The Singles Jukebox

Not a Jocelyn cover — though there are parallels…

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Ryo Miyauchi: You can call “idols,” in particular the human exchanges and the parasocial relationships built around them, a lot of things. Using the words of Ai Hoshina from the manga-turned-anime Oshi no Ko, Ayase and Ikuta Lilas call it a lie. A performance would have neutralized, artifice would have made the critique more academic, and maybe fake would have softened the blow. A lie digs deep because it implies that I, the fan, am partly complicit in believing what I’m convinced to be true, whether or not I am aware of being sold to. And YOASOBI say the quiet parts fucking loud, starting from the most bombastic production they’ve made: a monstrous blast of brass, a blinding flash of synths, a trap-pop breakdown, and a gothic choir singing “you’re my savior, you’re my saving grace.“ But as “IDOL” places the onus also on the idol herself for knowingly selling a lie to her beloved fans, how could anyone resist buying into the spectacle? Ikuta embodies the superhuman ability of Ai Hoshina via her vocal performance: not only does she seamlessly maneuver through the trickiest melodies and a demanding production, she inspires in us the feeling that we can recreate the magic, too, as evident from the countless TikTok dance snippets and YouTube vocal covers uploaded this year. She fakes it until she makes it, fabricating her value before her reputation catches up to the level of work put in. But she also convinces herself this is how to love until her little fib starts to feel true. In a macabre, perfectly meta way, it’s the idol’s own dying words that give the song its most validating, emotionally moving moment, as she finally speaks her love into actual being: “I, I said it at last/I know it’s not a lie as I’m voicing these words/I love you.” I, for one, know all this is a lie, though it doesn’t make the feelings any less real.
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Crystal Leww: Structurally and sonically, “IDOL” borrows elements that I associate with the two major, somewhat external-facing Asian pop music scenes — the racing feeling and sweet vocal of J-pop and the cut-and-paste nature, especially second-verse half-time rap, of K-pop. It’s been fun to observe this cross over into both — on TikTok you can see not only J-pop idols covering the dance but a big contingent of K-pop idols doing the same. Ironically, all these idols are doing the little dance with a smile to a song about the dark side of the idol industry, which I guess is something that all idols from all countries can agree on after all.
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Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: There’s too much going on here! Which, frankly, I love. Every single second of “Idol” feels stuffed to the gills with sonic ideas, burning through riffs and hooks like they’ve got an infinite supply. Some of it is more familiar to YOASOBI’s earlier work (those mathy guitar-synth-piano passages, some of the more bombastic orchestral touches), while other parts feel more novel (those cadences on the verses call to mind J.I.D and Ski Mask; the “Heys” at the end are so very Mustard-coded; someone please tell me where those choral touches are drawn from). But it all comes together mostly by virtue of the raw power of juxtaposition. If you slowed this down and tried to dissect the individual parts of “Idol” I’m not sure it would all hang together, but why would you want to do that? The sick thrill of “Idol” — both in sound and in lyrical message — is in the rush and overwhelm of Big Pop Moments TM, of the joy of each individual detail as it wears you down in turn.
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Dorian Sinclair: Ayase is a hell of a writer and producer, and on “IDOL” he makes something that feels new for Yoasobi, even if he falls back on a few of his favourite tricks (that busy keyboard line does not feel meaningfully different from the one in “Yoru ni Kakeru” or a half-dozen songs since, even if there’s a lot more around it to distract you). But if there was any doubt that Lilas Ikuta is as essential, “IDOL” should conclusively lay that to rest. It’s two, or even three, unrelated songs that have been glued together, asking completely different things from the singer and doing little to ease the transition between sections. She navigates the transitions effortlessly, skipping between registers and delivery styles and making the whole thing cohere with her performance. The song’s about a fictional character, but it’s Ikuta’s coronation.
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Taylor Alatorre: “IDOL” serves as an interesting companion piece to another viral Japanese smash of 2023, “INTERNET YAMERO” from the game Needy Streamer Overload. Both tread similar thematic ground: the tyranny of the public image, the codependency of entertainer and audience, the desperate search for a “savior” or “angel” in the wreckage of a mediated age. The latter, however, due to its origin in an indie visual novel, is able to shed all concerns of good taste and indulge its most ear-piercing denpa fantasies, of the kind that would be unbecoming for the theme to a Doga Kobo anime. The constraints placed upon “IDOL”‘s composition may be necessary, and even beneficial to the franchise as a whole, but they are palpable throughout. It stretches against its need to serve as both a credible idol song and as a fashionably cynical take on idols, and as a portent of dark events to come — a tough mandate indeed. Even with all of its trap interludes, wotagei chanting, and Square Enix gospel choirs, Oshi no Ko‘s theme ends up sounding not all that different than any random OP on the MyAnimeList top 200. Which is to say, it still pretty much bangs.
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Katherine St Asaph: Blurbing Stray Kids’ “LALALALA” last month, I wrote: “I’m a complete mark for any pop song that sounds like its true spiritual home is on a Warcraft soundtrack.” Nothing has changed, nor will it. Other things I’m a complete mark for: orchestra hits, key changes, faux harpsichord.
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Joshua Minsoo Kim: The half-time, militaristic reprise of the intro sequence got a chuckle out of me, as did the swiftness with which it abandons the idea. I’ve heard countless songs that have given me constant sonic whiplash, but “IDOL” is the rare one where you can envision that everyone involved was full-on grinning, excited to see what they could get away with.
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Brad Shoup: The audacity! My favorite bit is Ikura’s swiping the “HUMBLE.” flow for funsies: just one tool furiously, cartoonishly tossed out of YOASOBI’s bag. It’s like watching someone solve a Rubik’s Cube while setting off a series of controlled demolitions.
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Nortey Dowuona: The hammering of the rap parts is so deafening; the rapping, filtered and compressed to the nth degree, has to be left alone to capture your attention. The piano line emerges at the pre-chorus but is quickly squashed by the drum programming that lightens the farther it stretches away from rap, leaving the voice to settle into the song instead of battling the synth horns stolen off a Southside beat from 2014. The theme rewards you with a brief piano line and the overly processed voice singing in the comfortable center of their range, allowing you to appreciate the creative excitement with which the producer and composer combined all these stylish sounds. But next time the production team composes a song like this, either find a vocalist who can comfortably handle the heavy-handed hammers of the rap verses, or tamp down to let this light uwu cutesy vocal shine.
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Michael Hong: YOASOBI’s songs often sound like they could afford to be a touch faster than they are, and it’s no different here. The topline of “IDOL” comes off as stiff, particularly across the opening clangs and the jumps of the chorus. As the duo race through all these ideas, Ikura stalls into a moment of exhaustion, as if the track’s punch has started to weigh heavy on her.
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Ian Mathers: This one is genuinely baffling to me. I can’t really parse out why some parts of it make my brain feel like it’s fizzing pleasurably, while other parts trigger the avoidant feelings I get with certain strains of prog rock. Even worse, I’m not sure I can keep track of which parts are which from one listen to another. I love/don’t love when it gets more measured and stompy. I love/don’t love when it gets quieter, or when it just fully goes for it. Depending on which way this resolves in my brain, I’m either never going to seek out “IDOL” again, or going to start playing it on a loop. Hard to score that!
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Anna Katrina Lockwood: After reading up on Oshi no Ko, the anime for which “Idol” is the theme, this song made sense in a new way. It sounds like an idol group song shoved backward through a hedge at SMTown Tokyo in 2013, or a Dempagumi.inc song that was written by Yoo Young-jin and then performed with way more fervor than required. While I don’t think it’s required to enjoy this song, being familiar with the format of the titular idol, a profession with a decent amount of regional variation across Asia but entirely distinct from the Western boy/girl group, makes “Idol” more effective to me. The song really captures the troubling parasocial aspects of the idol industrial complex, issues that I feel a duty to grapple with as a long-time idol group fan. Parasocial attachment is by no means exclusive to idols, but the heady mix of accessibility, human as allegory, and physical beauty increases the likelihood of issues, sometimes with serious consequences for the idols themselves. This is all without even mentioning “Idol” being the runaway megahit of the year in a particular niche, which doesn’t really demonstrate anything other than the song’s wide appeal. Hey, a good song is a good song, and it’s nice when that trumps everything. 
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Leah Isobel: “IDOL” is so literal, and so garish, and so much, in a way that doesn’t normally work for me. Its rapid consecutive U-turns, its pileup of shiny baubles, makes me feel like Yoasobi is playing a trick — like they’re using these techniques to gussy up what is, at heart, a relatively familiar story about the underbelly of fame. And then the final key change-into-chorus transition happens and, yeah, okay, I get it. The shifts in mood and mode raise the stakes so high that the last turnaround feels like squeezing an ocean through an arrow slit: for one person to hold the attention of millions is, after all, an impossible virtuosity.
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Tara Hillegeist: To love a piece of art is not, by necessity, to identify myself with the work involved in its making or feel any precious defensiveness about its merits. Indeed, when appreciating art for what it is and what it can be, it is often a richer form of love to come to that feeling through studiously antagonistic critique instead of immediately sincere affection. I already know all the work’s faults, the reasons it’s a failed work; and yet I still find it worth your time. There is a chasm of difference — the kind that runs down the vein of this discourse, more often than it cuts across — between loving art and loving “an artist,” in the singular, as the bespoke creature/object/entity/producer/”person” that makes the art in question. There are many ways to prevent myself, as a critic, from falling into that trap, as many ways as there are critics. And with so many of these ways of putting distance between myself and my subjects of choice, it’s easy to grow jaded and callous, to forget that these performances began as people, to make light of this business — for it is a business, for what it does to the lives at its forefront. To crack jokes about the strain it puts on them to be the wick at the center of the candle, while we watch them flicker, flare out, and fade. Distance renders my protections as perverse as the alternative. To find myself in love with “the artist” that makes the art I love, though — there is no escape from the parasocial realignment of one’s approach that follows. A part of me has already accepted it will betray the sensible ethics of the arrangement between that art’s creator and its consumer, on behalf of a belief in the righteousness, the decency, the fundamental moral worthiness, of this image I’ve chosen to perceive within the actions of an otherwise total stranger — a betrayal all the more dangerously stupid on my end for the obvious awareness that this is the image they want to sell me on. As an appreciator of art, as a fair critic, the worst mistake I can make is to take that performative sincerity at its word. It’s even worse when that collapse of situational awareness leaves me with a sense of entitlement, in either direction — a sense that the transaction involved is anything more than the exchange of the pleasure of creating for the pleasure of consuming, that in return for the joy I take in their ability to synthesize “truth” into “performance,” I now owe them a debt in the form of devotion … or, worse, that they owe me anything in kind. No matter how chaste or compassionate or self-effacing the gesture may feel, it remains a trap. I’m in love with being lied to. They’re in love with lying to me. At best, it only leads to the tragedy of heartbreak — a tragedy all the more cruel if one of us really meant it. It’s enough to send one screaming to the madhouse, thinking about it seriously. Maybe that’s why we all try not to. But sometimes, we let ourselves forget. It’s so easy to do — as easy as we say it is not to do it. There was this … girl, I liked, on the come-up in the entertainment world. She’d started as a wrestler, and I’d been what you might call a fan of her mother, a well-established name in the industry. So I was already paying attention when her mother introduced her in the ring to say she’d be pursuing the family business. I was already a fan of hers when it was announced she too would step back from wrestling to pursue a career in the wider entertainment industry. I thought she deserved the limelight, that she was made for it, that anyone could see how hard-working she was and how much she’d earned their adoration. In turn, I felt entitled to following her personal Twitter, because seeing her messages on my timeline — whether upon waking or before bed — and giving them the occasional like made me feel like I was supporting her in her pursuits, whatever she did. As a wrestling fan, seeing her succeed felt like its own reward, “one of ours” making good, one step at a time. In K-pop terms, you could’ve said she was one of my biases; in Japan, an “oshi,” from the verb for “support.” Maybe you’ve already guessed how this story ends. It made international news, after all. They changed laws because of it. Her mother made sure they did. But for me, the volcanic upheaval that resulted was on a much more personal and unavoidable scale. All I saw, at first, was someone struggling to put her best foot forward and finally getting what looked to be her big break — on a reality show, but one of the most popular reality shows on television at the time, where thousands of people could see her! I’d wake up every morning, eager to see whether she’d say anything new about it. So I was already awake and alert, locked down in COVID quarantine on that cold morning in the spring of 2020, when she tweeted out her suicide note for all her friends and followers to see, and followed it up with picture proof of how deeply serious she meant her attempt to be. I sat there, a helpless voyeur, those pictures a constant companion. I waited, one of the lucky few, to learn whether what my “support” had led me to witness being done “live” could be undone, or whether I’d have to live the rest of my life knowing my last memories of someone I thought I’d valued as a person would be those bloody images, all because I “cared” so much to keep tabs on her social media on the regular. Within the hour, we all knew the answer. Her friends and family were able to at least get Twitter to take the images down before they had to put out any further statements themselves. By the time the wider world awoke to learn the news, the pronouncement of her death was a matter of recorded, impersonal fact, accompanied by photographs of her alive in the ring and on set, rather than the catastrophic tableau of judgmental violence that the internet and the television crew drove her to inflict upon herself. The price I would pay for my mistake, in thinking my support of her entitled me to knowing as much about her as was publicly knowable, would be that my witness was as much my own fault as my worthlessness. I could only live with what I’d seen and damn myself for why. I threw myself into other spheres of my interest — “virtual YouTubers” — in the vain hope that my awareness of the failings of the genre would cushion me from such a tragic mistake another time. I was no stranger to the cynical mode in which the subculture operated, using surreal motion-tracked avatars as a means by which tech startups could showcase and sell their proprietary apps. I was hardly uninformed on its casually abusive handling of their talent and lax management policies. Before I’d ever started engaging with any of the talent responsible, I’d heard about managers needing to be fired for power-harassment who went on to stalk and threaten their former clients. I already knew about performers needing to go on hiatus because their audiences turned violent over the sound of their mic accidentally picking up a roommate’s presence. I already knew about performers needing to reveal their own behind-the-scenes identities to prevent themselves from being replaced as the voice of the model they’d made famous. Naturally, the artists I grew to appreciate most in the scene were the ones most aware, if not outright forceful, about reminding their audience where the boundaries were between the audience, the audience’s perception of themselves, and themselves, the person putting those perceptions and boundaries in place. One of those artists mentioned that one of her favorite manga was this niche series that she felt was the most relatable and compelling depiction of the ins and outs of being, at once, both a performer and someone who had performers she loved in turn: a series called Oshi no ko. I jotted it down as something to look into, later — it sounded like a pretty out-there title, so I didn’t expect I’d find many, if any, translations of it; there certainly weren’t any being published legally at that time. But she kept bringing it up, and soon I started hearing other VTubers doing the same, so I took the curiosity more seriously. Two or three volumes in, a strange horror overtook me. The events that led to what I was reading were anything but events that I had any connection to, although I’d noticed similarities between them and real events in the industry. But now the characters in the manga had been roped into performing on a reality show, one of the most-watched television shows at that time … and there it was. Ripped from reality, turned into performative art: the same events that I could never forget happening, had never really forgiven myself for putting myself in the position of being a helpless witness to. They had been turned into a cathartic lie — because in the fictional tale of Oshi no ko, the protagonists, who had become her friends, were able to prevent her story from ending the same way: the way, in the fiction, that they hadn’t been able to prevent their mother’s … and the way, in reality, that they couldn’t have prevented their inspiration’s. Through the artists’ efforts, I realized I wasn’t suffering that heartache alone. I, too, didn’t deserve to regret having lied to myself enough about what I loved that I turned that love into a lie, that I loved a lie that can never be true. Maybe that, too, is a lie, but it’s no less a lie than the belief that as an audience, our personal responsibilities should ever matter to anyone but ourselves. Cut to the spring of 2023: Oshi no ko, shocking me to the core, receives an animated adaptation. Tapped for the opening theme is YOASOBI, a group comprised of a former idol and a former Vocaloid producer, mostly known for moody, emotional rock songs. The song they make for it is this one: “IDOL”; the charts make the rest into obvious history, and the lyrics speak for themselves. So now that lie belongs to the rest of you. For what it’s worth, I hope you love it as much as I did. 
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