On Sunday night, the line to get into Bill Graham Civic Auditorium stretched across the street, and wrapped around the perimeter of Civic Center Plaza.
“This line is outrageous,” a Civic Center district employee told me as he observed the hundreds of teen boys in Lakers jerseys, parents chaperoning their eager kids, and packs of largely Asian friend groups around him. The crowd was there to see the five-member K-pop girl group Le Sserafim, and everyone was ready for action.
A venue worker named Phil told me about a VIP concertgoer who got to the venue too late and missed a key perk: seeing the group’s soundcheck.
“One girl was denied by production,” he told me. “She squatted down and cried for a few minutes. She paid, at least, $1,000 but she was denied.”
This made sense. Obsessiveness is built into K-pop fandom; shelling out insane amounts of money and time to celebrate one’s favorite acts is the literal price of entry.
Le Sserafim, named after the divine entity but spelled as an anagram of “I’m fearless,” are perfect avatars of aspiration and adoration. They project impervious cool and a little bit of sex appeal. The members — Sakura, Yunjin, Eunchae, Chaewon, and Kazuha — played a packed Coachella last year and, for this tour, sold out five cities across Asia. Their fans, known as Fearnots, were baffled that they were playing the modestly-sized Bill Graham (where tickets sold out in minutes) for their first-ever San Francisco outing when they could have easily sold out Oracle Park.
“San Francisco is such an Asian bubble,” said 29-year-old Selena Chen. She paid an extra $20 to join the Le Sserafim fanclub, which granted her an extra-early presale access. (Chen’s favorite? The fan-favorite Chaewon, whose name was plastered on jerseys and T-shirts all over the venue.)
“People are more activated here than with Western acts,” said Olivia Taylor, who made a two-hour trek to Bill Graham from Davis.
I have to imagine they got their money’s worth: Over two-and-a-half hours long with twenty-five songs in total. The girls went into ten-song stretches with full choreography, and live singing, and only 20 minutes of cumulative break time. They flitted between ballet and tutting, belting and sultry raps, reggaeton to Jersey club music. They were everything for everyone, and they largely succeeded. Even one of their mid-show breaks was staggered: Two girls would run into the back to prepare for the next leg of the show, while the other girls did crowd work and banter; and vice versa.
“We’ve been going nonstop,” Kazuha, the group’s maknae, or youngest member, said. “Are you feeling good?”
The audience was locked in, gleefully cheering and barking — except for one moment. Yunjin, halfway into the set, said, “San Francisco streets are so beautiful.” She was met with a round of joke-y chiding. “You’re lying!” someone cackled behind me.
The K-pop contract, at its core, is simple: Fans want to see their idols giving themselves to their work.
“The energy and the music and the performances, seeing how much they gotta go through for each song,” said Fernando, a 22-year-old recent convert who drove alone from the Sacramento area for this show, as he drew a sign to hold up during the show. He paid resale prices to see the girls, specifically his bias, Yunjin.
Idols give their lives to their fans, but they want their bodies, too: fan service and pitch-perfect vocals and tack-sharp dancing. Effortlessness is nice, but we want to see our idols sweat. In exchange, fans will devote themselves to their favorites, pay any amount for tickets and merchandise, brave in any line, holler and bark and woop until their throats give out. This exchange is what fans are looking for.
When Le Sserafim played Coachella last year, their performance — good by most measures but with a few vocal snags — was critiqued so roundly by fans and antis alike that it led to headlines in South Korea and a monthslong hate campaign. You have to wonder if they hedged their bets on a smaller venue for this reason.
“We do a part of it and then the audience does a part of it," explained Yunjin toward the end of their set. “And it’s our job to make sure everyone in the space has a good time.”
The specter of the post-Coachella criticism still lingers, even at Bill Graham where you could feel the girls exert themselves up to the end. Sweat and glitter glimmered on the girls’ faces as they dove into their set. The song they wanted the crowd to chant in complete unison to was called “Fire in the Belly.” Call it their MO. The first time they sipped water onstage was about 45 minutes before the show ended. At the two-hour mark, at the end of “Antifragile,” the girls collapsed on the floor as bursts of confetti rained down.
By the end of the show, when it’s customary for group members to say a few words each, their comments had an air of melancholy. Usually, groups will offer sweet truisms thanking the crowd, assuring they’ll remember this night forever. Not Sunday, though. Even the fearless get scared.
“We spend most of our time practicing and preparing for our performances but not really performing,” said Sakura, via a translator. “So, sometimes I do feel a lot of doubt about if what I’m doing is right.”
She must be doing something right: Her statement of vulnerability received some of the loudest applause of the night.
