doesn’t take more than 3 Blackpink songs to recognise their unique but repetitive formula that draws a line through all their music. From its structure to its lyrics, Blackpink’s music has a manufactured sameness that works hard to excite the viewer and gain commercial success; in doing so, it does little to even feign an interest in artistry. 

           When examined through the 21st-century phenomenon of K-pop, the idea that industry must adapt to the masses to flourish starts to flounder. This idea is undermined starkly when one considers the popularity of K-pop, which does not seek to hide its manufactured, machine-made quality. One element which exemplifies this fact is its distinctive preparation process, where individuals as young as 8 years old are chosen to partake in a ‘trainee program’ over the span of an undefined number of years where they will be trained, militarily and rigorously, to become idols, with no actual promise of them successfully emerging into the industry afterwards. For those who are chosen, these idols are meticulously selected to debut in groups and often start their careers at the age of 14 to 21 (rarely older), during which time they live in one shared apartment to promote ‘cooperation’ and work up to 20 hours a day perfecting their music. Learning about this arrangement, much less seeing it showcased, should undoubtedly result in a sense of horror–– for the creative aspect of the music-making process has transformed into something akin to a labour chain or military enlistment. Nonetheless, these K-pop companies flaunt this process openly because the degradation of art into a commodity is something people have become so used to, perhaps because their tastes have been flattened. The industries “raise distraction to the level of culture; they are aimed at the masses” (Kracauer, 92). The dubiousness of art being a mere distraction is nullified since its commodification exists so palpably in all other aspects of culture that it seems standard for this music to be created the same way cars are. 

           This desensitization is amplified in DDU-DU DDU-DU, as the lyrics make little sense, and the song in totality lacks a semblance of artistic unity –– Whether you like me or hate me or whatever anyone says / When the bass drop, it’s another banger. The music video itself is, as Kracauer put it, “elegant surface splendour” (91). Every shot is astutely beautiful, with a stark contrast of colour that forms a larger palette which fits the feel of the song and works to make the girls look better. Yet, if one is able to ignore the overwhelming enchantment (with difficulty), one may notice that there is no rhyme nor reason for any of the shots–– except that they work together to look effortlessly good. Akin to the seamless ‘invisible style’ of Hollywood’s classical era, K-pop’s elements, from its videos to its stars, reflect an effortlessness that compels the viewer to ignore the labour put behind it. There isn’t a narrative nor a visual trajectory, but simply hollow, empty studio sets painted pink and black before which the girls sing along to the music on podiums in gorgeous outfits. During the chorus, they stand on a disembodied, floating grey stage in front of a blank background, and we never know why they are there, or why they are floating, or what any of it means. It is there, and nobody questions it because there is a mutual understanding between both the producers and the consumers that this is a simple, surface-level attraction that serves the rudimentary purpose of rousing the viewer. To expect more from the genre or from an industry driven by the motive of profit rather than creating art would be essentially worthless; it would also mean the viewer rids oneself of the complacency adopted after years of consuming banal entertainment. The consumers, therefore, adapt to what they are given and don’t ask too many questions.

           It is so easy to fall into this “cult of distraction” that, admittedly, I still find myself in it; when rewatching Blackpink’s video critically, I couldn’t help but feel both envy and awe at the production in front of me, viewing it less as a unified artistic entity but more as the commodity that it is. Does it bother me that what I’m viewing has been perfectly constructed by a corporation aiming to foster my feelings of enthralment? Not necessarily, because from a young age, I have accepted that fact as implicit in the genre of pop music. Popular music, meant for the masses, doesn’t need to be artistically ‘good’ to be culturally relevant. Through Billboard’s top 100 charts, Spotify streams, and TikTok popularity, modern pop music is judged by the masses through its numeric, rather than artistic, value. K-pop fans take this to an extreme with mass streaming parties and mass album purchases aimed at boosting their favourite artist to the top of these arbitrary lists. Undoubtedly, this benefits nobody but the music conglomerates. They encourage this cultic fanaticism by selling fan magazines and photocards, implementing a ‘no dating’ policy upon their idols, and promising fans a possible one-on-one call with their favourite idols by purchasing an album. Naturally, this results in mass purchases and thus, the line between the idol and their product is blurred. Thus, the quality of their music matters less than its possible impact on the cultural zeitgeist, monetarily and otherwise. It’s purpose is to be popular. The fabrication of art as a commodity is manifest in K-pop; we recognise its manufactured quality because it is put on display. Yet, we ignore it because we have inherently accepted its role in our world as mindless entertainment. We stand with our knees deep in the modern cult of distraction and accept what’s given to us; we eat the reheated flesh.