The Season When Music Filled Everything

There was a season not too long ago when music quietly filled almost every space in my day. I did not notice it happening at first. It simply became part of the rhythm of things, like breathing between conversations or the soft noise of a city outside the window.

The music was P-Pop.

If someone had told me a year earlier that I would be listening to Filipino pop music almost constantly, I probably would have smiled politely and moved on with my day. My life had always revolved around other things. Medicine. Church. Writing when I could. The long, demanding process of becoming a doctor had trained my mind to focus on textbooks, case presentations, and exam reviewers more than anything else.

But then one afternoon my wife sent me a song.

“Pantropiko.”

The song had already gone viral by that point. People were dancing to it online, clips were circulating everywhere, and it was becoming difficult to ignore. My wife sent it casually, the way couples often send things to each other when they stumble upon something fun.

I remember where I was when I first listened to it. I was inside the small apartment we had rented, surrounded by my notes while studying for the Physician Licensure Examination. My desk was cluttered with reviewers, mnemonics, and half-finished outlines of diseases and drug dosages. In the middle of that academic chaos, I clicked play.

Something about the song stayed with me.

Soon after, I began listening to more songs by BINI. What started as curiosity slowly became a habit. Their performances were energetic, their songs were bright, and the group carried a kind of joy that was difficult not to notice. Before long I found myself watching their performances on YouTube and replaying their songs on Spotify during breaks from studying.

Then ALAMAT entered my orbit.

I think the first bridge between the two groups for me was the music video for “Maharani,” where BINI’s Jhoanna appeared. That connection made me curious enough to explore ALAMAT’s music, and once I did, I was immediately drawn to their sound. Their songs carried a strong Filipino flavor, blending different local languages and cultural elements in ways that felt both rooted and modern. There was something about their identity as a group that felt intentional.

Then I heard “ILY ILY.”

That song stayed with me in a deeper way. Perhaps it was the warmth of the melody, or the quiet sincerity in the lyrics. I cannot explain it completely, but it quickly became one of the songs I returned to again and again.

From that point on, music became part of my routine.

A typical day during that time was simple. I would go to work, commute home, and listen to music along the way. At night I would talk to my wife, eat dinner, scroll through fan conversations online, and then listen to more music before going to sleep.

Sometimes I would replay three or four albums in a single day.

Most of the time I listened through Spotify, though I occasionally switched to Apple Music because the sound quality felt richer to my ears. When I wanted to watch the choreography or performances, I would open YouTube and replay the music videos.

The songs followed me everywhere.

They played during short breaks at work. They accompanied long bus rides. They filled quiet walks downtown when I stepped out to buy small groceries before heading back home.

There were a few songs I always returned to.

“Wag Muna Tayong Umuwi.”
“ILY ILY.”
“KAYA.”
“Boomerang.”
“Don’t Play.”

Sometimes they started my day. Sometimes they closed it.

After long hours speaking with patients, when my throat felt dry and my body carried the exhaustion of the commute home, those songs gave me a few moments of quiet relief. The world slowed down for a while.

Looking back now, I realize that music gave me two things during that season of my life.

Comfort.

And community.

I had not expected either of them.

The Community That Came With the Songs

One of the things I did not expect when I first began listening to P-Pop was how quickly it would lead me to people.

At first it was simply music playing through my earphones while I worked, commuted, or rested. But eventually curiosity led me to the spaces where fans gathered. Social media conversations, fan posts, reaction threads, and shared excitement about new releases slowly became part of my daily routine.

It felt strangely familiar.

For years, most of my social circles had been built around two things: medicine and church. My closest friends were usually fellow healthcare workers, classmates, or people I served with in ministry. Those were communities shaped by shared responsibilities and similar life paths.

Fandom was different.

Here were people from different professions, different places, and different stages of life, all drawn together by something simple: music they loved.

Through BINI, I began encountering the BLOOMS fandom. Through ALAMAT, I found the Magiliw community. Later, through KAIA, I came across the ZAIAs. Each group had its own culture and inside jokes, but what stood out to me most was how welcoming many of them were.

Many of the people I interacted with were artists, writers, students, and fellow professionals who simply found joy in supporting Filipino music. Some were healthcare workers like me. Others were people whose work I admired long before we ever exchanged messages online.

For someone whose wife was living continents away at the time, and whose closest friends were scattered across busy careers, these conversations filled an unexpected space in my life.

They reminded me that community can appear in places we never planned to look.

Eventually, the music did something else for me.

It made me write again in a different way.

On October 14, 2024, I published my first P-Pop blog post. I titled it From Doomer to BLOOMer: My Unexpected Journey into the World of P-Pop. At the time, I thought of it as a simple reflection on how unexpectedly I had fallen into this new musical world.

I did not expect much from it.

But the response came quickly.

Fans began sharing the post across social media. Larger fan accounts reposted it. Conversations started forming around it. Some readers messaged me to say that they felt the same way—that they had also discovered something hopeful through these artists and their music.

For someone who had always wanted to be a writer who could reach readers meaningfully, that moment felt quietly affirming.

I remember feeling proud, not only because people were reading the piece, but because the subject itself mattered to me. Writing about medicine had always been part of my identity, but writing about music allowed a different side of my mind to work.

Medicine trained me to analyze, diagnose, and explain.

Writing about music allowed me to reflect, interpret, and feel.

The two passions existed side by side in my life, though they played very different roles. If I had to stop writing about music someday, I knew I would survive. But medicine had become something deeper than a profession. Even if my abilities failed me one day, I felt certain that I would never truly stop thinking like a doctor.

Still, during that season, writing about P-Pop became a source of genuine excitement.

To my surprise, some of the artists themselves eventually encountered my later posts. Knowing that the people behind the songs had taken time to read my words felt surreal. I never imagined that something written late at night on my small blog would reach the artists whose music had been accompanying my daily routine.

It made the entire experience feel more real.

Looking back now, I realize that the fandom season of my life was about more than simply enjoying music.

It was about connection.

It was about discovering that Filipino artists were creating something vibrant and evolving. It was about seeing communities of fans rally behind them with genuine enthusiasm. And for a while, it gave me a sense that I was participating, in my own small way, in a cultural moment that felt hopeful.

Music had opened a door.

Behind that door were people.

And for a time, that was enough.

When the Songs Followed Me to Canada

When I arrived in Canada in March 2025, the music came with me.

Immigration is often described as a fresh start. People talk about it in hopeful terms: new opportunities, new landscapes, a better future waiting just beyond the horizon. But anyone who has gone through it knows that the beginning rarely feels like that.

The first months are mostly adjustment.

New streets. New weather. New routines that do not yet feel like routines. In Edmonton, even the ordinary act of walking through a neighborhood felt unfamiliar at first. The people I saw every day were strangers. The rhythm of the city was different from anything I had known before.

But music helped soften the transition.

In those early weeks, P-Pop continued to fill my days the same way it had before. When I brought my wife to work in the morning, I would often walk or take the bus home with my earphones on. The songs followed me through the streets, through downtown sidewalks, through small grocery trips before heading back to the apartment.

It felt like bringing a small piece of home into a place that still felt foreign.

Sometimes I would wander through the city a little longer than necessary, letting the songs stretch the walk. Even something as simple as buying groceries and walking back home felt easier when there was music in the background.

Certain songs felt different now that I was living abroad.

“ILY ILY,” for example, carried a heavier emotional weight than before. Listening to it reminded me of the many people I knew whose lives were shaped by distance—families separated by oceans, relationships sustained through video calls, parents and children living in different countries because work demanded it.

I understood that story more deeply now.

For a while, music and faith became two of the quiet anchors of my transition. Rediscovering a faith community in the city helped give my weeks a sense of structure, and P-Pop filled the spaces in between.

But reality eventually has a way of asserting itself.

After about three months, the situation I had hoped would resolve quickly began to weigh more heavily on me.

I was still unemployed.

Every day started to look the same. I would wake up early, cook breakfast, and help prepare my wife’s things before bringing her to work. Then I would return home and open my laptop.

Indeed.

LinkedIn.

Email.

Applications.

Waiting.

Some days I attended free review classes while preparing for the exams required for doctors trained outside Canada. Other days I spent hours searching through job postings, adjusting resumes, and refreshing pages that rarely showed anything new.

By the afternoon my energy was often gone.

Instead of exploring the city the way I had in the beginning, I found myself sitting at home, scrolling through job listings or staring at the same open tabs. The excitement of discovering a new country slowly gave way to something quieter and heavier.

Worry.

One thought returned to me more often than I wanted to admit.

I am failing my wife.

She was working every day while I lived in a strange in-between state. I was studying, applying, waiting, trying to move forward, but the days sometimes felt like they were slipping by without visible progress. It created a kind of pressure that quietly sat in the background of everything I did.

And slowly, almost without me noticing it at first, the music began to fade.

It did not disappear overnight.

The songs were still there in the background sometimes, playing through the speakers while I looked through job listings. But I realized that I was no longer really listening. The melodies passed through the room without leaving much behind.

Eventually I stopped turning them on.

Not because I stopped loving them.

But because it felt strange to play music that I could no longer appreciate the way I used to.

When survival begins to occupy most of your attention, art sometimes becomes difficult to receive.

The songs were still beautiful.

But my mind was somewhere else.

Watching From the Side

It took me a while to realize that something had quietly changed.

For months, music had been woven into almost every part of my daily routine. The songs played during commutes, work breaks, grocery runs, and late evenings when the day finally slowed down. Even writing about P-Pop had become a natural extension of that routine. It felt like I was participating in something larger than myself, a growing movement of Filipino artists and fans celebrating music that was beginning to reach wider audiences.

Then, slowly, the routine shifted.

The playlists stopped updating.
The earphones stayed in my pocket more often.
The blog posts became less frequent.

Nothing dramatic happened. There was no clear moment when I decided to step away from music. Life simply demanded more attention elsewhere.

When most of your energy goes into survival—finding work, studying again, worrying about finances—it becomes harder to receive art the way you once did. Songs that used to feel comforting began to play in the background without fully reaching me. Eventually I stopped pressing play altogether.

Still, the world of P-Pop continued moving forward.

I would catch glimpses of it the way someone sees distant fireworks through a window—beautiful, but slightly removed from where they stood.

One evening I was sitting on the sofa with my wife, the television playing softly in the background. I was scrolling through Facebook when I saw a repost from someone I follow: Jhoanna’s mother.

The post announced that BINI would be performing at Coachella.

For a moment I simply stared at the screen.

Then I smiled.

It felt less like the excitement of a fan screaming at a headline and more like the quiet pride of an older brother watching his younger sisters achieve something extraordinary. I imagined the countless Filipino artists who had dreamed of standing on international stages and the long road it had taken for any of them to arrive there.

Seeing BINI reach that point felt like watching a door open.

Not just for them, but for the future of Filipino music.

I felt proud in a way that surprised me.

Later, when ALAMAT released their new album, I did not listen to it immediately. I wanted to wait until I had a moment when my mind was calm enough to appreciate it properly. By then their single “LuzViMinda” was already circulating everywhere, and the excitement around the release was hard to miss.

When I finally sat down to listen, one thought stayed with me.

They had grown.

The sound felt more confident. The group felt stronger. And as I watched fans celebrating the release online, I realized something else as well.

I was not as present in those conversations anymore.

Part of me felt a small hint of what people now call FOMO—the fear of missing out. There had been a time when I was deeply immersed in those discussions, sharing thoughts about new songs, interacting with fans, and writing about the artists with genuine excitement.

Now I was mostly watching from the sidelines.

But strangely, the feeling was not entirely sad.

There was also a quiet sense of satisfaction. Even if I no longer participated as actively as before, I had still experienced that season of fandom fully. I had listened closely, written about the music, and shared in the enthusiasm of a community that believed deeply in these artists.

In some small way, perhaps my writing had helped others discover them too.

I do not know if that impact was large or small. But the thought itself felt enough.

And when I later saw announcements about G22’s upcoming concert, or when my wife and I found ourselves watching SB19 performances together on television, I realized that the admiration had never truly disappeared.

Sometimes we would watch a video and simply sit there afterward, mouths slightly open, amazed at the level of talent on the screen.

The music was still there.

The difference was that life had changed the way I listened.

The Music Is Still There

For a while I wondered if stepping away from the music meant that I had somehow left that part of my life behind.

When routines change, it is easy to interpret the silence as an ending. The songs that once filled every day are no longer playing. The conversations that used to appear on your screen move on without you. The communities that once felt like daily companions continue their lives at a distance.

It can feel like you have quietly walked away from something you once cared deeply about.

But the longer I reflected on it, the more I realized that this was not really what had happened.

Life had simply rearranged my attention.

There are seasons when art occupies a large part of our lives. During those moments, music feels like oxygen. It helps us process long days, loneliness, distance, or uncertainty. Sometimes it becomes the background to important chapters of our lives without us even noticing.

Then there are seasons when survival takes priority.

Immigration, job hunting, financial worries, and the responsibility of building a life in a new country demand a different kind of focus. In those moments, the mind becomes practical. The days revolve around applications, schedules, plans, and small steps forward.

Art does not disappear in those seasons.

But it sometimes becomes quieter.

Looking back now, I realize that the months when P-Pop filled my days were not wasted time or a distraction from my responsibilities. If anything, they gave me something valuable during a period when many parts of my life felt uncertain.

They gave me comfort during long commutes.

They gave me community during a time when my wife and I lived on different continents.

They reminded me that Filipino artists were building something vibrant and worth celebrating.

And perhaps most importantly, they reminded me that joy can appear in unexpected places.

Today my life looks different.

The routines are more practical now. My days involve studying again, searching for opportunities, and slowly rebuilding my professional path in a new country. The concerns that occupy my mind are often more immediate than the release of a new song or the excitement of a fandom conversation.

But the music has not disappeared.

Sometimes I still listen when I have the chance. When ALAMAT released their new songs, I waited until I had the right moment to sit down and appreciate them. When I heard that BINI would perform at Coachella, I felt proud in a way that surprised me. When my wife and I watch performances by SB19, we still find ourselves amazed by their talent.

Those reactions remind me that the connection is still there.

It is simply quieter now.

And I think that is alright.

Fandom, like many things in life, moves in seasons. There are moments when we are deeply immersed in it, celebrating every release, following every update, and participating in every conversation. Then there are moments when life asks us to step back for a while.

Stepping back does not mean the appreciation disappears.

It simply means the music waits.

Sometimes, when I think about the future, I imagine a small and simple scene.

I am at home here in Canada. My guitar rests on my lap, the way it used to when music was part of my everyday life as a worship leader. I try playing the chords of a P-Pop song I once listened to constantly during my early days as a new doctor.

Maybe I will remember the lyrics. Maybe I will have to look them up again.

After a while my hands will get tired, the way they always do when I have not practiced in a long time. I will set the guitar down, turn on the television, and see the same groups whose songs once accompanied my commutes and quiet evenings.

By then they will probably be even bigger than they are today.

More stages.
More fans.
More stories.

And I will sit there watching, feeling something simple and steady.

Not the frantic excitement of someone chasing every update.

But the quiet happiness of someone who once walked beside that music for a while, during a season when he needed it most.

Sometimes life gets louder than the songs we love.

But the songs remain.

Waiting for us to return when the noise softens again.

Let’s be honest: I’ve always had it.

Even before I knew what to call it, I’ve always formed strange attachments to people on screen, in music videos, in books. Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up introverted with a loud imagination—you start filling in the silence with scenes, reactions, imagined conversations. Not fantasies. Not delusions. Just… presence. Someone you root for. Someone who feels like they’re rooting back.

And I know I’m not alone in this.

The first time I became fully aware that this might be something more than just “liking someone on TV” was during the AlDub phenomenon. Yes, I’m cringing as I write that. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pull me in. Not romantically. It wasn’t about kilig, at least not for me. It was about watching something build itself before your eyes—two strangers, slowly becoming part of people’s lives, including mine. There was this deep sense of shared energy, of collective joy. It felt real.

And that feeling came back stronger when I entered the world of P-Pop.

At first, I didn’t get it. Why do K-Pop and J-Pop fans act like they personally know their idols? Why do MNL48 supporters go so far? I didn’t mock them—I just didn’t get it.

Until I dived into BINI.

I wasn’t attracted to them. I wasn’t daydreaming about relationships or fanservice moments. Instead, something else happened—I started feeling like an older brother. Protective. Supportive. As if I was cheering for a younger sibling taking center stage. I found myself wanting to defend them online. To explain them to outsiders. To support them, because I saw how hard they worked.

It didn’t stop there. With every new group I followed—ALAMAT, KAIA, more—I felt like my family was growing. And when idols would reply to comments or thank fans directly, that feeling deepened. Their words reached thousands, but somehow, I still felt seen.

Of course, I know the truth.
They don’t know me.
But I still care.

This kind of connection has a name.

Psychologists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl coined the term parasocial interaction in 1956 to describe the one-sided relationships audiences form with media figures who appear real and intimate but are ultimately inaccessible.

It used to be about TV anchors and actors. Now, it’s livestreams, vlogs, fan signs, and surprise Twitter replies. The illusion of closeness has never been more convincing.

And for fans like me—especially those who’ve felt isolated, misunderstood, or emotionally stretched—these connections can provide real comfort.

I’ve had seasons where I felt completely alone. Friends were busy. My wife and I were in a long-distance setup with a huge time difference. Life was heavy. But being part of BLOOM or Magiliw or ZAIA gave me something to wake up for. Something to smile about. Even just replying to a tweet, or watching a behind-the-scenes video, made the days feel less empty.

This is what people often miss when they talk about parasocial relationships. They think it’s just obsession or delusion. They forget how many people are surviving lonely realities. They forget that emotional connection—even if one-sided—can feel real.

Of course, it’s not always healthy. And yes, some fans go too far. But to say it’s “not real” just because it’s not mutual… misses the point.

Sometimes the bond lives in the space between you and the screen.
And sometimes, that’s enough.

What Is a Parasocial Relationship?

You probably know the feeling.

You follow an artist’s every move.
You know their favorite color, their fears, the inside jokes from that one livestream.
You celebrate their wins. You get hurt when they get bashed.
You feel like you know them.

But they don’t know you.

That’s what a parasocial relationship is.
A one-sided emotional connection between a fan and a public figure.

It doesn’t have to be romantic. It’s not fantasy. It’s not always unhealthy.
Sometimes, it’s just the mind doing what it naturally does—forming bonds with people who show up regularly in your emotional space.

In a 2021 study, researchers observed that social media increased parasocial intensity, because it simulates real interaction. Fans comment. Artists reply. Sometimes with just a “❤️,” but that’s enough to trigger emotional reciprocity in the fan’s brain.

You know it’s not a conversation. But it still feels like one.

And for artists, there’s pressure to maintain that closeness—to stay visible, responsive, and “relatable.” That’s what we call fanservice, and it plays a key role in deepening these bonds. It’s not manipulation. Often, it’s sincere. But it does blur the line between idol and friend.

In K-Pop and J-Pop, this setup is part of the business model.
The idea isn’t just to love the group—you’re supposed to choose your bias.
Know their birthdays. Save for fan signs. Follow fancams.
You’re not just watching them. You’re with them.

And slowly, your fandom starts to feel like a relationship.

That’s what happened to me.
Not all at once, but gradually.

First, I felt like an older brother. I wasn’t crushing—I was protecting.
Then, I felt like someone who understood them. Not just the songs, but the cultural weight they carried.
Finally, I felt like a witness to something unfolding—like I was watching someone bloom, and it mattered.

I wasn’t imagining things. But I was emotionally attached.

That’s a parasocial bond.
And again, it doesn’t have to be toxic.

The question is: what do you do with that bond?
That’s where the real discussion begins.

The Good It Can Do

People talk a lot about the dangers of parasocial relationships.
And they’re right to—some fans cross lines they shouldn’t.
But that’s not the whole story.

What gets overlooked is how often these one-sided connections quietly save people.
Not in dramatic, cinematic ways. But in the day-to-day.
In the silence.
In the ordinary.

I’ve lived through days when I barely had the energy to talk to anyone.

Friends were busy. My wife and I were trying to manage a time zone twelve hours apart.
And sometimes, you don’t need deep conversations. You just need a familiar face.

So I stayed.
Watching comeback stages.
Reading translations.
Replying to threads.
Not always for interaction—but for comfort.

In a 2023 study published in Human Communication Research, researchers found that parasocial relationships can serve as psychological support systems, especially for those experiencing social isolation or emotional stress. They aren’t a replacement for therapy or real-world connection—but they can help bridge the gap.

And that’s what they did for me.

I wasn’t imagining the connection. I was just responding to what was offered—passion, presence, energy.
P-Pop artists poured hours into rehearsals, content, and performances.
Supporting them felt like returning the favor.

It’s not just emotional, either.

Parasocial bonds often lead to motivation.
Seeing artists work hard—even while under pressure—can light a fire in fans.

I’ve seen it in fandom spaces.
A BLOOM studying all night while replaying “Karera.”
A Magiliw who starts learning Hiligaynon just to understand a lyric.
A ZAIA member who starts making fan art and discovers their own creativity in the process.

There’s even research behind it.
A 2020 study in Psychology of Popular Media Culture noted that parasocial relationships with admired figures often lead to goal-setting behavior, especially among youth and young adults.

So no—it’s not “just in your head” when you say your idol made you want to do better.
They probably did.

And then there’s community.

This might be my favorite part.
Parasocial bonds may begin alone, but they rarely stay that way.

When you follow an artist deeply, you eventually find others who feel the same.
Suddenly, you’re not just replying to a tweet.
You’re in a group chat.
You’re attending events.
You’re working on birthday projects.
You’re learning Canva because someone needs help with layout.

You’re part of something.

That’s not fake. That’s real life forming around a shared feeling.

And for someone who’s been through loneliness—someone like me—that feeling of shared purpose can mean everything.

I’ve made friends through fan circles I wouldn’t have met otherwise.
Some just acquaintances. Some even felt like family.
And I never would’ve known them if I didn’t care deeply about a group of artists I’ve never knew in person.

Strange? Yes.
But also kind of beautiful.

Parasocial bonds are not a substitute for real relationships.
But sometimes, they lead you to one.
And sometimes, they carry you until you can make one.

And in that way, I think they’re worth defending.

When It Goes Too Far

There’s a line.
You may not always see it—but you feel it when it’s crossed.

In parasocial bonds, that line gets blurry fast.

What starts as admiration can turn into assumption.
What starts as emotional support can slip into entitlement.

I’ve seen it happen in real time.

Fans who claim to be family members.
Fans who pressure artists to accept personal friend requests.
Fans who think a like or reply is a promise of something deeper.

There are those who track down family members of idols—messaging them, commenting, overstepping.
There are those who use fan spaces to scam others—posing as insiders, collecting money “for projects,” but pocketing it instead.

And then there are fans who, once hurt or disappointed, lash out.
They cross into harassment.
Legal threats.
Public smear campaigns.
All because the artist failed to meet a personal expectation they never agreed to in the first place.

This isn’t limited to one fandom or one culture. But in the Philippines—where family values run deep and online access is high—parasocial boundaries feel even more delicate.

We’re a culture that prides itself on closeness.
We call our idols “anak,” “ate,” “kuya.”
We cheer for them like relatives graduating from school.
And when they succeed, we say “I’m so proud of you,” with the weight of actual love.

It’s beautiful… until it becomes controlling.

The AlDub phenomenon taught me this early.
What began as genuine support turned, in some corners, into obsession.
Some fans couldn’t separate performance from real life.
Some demanded confirmation of a love story that was never theirs to own.

Ten years later, I still think about that.
How collective joy can shift into collective delusion if no one pumps the brakes.

In P-Pop today, we see similar patterns.
The accessibility of artists—their willingness to interact, post daily, attend events—creates a kind of closeness that’s easily misunderstood.

Sometimes, idols themselves aren’t fully aware of the weight of their replies.
A heart emoji from them might just be kindness.
But to a fan holding on by a thread, it feels like connection.

And when they stop replying?
The silence is deafening.

So where’s the line?

It’s somewhere between supporting and owning.
Between being inspired by someone and thinking they owe you something.
Between feeling close and forgetting they’re a person with boundaries.

And that line isn’t just for fans to respect.
Artists and their teams need to recognize it, too.

Not all parasocial relationships go too far.
But when they do, the harm isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s in the small fractures—an idol who becomes afraid to go live.
A fan who spirals after being blocked.
A community split in half over misread signals.

That’s why this matters.
Not because we want less connection.
But because we want healthier ones.

Why P-Pop Hits Different

P-Pop didn’t invent parasocial bonds.
But it definitely made them feel closer to home.

It’s not just about language or style.
It’s about the way we’re wired as Filipinos.

We don’t just stan.
We adopt.

In other fandoms, you might follow your fave, cheer from a distance, and keep it cool.
But here? It’s family.

That might sound exaggerated. But if you’re Filipino, you know what I mean.

This isn’t just fan behavior.
This is cultural inheritance—how we were raised to show affection.

We value closeness.
We read between the lines.
We overthink.
We get attached.

And when that attachment meets an industry like P-Pop—where idols go live almost daily, reply to tweets, perform in free mall shows, and speak in the same slang we use—it creates a relationship that feels mutual, even when it isn’t.

That’s not a bad thing.
That’s what makes P-Pop P-Pop.

You hear it in the lyrics.
You see it in the fan projects.
You feel it in the concert energy.

There’s something deeply shared in this scene.
Even the artists themselves sometimes say “we’re growing together,” and it doesn’t feel like a script.
It feels like an understanding.

It’s also why we become so protective.

When someone bashes an idol, it doesn’t feel like a stranger got hurt.
It feels like a sibling got dragged.

When someone leaves a group, we grieve—not just as fans but as taga-suporta ng pangarap nila.

And when they succeed?
We post about it like it’s our own win.
Because maybe it is.
Maybe believing in someone that hard, for that long, changes something in us too.

I’ve noticed that in BINI fans.
In the way BLOOMs scream not just for beauty but for progress.
In how we celebrate not just what the girls do—but how far they’ve come.

I’ve seen it in ALAMAT fans.
How Magiliws care not just about the members’ vocals—but about what they represent as a multilingual, multicultural group.
How their success feels like a win for regions, for dialects, for long-marginalized pride.

In ZAIA, I’ve watched fans grow up alongside KAIA.
Cheering not just for slick comebacks—but for the small signs of maturity, artistry, and confidence.

These aren’t shallow fandoms.
They’re emotional ecosystems.

And that’s why parasocial connections in P-Pop feel… different.
They’re wrapped in heritage.
In proximity.
In shared hardship.
In language that feels like home.

It doesn’t make them more real.
But it does make them more personal.

And that’s what makes the care feel heavier—when it’s good, and when it hurts.

Artists Have a Role Too

Parasocial relationships aren’t just shaped by fans.
Artists play a part, too.

Even if they don’t mean to.
Even if they’re just “being nice.”

Let’s be fair: most idols don’t wake up and say,
“Time to build a one-sided emotional attachment with strangers today.”

They just want to perform.
To connect.
To be seen.

But connection is never neutral.

Every like, every “I love you guys,” every heart emoji—especially from someone with a platform—feels bigger when you’re on the receiving end.

And in an industry like P-Pop, where intimacy is part of the package, that feeling builds fast.

Some idols get this.
They reply selectively.
They avoid using terms that might be misread.
They set invisible boundaries with grace.

But not all of them know how.
Some are new.
Some think being “close” means replying to DMs or adding fans on personal accounts.
Some underestimate their reach, especially when fame comes suddenly.

Others want to protect their image so badly that they never speak up—even when they’re uncomfortable.

That’s how things get messy.
That’s how expectations form, and break, and hurt people on both sides.

Idols aren’t therapists.
They’re not best friends.
They’re not your boyfriend or girlfriend.

But they are human.
Which means they, too, can get overwhelmed by fan expectations.
They can get anxious before going live.
They can feel trapped between being “grateful” and being honest.

There’s a need here—for awareness.
For training, even.

Not to make artists more distant.
But to make their closeness sustainable.
Safe.
Clear.

So they don’t burn out trying to be everyone’s emotional rescue.
And so fans don’t spiral when the interaction slows down.

This is even more important in P-Pop.

Because we’re not just mimicking K-Pop structures.
We’re doing it with a Filipino heart—warm, open, ready to give.
But that also means we need better tools to handle disappointment.
Clearer boundaries on both ends.

Not as punishment.
But as protection.

Artists should feel empowered to say “this is my private space.”
Fans should feel okay knowing that love doesn’t need replies to be real.

Parasocial doesn’t mean wrong.
But it does mean imbalanced.
And when you’re the one holding the megaphone, you have to know what your voice carries.

It’s Not Fake. But It’s Not Fully Real.

This is the part I struggled to write.

Because parasocial bonds don’t fit neatly into one box.
They’re not imaginary—but they’re not mutual.
They’re not fake—but they’re not equal.
They’re not delusions—but they’re not dialogues.

So what are they?

Maybe they’re emotional placeholders.
For something missing.
For someone you wish you could talk to.
For a version of yourself that feels easier to be when you’re stanning someone who inspires you.

Or maybe they’re just human instinct doing what it’s always done:
Connecting.

When you hear a voice every day,
When you see someone try, fail, grow, succeed,
When you watch someone do what they love with full effort—
Of course you’ll feel something.

That feeling isn’t fake.
It’s just… one-directional.
And that’s okay.

I used to feel embarrassed by how deep my attachments ran.
Especially during the AlDub era.
Or when I realized I was defending BINI like a protective kuya.
Or when I got irrationally hurt by an idol’s silence, even though they never promised me anything.

But over time, I stopped beating myself up for it.

I’m a person who feels things.
And sometimes, those feelings land in strange places.

A study in Media Psychology found that parasocial relationships can mimic real-life social bonds in the brain—triggering the same emotional patterns as friendships or mentorships.
But the brain doesn’t always recognize that the other person isn’t present.

That’s not weakness.
That’s wiring.

So when people say “It’s just in your head,”
I think,
Yes. And?

Most feelings start in your head.
That doesn’t make them less real.

Still, it’s important to name what these bonds are—and what they aren’t.

They’re not friendships.
They’re not mutual care.
They don’t have shared memory or accountability.

But they do leave something behind.
A softened heart.
A stronger will.
A deeper sense of belonging—especially in fandom spaces where that bond is mirrored by others.

So if you’re a fan who’s been told your connection isn’t valid—
If someone’s mocked you for “caring too much”—
Let this be a reminder:

Your care is real.
Just know where to place it.

Not on the pedestal.
But in your own life.
In your growth.
In your art.
In your friendships.

Use the bond—but don’t be consumed by it.
That’s how you keep it from breaking you.

A Note to Fans Who Feel Too Attached

If you’ve ever stared at your phone, rereading an idol’s comment like it meant something deeper—
If you’ve ever cried during a livestream because they looked tired and you couldn’t help—
If you’ve ever gotten jealous of fans who received more attention—
If you’ve ever spent hours defending someone who doesn’t even know your name—

And afterward, you felt ashamed—
Like you had to hide it—
Like you were “too much”—

This part is for you.

You are not broken.
You are not stupid.
You are not dramatic.

You are human.
And humans attach.
It’s what we do.

When things around you feel uncertain, or when real-life friendships feel distant, it makes perfect sense to lean into something—someone—who feels safe.

Someone who smiles.
Someone who says, “You matter.”
Even if they’re saying it to thousands.

The truth is, you did feel seen.
Even if just for a moment.
Even if only in your heart.

But here’s the gentle truth, too:

They don’t know you.
And that’s okay.

You’re allowed to love what they represent.
You’re allowed to feel connected to their voice, their journey, their energy.
But don’t lose yourself chasing something that was never mutual.

You deserve relationships that go both ways.

So if you feel yourself slipping—
If your joy rises or falls based on whether an idol replies—
If you lose sleep waiting for updates—
If you find yourself obsessing instead of supporting—

Pause.

Breathe.

Ask yourself: Is this helping me live better?
Or is it replacing the parts of my life I’m avoiding?

This isn’t about cutting off the connection.
This is about reclaiming it.

Let the music inspire you.
Let their discipline motivate you.
Let the community lift you up.
But let your self-worth be yours alone.

I still get carried away sometimes.
I still reply to tweets as if they’ll read them.
I still feel proud when I see my faves succeed.
But now, I hold that feeling gently—like light, not fire.

You don’t need to feel guilty for caring.
You just need to make sure that care doesn’t leave you empty.

One-sided doesn’t mean meaningless.
It just means it’s yours to hold, and yours to let go—when you’re ready.

And when you’re not ready yet?
That’s okay too.
You’re learning.

We all are.

Not Just in Your Head

So maybe it was just a tweet.
Just a video.
Just a lyric.

But it helped you get through the day.
It made you feel something again.
It reminded you that effort, art, connection—matter.

That’s not silly.
That’s not fake.
That’s not “too much.”

That’s a story millions of fans quietly carry in their own way.

Parasocial bonds are strange, yes.
But they’re also part of how we survive in a world that doesn’t always hold us gently.

So if you’ve loved someone from afar—
If you’ve built community around that love—
If you’ve become more yourself because of it—

Hold onto the good it gave you.
Just don’t forget to hold yourself, too.

You’re allowed to cheer loudly.
To feel proud.
To cry when they say something that hits you right in the chest.

Just remember: you’re still the main character of your life.
Not them.
Not the story you built around them.
You.

Support them.
Celebrate them.
Defend them when necessary.
But don’t lose yourself in them.

Make art.
Make friends.
Make time for silence.
Make time for real-world joy.

And when it gets blurry again—because it will—
Pause.
Look around.
Ask: Is this still love? Or am I hoping it will love me back?

Because at the end of the day, you deserve connection that sees you too.
And until that comes—
Let music comfort.
Let fandom hold.
Let the bond stay, as long as you need it.

Just keep growing beside it.

“This cover wasn’t just for them. It was for us.”

When I saw ALAMAT and G22 on the cover of Billboard Philippines, I felt something shift.

It wasn’t just a proud moment for the two groups. It felt like something broke through. A silence. A delay. A waiting. For so long, fans have streamed in the background, hyped releases, fought algorithms, and explained over and over again why these artists deserve to be seen.

This time, we didn’t need to explain anything. The photo said it for us.

They’re not just idols. They are flag bearers. And this cover finally framed them that way.

What the Photos Say, Without Saying

The styling was bold, but not loud for loudness’ sake. It was intentional.

There was ALAMAT—rooted, sharp, clean but rich. Their presence wasn’t begging to be noticed. It demanded to be understood. And G22? They walked into that shoot with the kind of energy that doesn’t need to say “we’ve arrived.” You just feel it.

Some say their poses mirrored SB19’s older cover. Maybe. But if that was a mirror, it cracked. Because the image they gave off was uniquely their own. One word: palaban.

Together, the spread looked like a baton pass—not from one group to another, but from one phase of P-Pop to what’s next.

The Path to This Moment Was Not Sudden

This cover was not a surprise for those who’ve been watching closely. Both groups have been building toward it, one risk at a time.

After their RAGASA concert, ALAMAT slowed down public releases but seemed to regroup intentionally. Hiraya dropped. Then Sa’Yo Pa Rin Uuwi. Tracks that don’t try to top charts instantly, but linger. You hear them and feel them settle. There’s always something just around the corner with ALAMAT—like they’re pacing themselves while still leaving us breathless.

G22, on the other hand, took a louder route this year. Their Women’s Day release, Pa-Pa-Pa-Palaban, wasn’t subtle, and it didn’t need to be. It was exactly what it claimed to be: a sharp, rhythmic, femme-forward anthem that owned its timing. It didn’t just drop on Women’s Day. It spoke to it.

They didn’t appear on Billboard by chance. They were marching toward it—just with different tempos.

My First Time With Each Group

I still remember the first songs that introduced me to each of them.

With ALAMAT, it was Maharani. I thought, “Who are these guys?” Then I heard ILY ILY, and the deeper I listened, the more I noticed the multiple Filipino languages woven into their work. That wasn’t surface-level representation. That was intentional composition. That’s when I knew I was Magiliw.

G22 came to me a bit more suddenly. It was BANG. The hook was immediate. The confidence was unshaken. I didn’t need to warm up to them—I was already cheering by the second chorus.

And now? I’m a BLOOM, a Magiliw, a Bullet, and a ZAIA. I never liked choosing anyway.

Why Their Music Stays

Both groups have such different approaches to sound, but both stay with you in similar ways.

G22 has this rare ability to genre-hop while holding onto their voice. It Lies Within and One Sided Love don’t sound alike, yet both make perfect sense coming from the same trio. They sing about heartbreak, confidence, introspection—but always with grit. They never chase trends, but instead build tension and release in the way they arrange and perform.

And ALAMAT? I’ve said it before: theirs is the only discography I’ve ever called walang tapon. They’ve got upbeat bops and slower, ancestral-feeling tracks. Dagundong is more than a song—it’s almost like a thesis. Hala is the perfect song to introduce a new listener. It’s catchy, but full of layers.

The more you listen, the more you hear. It’s like their music is teaching you something quietly.

It’s in the Identity

P-Pop becomes most powerful when it stops trying to follow and starts remembering.

ALAMAT understood this from the beginning. You hear it in their use of regional languages. You see it in their visuals—symbolic, rooted in Filipino traditions, yet styled for the now. Aki Alamid’s presence in the group—his Indigenous pride, his visual strength—brings a type of representation that’s rarely seen in any music genre, not just P-Pop.

G22 may not lean into cultural elements in the same way, but they represent something just as powerful: a contemporary Filipina that’s not afraid to lead, take up space, and reframe what femininity looks like in a pop group.

Both groups say something about us. And they say it without apology.

Billboard Got It Right

It’s not just a cover. It’s a signal.

For a while, only SB19 and BINI seemed to break past the P-Pop ceiling. They still do. They’re at the frontlines, and deservingly so. But this? This moment with ALAMAT and G22 says: the future is not a copy-paste of what came before.

The scene is evolving. There are new leaders coming. Different sounds. Different roots. New reasons to listen.

Jao noting that there is no competition is sobering, especially when he emphasized that this tells them, those who debuted earlier, to work harder. AJ telling us that P-Pop embodies the fighting spirit of the Filipinos could just make your heart flutter.

This cover isn’t a next step. It’s a parallel one.

Looking Back: A Timeline That Tells a Story

ALAMAT debuted in 2021. kbye got their name out there, but Maharani made people turn around. They kept going with ILY ILY, later dropped Dagundong, and then gave us their solo concert, RAGASA. 2024 was quieter. But 2025 woke us up again—with layered tracks, gentle rollouts, and then this cover. The slow burn is intentional. You can feel it.

G22 debuted in 2022 with BANG and followed it up with Babalik, Defy, and Boomerang. But something shifted when One Sided Love dropped. Then came It Lies Within. They moved from being just another girl group to becoming the girl group to watch. Pa-Pa-Pa-Palaban made sure we never forgot.

I love the angle that the writer of the feature leads on, with both groups lamenting about losing some members along the way: ALAMAT starting with nine members and G22 being a former quartet. But the story emphasized how each one was able to find their rhythm, their direction, and that they both have no choice but to rise.

This feature on Billboard is not the peak. It’s part of the ascent.

Fandoms That Never Let Go

I honestly think this feature happened because the fandoms refused to let their support go quiet.

Magiliw. Bullets. These fanbases may not always trend daily, but when it’s time, they show up. I saw it in the polls. I saw it in the consistent voting, the stream guides, the magazine orders.

These weren’t passive listeners. They were co-builders.

The groups climbed. But the fans held the ladder.

Why They Matter So Much

They remind us that you don’t need to erase yourself to make art people care about.

You don’t need to sound like everyone else. Or dance like someone else. Or wait for mainstream validation.

You just need to keep showing up. Rooted. Sure of your voice. Willing to be vulnerable, even if it’s not trending.

ALAMAT and G22 are powerful because they don’t feel like products. They feel like people.

If They Ever Collab

Please. I would lose it in the best way possible.

Imagine ALAMAT and G22 coming together for a single. It would need to be heavy. Filipino. Multilingual. Not a festival song, but a statement track. Something that feels like both groups were given one chance to define who they are and decided to combine flags.

No one else can sing about heritage and heat the way they do. And vocally? Tomas, R-Ji, and Mo on one side. AJ, Alfea, and Jaz on the other. What a lineup.

Honestly, I’d give a kidney. (If only I was healthy.)

What I’d Say to Them

Padayon lang kamo.

Don’t rush. Don’t fold.

Even if the rollout is slow, even if the systems are not as fast as your ideas, even if the world looks away—keep raising our flags.

Because we see you. And we’ll keep watching. Not like fans at a distance, but like community holding space for what’s next.

And Us? We Do Our Part Too.

Not everyone can buy every issue. Not everyone can go to fanmeets or show performances.

But we can stream. We can talk. We can push back when people ask, “Why them?”

Because we’ve seen it. We know why.

We stream not just for numbers, but to understand their work. We recommend not because we want clout, but because we want others to feel what we feel.

And yeah, we’ll buy that Billboard PH issue. It’s not just a magazine. It’s memory. It’s milestone. It’s meaning. (Order yours here.)

So What Now?

I hope more covers like this follow. With more groups. Maybe KAIA will go first. Maybe Press Hit Play next. Maybe VXON. Maybe more soloists. Maybe a full fold-out issue just for P-Pop’s future.

But even if this is the only one for a while, I’m good. Because this one mattered.

And I’ll remember it every time I need to remind myself that being seen takes time—but when it happens, it’s worth it.

Final Words

ALAMAT and G22 did not just make it on a cover.

They stood there like they were born to be seen.

And we saw them—not as copies of another scene, but as leaders of a new one.

And that changes everything.

“P-Pop isn’t waiting to be discovered. It’s already here.”

This post includes embedded images and social media content under fair use for commentary and review. All visual and musical rights belong to their respective copyright holders, including Billboard Philippines, ALAMAT, G22, and associated partners.

Readers are encouraged to support official releases and media outlets through verified links and subscriptions. Read the Billboard Philippines feature here. Order a physical copy of the issue here. No affiliate links are embedded in this post.

The sound bites. The dance challenges. The snippets from TikTok that came and went. I saw them, scrolled past, and never thought much of it. I wasn’t really into P-Pop at the time. Or rather, I wasn’t into anything beyond worship music.

I led music in church. Sang praises. Played chords that made people cry. For the longest time, I believed secular music didn’t have much to offer me—not emotionally, not spiritually. There was a clear boundary in my mind: what you sing on Sunday, and what fills your ears the rest of the week.

But somewhere in the middle of my Physician Licensure Exam (PLE) review sessions, my wife kept sending me BINI videos.

“Cute sila,” she said. “Galing din nila.”

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t get it at first. Maybe I didn’t want to get it.

Then I listened.

Then I listened again.

Then I found myself tearing up at Karera.

The Group That Grows On You

Karera came at a time when I felt like I was losing steam. Years of studying. Layers of expectation. The finish line was close, but it felt like my energy had run out before I even got halfway.

The lyrics didn’t offer any fairytale ending. They didn’t promise that everything would be fine. They just acknowledged the struggle. And sometimes, that’s all a person needs. That someone understands. That someone put those emotions into words and melody before you could even explain them.

It wasn’t grand. It was honest.

Soon after, I started seeing graduation videos using the song. Students walking the stage. Parents crying. People closing chapters and starting over. It wasn’t even my graduation—but I felt it. Deep.

That’s when it hit me. I wasn’t just a casual listener anymore.

I was in too deep. And I didn’t mind.

I found myself opening up my playlists to more of their songs. Watching interviews. Looking at their behind-the-scenes footage. Even catching myself smiling during days that felt too heavy, just because their music was playing in the background.

For months after, BINI became the only group on my playlist. Their songs were my cushion. My celebration. My break.

Even now, as I’ve discovered more P-Pop acts and expanded my playlists, BINI still feels like home. Listening to them brings me back to that very specific time in my life—tired, fighting, holding on, and not knowing what was coming next.

The Signature: Who BINI Is

If I’m being honest, I associate P-Pop with BINI more than any other group.

Born to win, built to slay, and now turning the page to a new chapter as Kapamilya!💙❤️💚

Our WALO is ready for bigger dreams and brighter stages!😍🌸 #BINI #BINIKapamilyaHanggangDulo pic.twitter.com/0jnFthflv5

— BINI_PH (@BINI_ph) February 4, 2025

That’s not to dismiss the ones who came before them or the groups that opened doors for everyone else—SB19, MNL48, and so many more. I respect their legacy. But for me, BINI was the one that made me stop, listen, and care.

They were the first.

And what a bold first.

BINI doesn’t scream for attention. But they have a quiet way of making you stay. They’re sharp in execution but warm in presence. They exude the modern Filipina—not the caricatured version, but the everyday kind who works hard, grows up, adjusts, learns, and still keeps her softness intact.

They’re bubbly but aware. Cohesive but diverse.

Their strength lies not in uniformity but in how they bring their differences together. Each one has her own story, her own energy. But when they move, when they sing, when they stand together—it feels intentional. Nothing is wasted.

Even their fashion made waves. There was a season when you’d scroll through social media and see people call certain aesthetics “BINI-style”—whether it was ribbons and pastels or bold lips and sharp silhouettes. It wasn’t always praised. But it was noticed. And in pop culture, sometimes that’s the point. You’re not trying to please everyone. You’re just trying to show up as you are.

In a world where girl groups are often written off as aesthetic over substance, BINI insisted that it could be both.

They didn’t sacrifice style for depth. They didn’t tone down their femininity to be taken seriously. They embraced it. And to me, that was powerful. That was new.

The Music: Soundtrack of a Season

Let’s start with the obvious one: Karera.

I’ve mentioned it earlier, but it deserves repeating—Karera isn’t just a song. It was a lifeline. A mirror. A soft voice that said, “I know it’s hard, but don’t stop now.”

Inspirational. Honest. Beautiful.

But BINI is more than that one hit.

Their discography is wider than people give them credit for. A lot of listeners only hear the viral tracks or the catchy hooks. But if you go past the surface, you’ll find songs that are experimental, emotional, even poetic.

Here are a few that meant something to me:

• “Lagi” – This track lives rent-free in my head. The rhythm feels clean. The chorus hits just right. There’s something comforting about it—it doesn’t try to be complicated. It just works.

• “Na Na Na” – Some songs are made for dancing. This one? It’s for letting go. For that part of the day when you just want to turn your brain off and feel something light. It’s carefree without being shallow.

• “Huwag Muna Tayong Umuwi” – If I had to pick the most poetic BINI song, this might be it. The melody. The phrasing. The tension between longing and hesitation. It’s a different kind of storytelling. I don’t know if enough people realize that.

While I’ve come to love their newer sounds, the Talaarawan era still feels like peak BINI to me—not just musically, but emotionally. That was the period I discovered them. It’s special. Nostalgia and discovery wrapped together. Maybe that’s why I keep returning to it. It represents who they were just as much as it represents who I was.

But let’s not forget the underappreciated ones:

• “Born to Win”

• “Golden Arrow”

These two are in English. They were never meant to be local hits—but they didn’t need to be. They were statements. A different kind of ambition. A preview of the global stage. Even the titles felt prophetic. Born to Win. Golden Arrow. You don’t write names like that unless you’re aiming somewhere bigger.

It’s funny how some of the most meaningful tracks aren’t always the loudest. These songs didn’t trend the way Pantropiko did. But they had vision. They had heart.

#BINI : 🚨BINI ALBUM – FULL TRACKLIST 🚨

You waited for this! We’re getting 6 new tracks from BINI on their “Born To Win” Album drop this October 14!

Make sure to follow BINI on @Spotify : https://t.co/N68hgiRdnl pic.twitter.com/129tZZcViA

— BINI_PH (@BINI_ph) October 3, 2021

Now, their newer music—especially under the Blink Twice branding—feels more global, more pop-forward. There’s more electronic influence, simpler lyrics, and a broader appeal. I can hear the shift, and I understand it.

They’re not just singing for the niche anymore.

They’re reaching out.

And that’s a leap—not just in style, but in mindset. You go from being a P-Pop act with a loyal local following to an artist wondering, what if the world heard this too?

I respect that.

It’s not a sellout move. It’s a strategy. And it still feels like them, just with a bit more polish, a bit more reach.

Quick Look: BINI Discography

I’ll admit—I didn’t know how deep their catalog was until I started immersing myself with their social media posts. What began as a casual scroll turned into a proper listening session, then another, and then another. Their growth as artists becomes clearer when you look at the discography as a whole.

You can trace the changes in sound, message, and vibe. You can also feel the shift in confidence—how they went from testing the waters to owning the stage.

Here’s a rundown of key releases that I’ll be reviewing in more depth soon:

• Born To Win (2021) – Their debut statement. It’s assertive, unapologetic, and forward-looking. Listening to it now feels like opening a time capsule of their ambitions.

• BINI: The Album (2021) – This album introduced their colorful variety—Golden Arrow and Na Na Na showed two different sides of the group: strong and sweet. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave us a full picture of who they were becoming.

• Lagi (2022) – An underrated gem. I personally think this deserves more replay than it gets. It’s playful, comforting, and easy to love.

• Feel Good (2022) – Light and breezy. It reminded me that music doesn’t have to be heavy to mean something. It just has to meet you where you are.

• Talaarawan (2023) – This is peak BINI for me. The era that pulled me in. The aesthetics, the lyricism, the themes—it all aligned. Every time I revisit this, I’m reminded of how far they’ve come.

• Pantropiko (2023) – The viral breakthrough. There’s no denying its impact. It took BINI from niche favorite to household name. Say what you will, but that hook is iconic now.

• Karera (2023) – My personal anthem. The one that broke through everything I thought I knew about P-Pop. The song that stayed with me the longest.

• Cherry on Top (2024) – Their current era. A cleaner, more mainstream sound. I’m still exploring it, but it’s clear they’re thinking globally. It’s catchy, polished, and ready for international ears.

This list will evolve as I write more reviews, but already, it shows what makes BINI special. Their music isn’t just for one kind of listener. It has layers. It meets you at different seasons of your life—and that’s not something every group can do.

Eight Lights: The Members

I used to think I’d never be the kind of fan who followed individual members. I respected the music, appreciated the group, and that was enough.

Until BINI.

They made me curious. They made me notice things. And before I knew it, I was watching old livestreams, learning voices, and looking forward to how each member would shine.

I still don’t have a bias in the traditional sense. But if I had to name names, I’d say:

• Maloi – The first one who made me stop and say, “That’s art.” There’s something about how she delivers lines—thoughtful, textured. She’s grown so much as a performer, and you can feel that she really studies her craft.

• Sheena – She’s the emotional thread that runs through a lot of their performances. Her presence is soft but grounding. You know how some people just feel like the center of a group? That’s her.

• Mikha & Aiah – These two as a pair? Unmatched chemistry. They balance each other out. One’s edge matches the other’s warmth. I can’t explain it—it’s just something you see on stage and know it’s real.

• Colet, Gwen, Jhoanna, Stacey – Each one brings something the group would lack without. They’re not just backups or fillers. They’re essential. Colet’s charisma, Gwen’s calm power, Jhoanna’s quiet fire, Stacey’s surprise vocals—when you put them together, you get the full picture.

If I had to romanticize it, I’d say they’re like a day divided in four:

• Morning: Maloi and Colet — the clarity and color you need when starting the day.

• Noon: Gwen and Sheena — stable, grounding, something that holds you together.

• Dinner: Jhoanna and Stacey — comfort, reflection, joy.

• Midnight: Mikha and Aiah — mystery, emotion, afterthoughts that stay with you.

Their chemistry isn’t forced. It was formed. These girls lived together before debut. They spent years learning each other, adjusting, compromising. And it shows—not just in the performances but in the way they speak, look at each other, move in sync without needing to try.

They’re eight lights, but they never blind. They guide.

The Fandom: A New Kind of Devotion

My P-Pop fan journey started and was shaped by BINI. I had nothing to compare it to, so everything felt new—exciting, but also a bit overwhelming.

I didn’t know what being a BLOOM really meant until I realized I was one.

It started slowly—watching videos, joining livestreams, lurking in fan groups. Then came the playlists, the memes, the hashtags. And before I knew it, I was planning an actual trip just to see them.

In 2024, I flew to Manila for GFest.

I was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I had been working as a doctor by then, trying to keep it all together. But I needed a break. I used my Globe points. Booked two nights. Asked my wife for permission like a teenager asking to go out. And I went.

It was chaotic. Crowds everywhere. I couldn’t get close. I couldn’t even move properly between tiers.

But then their voices filled the air.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter how far I was.

I zoomed in as much as my phone would allow. Tried to focus. Tried to just feel it.

And I did.

The screams. The lights. The chants. The pure joy of it all. It reminded me that life doesn’t always have to make sense. Sometimes it just has to make you feel alive.

That’s what BINI gave me.

That’s what being a BLOOM meant in that moment—being part of something loud, warm, and human.

How Being a BLOOM Changed Me

I’ve been part of a lot of things in my life—church communities, medical organizations, student publications. But being a BLOOM? That was different. It wasn’t something I joined intentionally. It just… happened.

At first, it felt strange. I wasn’t used to being a fan in the traditional sense. I never collected merch. I didn’t make playlists based on group eras. I didn’t even follow many artists closely. But suddenly I was doing all of that. Quietly, and then not so quietly.

Them: 6 months ka na may work. Ano na napundar mo?

Me: pic.twitter.com/GZJaHom2QE

— Ian Leoj (@ianleoj) December 20, 2024

What surprised me most was how this fandom didn’t just pull me toward the group—it pulled me toward people.

I met fellow BLOOMs who were doctors, nurses, teachers, students, breadwinners, mothers. People who were trying to survive just like I was, but still made space to love something soft. People who were tired but still found time to be joyful.

Eventually, I joined a group chat of healthcare professionals who were also BLOOMs. We laughed about our schedules, shared photos when BINI went live, and even organized online medical consults during floods. It was the first time I saw fan culture mix with community service in such a grounded way.

During calamities, we did what we could. Shared info. Raised funds. Sent help. It wasn’t about being praised—it was about doing something together. The same unity we admired in BINI, we tried to mirror in our own small ways.

Even in my own little circle, BINI became a touchpoint.

During internship, I had a small group of friends. Most of us were too busy to talk daily. But we bonded over Karera, cheered during comeback announcements, and somehow felt a little lighter knowing there was something to look forward to—even if it was just a teaser photo or a Twitter countdown.

Being a BLOOM reminded me of the things I used to forget—how art connects, how people are more similar than we think, how something as simple as a song can feel like a reason to keep going.

Going to Work, Going Home, and the Space In-Between

There was a time when every morning felt like a wall I didn’t want to climb.

I loved my job. I still do. But there are days when the weight is too much. The expectations. The risks. The unspoken grief that comes with caring for people in their worst moments.

I would drag my feet out the door, mentally rehearse what I needed to do, and hope nothing went too wrong.

On those days, BINI was the soft hand on my back.

I played their songs on the way to work. Sometimes upbeat tracks to hype me up. Sometimes slower ones to keep me grounded. I played them again on the way home—like a decompression chamber between me and the world.

They didn’t fix my problems.

But they gave me rhythm when I had none. They gave me words when I was too tired to pray. They gave me permission to feel—even when the day demanded that I be composed and professional.

There’s this line from Huwag Muna Tayong Umuwi that always stays with me—this subtle ache of wanting to pause the world. It felt like it knew exactly what I was feeling: I wasn’t ready to face real life yet, not just yet.

Some people say music is just noise. But for me, it was medicine.

Not the kind that heals everything—but the kind that lets you breathe through the pain.

It also helped that I was rooting for BINI with my wife. She introduced me to their music after all. It was a nice bonding topic and reminisced our early days because of their songs.

Misis was so happy with the BINI NBS tote bags haha. They were meant to be a surprise, but she commented that they were cute out of the blue. Thanks, BINI, extra points tayo kay misis today 😍 pic.twitter.com/tIon4CPcul

— Ian Leoj (@ianleoj) December 10, 2024

Looking Ahead

I’m not blind to the challenges.

I know BINI has gone through a lot recently. There are rumors, issues, online noise. People speculating. People choosing sides. That comes with the territory. They’re public figures. They’re young women in an industry that eats its own.

But I’m not here to talk about that.

I want to talk about what I still believe they can become.

In five years, I hope BINI is still here—not because they’re clinging on, but because they still have something to say. I hope they’re growing, evolving, experimenting. I hope they never forget what made people love them in the first place: their honesty, their warmth, their chemistry, their Filipina identity.

I hope they explore more regional languages. I want to hear BINI in Bisaya, in Ilocano, in Hiligaynon. I want them to tap into our country’s depth and color. They’ve already done multilingual versions of Born to Win—so I know they can.

I also want them to keep integrating Filipino culture—not just as a gimmick but as DNA. Whether through styling, sound, choreography, or storytelling, I want them to keep showing the world that there’s something unique here worth listening to.

And if one day they decide to go their separate ways—to pursue solo paths, start families, shift careers—I hope they do so with peace. With pride. With no need to prove anything to anyone.

Because they’ve already made history.

They already mattered.

The Legacy I Hope They Leave

I want people to understand that girl groups aren’t shallow.

That being soft isn’t the same as being weak. That choosing joy doesn’t mean ignoring pain. That femininity, in all its versions, deserves respect—not mockery.

There’s this idea that bubblegum pop is disposable. That it’s cute for a while but has no real value. But BINI challenged that. Every track, every stage, every release—they made space for something people didn’t think they needed.

They showed us what empowered looks like without turning cold.

They showed us what teamwork feels like without erasing individuality.

They showed us what it means to grow up publicly, imperfectly, and still stay kind.

If they didn’t exist, I don’t know how far along I’d be in understanding this side of myself—the part that allowed softness again, the part that didn’t need to choose between depth and delight, the part that found peace in rhythm.

Maybe I still would’ve found P-Pop.

Maybe someone else would’ve caught my attention.

But not like this.

Not with the same gentleness. Not with the same timing.

Not with Karera playing in the background while I sat in my room while reviewing, too tired to cry but too stubborn to quit.

They came into my life like a quiet surprise. And honestly, I’m still catching my breath.

Final Lines

They didn’t change the world. But they changed mine a little.

They reminded me that sometimes, all it takes is a voice—clear, confident, kind—to shift something in you.

They reminded me that even if you’ve never danced in your life, you’ll find yourself memorizing choreography when it makes you happy.

They reminded me that you can be a doctor, a worship leader, a husband, a quiet introvert—and still scream your heart out (silently haha) when Pantropiko plays in a mall.

They made their mark by being themselves.

Empowered to empower. Standing out to make their mark.

They are Filipinas.

And they’re enriching the Filipino music scene—one release at a time.

Images in this article are used under fair use provisions for the purpose of critical commentary and cultural analysis. Copyright belongs to BINI and Star Music Philippines.

The Journey So Far

BINI was born out of the Star Hunt talent search of ABS-CBN, which was their arm for scouting talents for their various shows on the broadcaster[cm_simple_footnote id=1]. Starting in 2018 with Laurenti Dyogi, talents were featured in reality shows, including Pinoy Big Brother. The program launched P-Pop groups, and BINI was introduced in 2020 with their pre-debut song ‘Da Coconut Nut.’

In 2021, BINI debuted with the song ‘Born To Win‘ and properly started their journey to becoming a more known girl group in the Philippines. Since then, they featured various P-Pop events and kept producing music with their following and fanbase called BLOOM.

However, in 2024, BINI gained sudden renown as its hit song, ‘Pantropiko,’ went viral on social media, especially on TikTok[cm_simple_footnote id=2]. While the music was initially released in 2023, it exposed the broader audience to the girl group and gained more following in the coming months. Their inspirational song, ‘Karera,’ became the go-to graduation song for many graduates. Their singles ‘Salamin, Salamin‘ and ‘Cherry on Top‘ made waves and even reached international attention.

This sudden rise allowed BINI to become a household name and the members to be darlings of the Filipino people. This also made P-Pop reach new heights and has brought more casuals to the various fandoms, adding to the victories of the slogan ‘P-Pop Rise.’

Why the Renewal Matters

It would feel like the BINI contract renewal is like all the other contract signings by ABS-CBN, but it is a statement for the group and its impact on the Philippine music industry. The number of advertisers that have made BINI the face of their products can attest to how they can carry themselves and influence the purchasing public.

As they signed their contract for renewal feeling ko as a new bloom mas lalong tumibay ang pag hanga ko lalo sa BINI. Why? Becuase these girls are so worth it. They always proved us na we stan the right group. Thank you for your existence #BINI ♾️ WALO HANGGANG DULO.

ps: sana… pic.twitter.com/OfyJpm1cXA

— jann (@aiahbonny) February 4, 2025

At the same time, it could not be denied that ABS-CBN, though considered a giant in the broadcasting industry, currently does not have the frequency to operate as a free-to-air channel, could still possess talents such as BINI makes a statement of their influence and how they are still a major brand in the country.

THe contract renewal also brought to mind the challenges and hardships that BINI members had to endure including the years fans say they were stuck in ‘nugudom,’ but now they are being taken care of a media giant. The increase in their fans shows the great promise of their careers outside the country and for many years to come.

From 5 solid Blooms cheering for you three years ago to sealing a new chapter in the same exact place today. Grateful for the journey, the growth, and the unwavering love. Here’s to more dreams coming true! 🌸🩷 Full circle moment! #BININetworkContractSigning… pic.twitter.com/Y25DLaevpn

— BLOOM PHILIPPINES (@TEAMBLOOMPH) February 4, 2025

Aside from the mentioned implications for BINI, this highly-publicized and hyped contract renewal puts P-Pop on the pedestal and allows for hope that many more groups would end up with the same fate: a strong media company backing them, a formidable fanbase supporting them, and a fruitful career that will meet them. It gives a chance to other up-and-coming groups, even those just starting, that media companies and the Filipino audience are ready for P-Pop to bloom fully.

During the event, ABS-CBN COO Cory Vidanes emotionally emphasized how BINI manifests the best Filipino talent that could be offered to the world. It also shows that the trust and continued investment in the company in these talented girls still bear great promise shortly.

Some netizens have even pledged with their contracts to celebrate this milestone:

From passion to commitment—BLOOMS, it’s time to renew our love and support for BINI! 🌸♾️ Let’s continue shining together and celebrating their journey to the top! #BLOOMRenewal #BINIForTheWorld

HAHAHAHAHA mag sign kayo blooms tayo din may renewal ng contract!🤣🌸♾️ pic.twitter.com/1f0RHIIgPu

— val (@mainlyforaiah) February 4, 2025

It was also a chance for BINI members to thank their bosses, mentors, families, and even their bashers, as represented by BINI Aiah.

‘EITHER WALO OR WALA’

Nagpadala ng mensahe ang miyembro ng nation’s girl group “BINI” na si Aiah para sa kanilang mga bashers sa kalagitnaan ng kanilang contract renewal sa Star Magic at ABS-CBN nitong Martes, Pebrero 4.

“Minsan man na nakaka-test talaga siya, super, and… pic.twitter.com/c7oihKGbUh

— Pilipinas Today (@PilipinasToday_) February 5, 2025

What’s Next for BINI?

2025 has a lot in store for BINI, including their concluded BINI Run Mun, an iteration of the BINI Run which started in 2024, now held in Muntinlupa City, and their upcoming song ‘Blink Twice’ which will be a part of their EP, which will also be released this year.

Catch a glimpse of what’s coming on February 13, 2025 at 9PM PHT!

Pre-save ‘Blink Twice’ now and comment down below whose look is your fave!
🔗 https://t.co/kRZg9qCP2q#BINI #BINI_BlinkTwice pic.twitter.com/NifdPv1tIQ

— BINI_PH (@BINI_ph) February 3, 2025

BINI will also start their ‘BINIverse World Tour 2025’ in the Phliippine Arena becoming the first P-Pop girl group to have a solo concert in the largest indoor arena in the world. This will be a post-Valentine’s event on February 15, followed by concerts in different places worldwide, including Europe and North America.

The contract signing event also hiated on official and fanbase-led events like the BINI Day, anniversary events, and MINIVERSE. These upcoming events will ensure that BINI will continue to grow its artistry and be more engaging with its fans and hopefully allow them to have more admirers across the globe.

The Impact on P-Pop

I have repeatedly praised BINI as the group that opened my eyes to P-Pop and has influenced me to be more receptive to this music genre that, at one point, I tried to detest. They have been a significant force in bringing P-Pop to a broader audience despite the genre having its following even before the girls’ sudden boom.

As I have said above, this could be a great deal for other idols and the industry as more and more Filipinos become aware of P-pop and its promise in the Philippine music industry. The revitalization, though not entirely attributable to the girl group, has been given a significant push as more and more Filipinos listen to locally produced music.

At the same time, fans from other countries start to spring up, surprisingly, even in communities with no Filipino diaspora. As BINI’s influence is being celebrated, different groups could also be given the same level of attention, thus bringing the genre to the world map for the world to enjoy.

In this part of my post, we want to celebrate P-Pop to have the same level of support and vitality as K-pop and other pop music genres, but without support from the government and the masses, this will not be that fruitful. Here’s to hoping that this contract renewal also offers the government and other sectors a chance to invest more in our local pop scene and help Filipino musicians, P-Pop or not, produce high-quality music for everyone.

Takeaways

‘Karera‘ still rang in my mind while watching the replay and typing this post. The song was my gateway drug to BINI, and I have been hooked ever since. They said that their journey was a long and hard one, and I get that even though I encountered them while they were already widely known. I never thought I would sob as I watched the idols become emotional after signing their contracts. Still, the P-Pop movement has genuinely united the idols and fans to a shared experience, making this milestone even more special.

These are my takeaways from this event:

1. BINI deserves all their successes because they overcame obstacles in their careers. This makes the fan experience even more worthwhile as their hard work reciprocates the support we give them. We might as reasonably expect more great things to come BIN’s way and support them all the way.
2. The BINI girls will continue to grow in their careers, whether in music or other avenues they might choose. They are living models of strong Filipino women and will not just be BINI in the future. I expect them to be successful in all of their endeavors. With the kind of support their fanbase gives, it would be an exciting future for everyone.
3. All P-Pop groups should be able to have this kind of experience, wherever they are right now or whoever they may be. P-Pop groups tend to survive their challenges because of grit and their dreams. While the spotlight is for BINI and some other groups today (which they rightfully deserve), I think that we should afford everyone the same kind of support, maybe not just because of their talents but also because of their courage to face the challenges of their dreams.

As fans, we must continue encouraging these dreamers to reach their potential. BINI is rising, but they are still reaching for their dreams. Others are also on their way. As fans, our small contributions, like streaming their music, attending their concerts, tweeting about them, purchasing their merchandise, or just being there, give great hope for the future of the OPM industry and for P-Pop to continually rise.

Congratulations, BINI!

Introduction

I have not shied away from my ignorance of the idol concept before, and I’m still yet to discover the complete rationale, the process, and the terminologies. Still, it is clear that I was caught in its charm and, for months, have been rooting for the success of local P-Pop acts. The artists’ talents alone could bring hordes of supporters as these young individuals perform with the grace and discipline that any modern pop group expected.

Yet, as an observer, what struck me aside from their novel take on music is how their struggles as starting music artists were documented well and impacted their supporters and fans. I’m not saying that other artists did not have to go through these struggles; even those born to artist families have difficulty making a mark. However, in the past ten years, the formula for idols has allowed for a more nuanced idea of how artists star in the industry and how they can survive.

The idol formula, pioneered and influenced by the Japanese entertainment industry[cm_simple_footnote id=1], is primarily set apart as forming training houses or academies for their artists with a blend of a survival activity where the fittest remains. This formula was remarkably perfected by South Koreans, with the subsequent Hallyu or Korean Wave bringing the rise of K-Pop or Korean Pop, which has been identified as a catalyst for the spread of this idol phenomenon in Asia and beyond.

Since their Eastern music counterparts heavily influenced the local pop scene, it is inevitable to see that the P-Pop groups currently rising have global pop elements yet with the infusion of local culture, whether that be through songs of resilience like BINI’s Karera or the Filipino-centric branding through the costumes and dance choreographies of ALAMAT.

Whatever the production company or team, all P-Pop groups have not encountered a rigorous journey, often claiming years of their lives to reach the pinnacle of their career. The growths of many groups may not be as fruitful as some who have reached heights, especially in 2024. However, it is still relevant to consider the different appeal of P-Pop idols compared to others, even in the local music industry.

Most people could find videos of early training days, the tiring pre-debut activities, and even the low-turnout events. These, together with the outpouring of evidence of Filipino values like the importance of family, friendship, and resilience, take local and international fans to love P-Pop groups all the more. They could be seen as somewhat like underdogs we are trying to root for until they see their success. And this makes loving and supporting these groups even more inspiring and satisfying.

The Pre-Debut Grind

Akin to their Eastern pop counterparts, P-Pop also showcases talents by scouting them through talent searches, reality shows, or education- or training-based programs that aim to prepare the idols for their career. This pre-debut part would entail numerous applicants or the idols themselves, often portrayed as hardworking individuals with dreams to conquer stages with their love of music.

MNL48, claiming to be the pioneer idol group in the Philippines, a sister group of the famed AKB48 and others in Japan, was formed through a reality show/survival show featured on a noontime variety program on ABS-CBN[cm_simple_footnote id=2]. This was done through Hallo Hallo Entertainment, an arm of a local business with Japanese ties. The setup included a voting scheme for viewers with results and ratings of the performances, which led to the group’s formation. Later, iterations were done through the usual idol process in their sister groups.

Meanwhile, SB-19, hailed as the current Kings of P-Pop, was created after a talent search by ShowBT Entertainment, a Korean agency aiming to produce idol groups in the spirit of K-Pop[cm_simple_footnote id=3]. The group even trained in South Korea to hone their skills and returned to conquer the local music scene.

AJAA, one of the younger groups currently championing P-Pop music, was scouted by Cornerstone Entertainment to bring their brand of music that highlights their youthful qualities. Although previously competing in a talent search, the members could not cut but were chosen individually for their potential[cm_simple_footnote id=4].

Though these groups have different ways of finding their stardom, they have shared experiences, and their hustle to be known was quite challenging. However, how they can show their struggles to their audience sets these idols apart from others. Often, through media platforms like television or the internet, the struggles could be quickly followed and appreciated, leading the audience to empathize with their experiences.

Many groups would also prepare documentation of their experiences and let their fans know about their experiences. An example would be this showcase from KAIA, which features their pre-debut challenges:

[KAIA Docu-Series]

KAIA: Road to Debut❣️

A look into their early days as they begin their P-POP journey.

Will KAIA make it?

KAIA ROAD TO DEBUT#KAIA #KAIADebutDocuseries pic.twitter.com/vSOvGdNe9b

— KAIA Official (@KAIAOfficialPH) May 12, 2022

Adding to these challenges would be the pressure given to idols in the Philippines. A common stereotype among Filipinos is that most people sing well; thus, idols are often expected to be topmost in their vocal qualities. At the same time, as the P-Pop industry is still in its rising era, more groups are trying to make their mark, making the competition between groups seemingly stiff and strong.

Challenges, even during pre-debut, would include how the companies would consider the bankability of their idols. Without proper support, some groups may not even survive past their pre-debut.

P-pop is still far from what we have always dreamed& imagined. Investors & producers are still iffy to risk Pinoy talents to idols, altho there are some who do. Pinoy fans are still biased against ‘Pinoy Idols’ concept. I still see groups struggling to be known, or worse, to

— Gee MAPA (@jahsamaisan) June 20, 2023

Humanizing the P-Pop Stars

Reality and talent shows have been on the air since television broadcasts began. Still, the depth and the wide availability of media today made the pre-debut grind more relatable even to different walks of life. Seeing the idols striving to reach their dreams, finding out their challenges, and knowing their quirks or attitudes adds depth to the love that fans can give to these individuals.

While many groups have televised journeys, most idols have their own social media accounts where they can engage with their supporters and gain more followers. Their financial struggles and health issues are highlighted, showing people a close-up view of the challenges of being an idol.

Of course, this could sometimes hamper the privacy of the idols and might create scenarios that were not expected through their publicity. Yet it shows how human these individuals are, though they are courageous enough to follow their dreams.

Even in the face of rejection, whether unable to meet the cut or being reprimanded by mentors, humanizing the idols gives a sense of familiarity with who they are, making supporters rot for the artists unwaveringly.

The Universal Theme of Perseverance

The idea of persevering amid difficulties is a universal experience, and all people worldwide would understand this, whatever the context. However, the primary audience of P-Pop stars has a culture so ingrained in perseverance and resilience that it is sometimes already abused and taken advantage of by people in power. Even during disasters, resilience is an essential aspect of the lives of Filipinos[cm_simple_footnote id=5].

It’s no wonder that the persevering idols, though heterogeneous in their background, are seen to be figures of admiration for their ability to reflect the lives of Filipinos through their art. When people identify with those they see on their screens or listen to through their phones or radios, they establish a parasocial relationship and develop a one-sided rapport[cm_simple_footnote id=7]. Even though this pertains to different mass media products, P-Pop gained traction because of these.

In 2024, BINI was able to ride waves and become more successful than where they were in the past years. The collective is often remarked to have been admired more because of their uncensored and honest live streaming on the platform Kumu until 2023, which introduced the group to the first fanbase. While not directly related, their continued love for transparency and honesty made it possible for them to breach records and even gain more followers since then.

Through BINI’s life stories and advocacies, their fanbase, called Blooms, was able to mobilize themselves and create fan projects that reflected the journeys and growths of these idols. These initiatives have been found across fandoms in P-Pop and are a welcome trend in the music industry.

Cultural and Social Impact

The rise of P-Pop groups is an excellent welcome to the local music industry as it shows that the scene is still fertile for locals appreciating the art and music produced in the country[cm_simple_footnote id=6]. However, it also shows promise of being exported to the world together with other pop music powerhouses in Southeast Asia.

Like other trends in the Philippines, P-Pop groups have become household names and earned a following, which could even shock some idols. The love and support poured in these past few years prove that anything is possible for people with dreams, and that art appreciation of foreign music is not a threat to the local industry.

Sometimes, the fame that comes with the idols’ dream realization would be intertwined with blunders and extra struggles, including the prying eyes of other people and possible detractors across different parties. Almost everyone in the industry could testify to these problems, but as their growth shouts resilience, so, too, would the idols as they try to reach the pinnacle of their careers.

Just months ago, people would frown upon fans of P-Pop and may even call them names, but it has undergone a 180-degree turn, with love and acceptance being given even to starting groups and other aspirants. Moreover, fanbases have become venues for collective action, with fans organizing events and fundraisers to help with disaster relief and raise their idols’ causes and advocacies.

Conclusion

Who doesn’t love underdog stories? They are stories of redemption, overcoming challenges, and reaching for one’s dreams. P-Pop idols are great personifications of these qualities, which is why their stories resonate with the people.

While they have swayed their countrymen, they are on the verge of reaching more audiences. Admiring these individuals for their grit and talent is, therefore, reflective of the human experience and falls further than just enjoying their music and loving their dances; it would encompass the human stories that each idol possesses.

As enjoyers or even aspiring idols, we need to see these idols as more than just their glitz and glamor or their moves and harmonies. We should understand that when we cheer for them, stream their music, and purchase their official merchandise, we are actually participating in how they were able to overcome all their challenges. In short, our support lets us join their journey and help them reach their dreams higher, sooner, and better.

How about you? What do you think about P-Pop and the life stories of these idols? Let me know, and share your own stories.

I have had my share of a love-hate relationship with pop music for years. My conservative upbringing generally frowns on popular music, though it has penetrated our lives still.

The earliest pop group I remember was The Moffatts, whose songs my classmates in grade 1 and I would sing during breaks. International groups were more famous, but I did hear some local pop stars.

Generally, in terms of Original Pilipino Music (OPM), I was more inclined to the 90s rock bands up to the early 2000s. Their songs will still be on my playlists today. However, I will point out that people tend to look down on you when you listen to local artists, which tends to sway fans towards foreign acts.

The entry of dubbed Chinese drama series into the local stations brought in their own flavor of pop music, which lingered on the airwaves for some time. But when JPOP and KPOP went into Filipinos’ consciousness, I was not keen enough to follow, which I think developed into disdain.

Later on, when local acts followed the success of KPOP stars, I was expected not to be receptive to their music.

Initial Skepticism

I’m trying my best to keep up and start this P-Pop pilgrimage I am taking on. I am also looking to widen my appreciation of OPM and immerse myself in the culture I treasure. I can confirm that as long as the arts are appreciated and allowed to flourish, the music scene will never be doomed.

In 2017, it was announced that a sister group of AKB48 would be launched in the Philippines. It was highly publicized, and the selection process was shown on noontime TV. While I can go gaga to everything Japanese, I was not that receptive to having a local group that would behave like their overseas counterpart. MNL48 would become a pioneer in the P-Pop scene.

By this time, KPOP groups had become so famous nationwide that it became a usual trend among social media pages to call out fanaticism towards this music genre. By virtue of influence, I may have been too susceptible to share this sentiment before.

It also did not help that following trends is often considered lame and sometimes even emasculating. The genre tends to highlight visual elements, incredibly beautifying their artists, which could make an observer think that you prioritize this over the music.

While MNL48 tried to make its mark, other local groups tried to form their modern pop music take, forming artist groups akin to KPOP. The first group that comes to mind is SB19, a five-member boy group that was scouted by ShowBT, who then sent them for training in South Korea.

My former university was one of the places where SB19 performed after it debuted. However, I was not that welcoming to their brand of music, their integration of dancing into their performances, and their close similarities to KPOP groups; it made me cringe so hard.

Later on, I was able to appreciate MNL48 and enjoyed listening to their songs, especially their Filipino translations of Japanese hits. Unfortunately, it was never the same with other groups, which I continued to dismiss as cheap copycats, trying hard but failing to make their marks or cringy artist wannabes. (Yes, I was too harsh.) But things would eventually change.

The Turning Point

For years, I was dismissive of P-Pop and of OPM as a whole. Some songs may stick to me at times, but I did not have enough faith in this industry, as I was too legalistic and still emphasized that the best OPM songs were those released in the ’90s and early 2000s.

One OPM song that stuck with me was Nica del Rosario’s ‘Rosas,’ for obvious reasons. I was taken aback by how the words were weaved so expertly that I took the time and looked for her other songs. The poetry was flawless, and the cadence of the lyrics was on point. However, this was in the middle of my clinical clerkscould not able to take on an OPM journey.

Earlier this year, BINI‘s ‘Pantropiko‘ became viral because of the dance challenges on TikTok, even though the song has been around for nearly half a year. I have seen BINI on TV before and have even watched their performance of ‘Da Coconut Nut‘ on TV but never really minded them, dismissing them as just another girl group.

However, February came, and I started reviewing for my medical board examinations. My wife and some friends have been sharing BINI’s songs, especially ‘Karera,’ which should inspire us in our review process. I tried listening to the music for the first time and bawled. I cried, all my frustrations and tiredness seeping through my body as I read and reread my review materials.

I searched for the song and found it on my music streaming apps, shared my reaction with my wife, and became obsessed with it. During this time, I was still unable to explore BINI’s discography. Still, because of my interest, my wife started sharing videos of BINI, their hard work through their training, their continued patience to improve and maintain their craft, and their overall desirable qualities.

Thankfully, I passed my board examinations, and my free time allowed me to explore BINI and their songs. During this time, my wife continued to share all things BINI, saying she was obsessed with this girl group. I was hooked and became a BLOOM myself, the collective fan base of the group. As I explored their projects, I became exposed to other artists they collaborated with and started listening to other P-Pop acts.

To say that I was blown away is an understatement. I was exposed to a movement that valued creativity, performing well-written songs, presenting well-meaning and inspiring messages, and people passionate about their art. After BINI, I listened to ALAMAT, G22, Hori7on, SB19, KAIA, BGYO, and VXON.

Of course, I first hesitated because why would I spend time listening to songs by artists nearly half my age? Why would I dare listen to bubblegum-style music with polished visual looks? Why would I decipher the meaning behind the songs about teenage love or the inspiring anthems directed towards the youth? It feels off-brand for a married, nearly-middle-aged person. Yet, the musicality, lyrics, and passion caught up with me, and I became hooked.

Appreciating the Aesthetics

As I have stated above, one of my major issues with P-Pop, which initially prevented me from enjoying this genre, was the visual aesthetics being highlighted by the industry. Like KPOP’s, this aspect emphasizes beauty in promoting their music. P-Pop even adopted the KPOP positions, including the ‘visual,’ which is usually the person generally at par with the beauty standards, whether male or female.

However, I failed to realize that this emphasis is uplifting and encouraging. Even though visual members shine out among their co-members, everyone is celebrated, and their brand of beauty, especially the Filipino image, is given importance.

Visual aesthetics also involve the choreography and fashion of the P-Pop groups. In the case of BINI, their choreography stands out, and their dances frequently feature in challenges on social media accounts. Their attires also highlight local fashion artists with varied styles that often surprisingly meld seamlessly in their performances.

Perhaps the group that made me fall in love with aesthetics is ALAMAT, whose Filipino-centric branding incorporates traditional and cultural aspects in their clothes and choreography. The angst and charm they present onstage make me question why I did not pursue this path. I would have loved to perform like them.

Revitalizing Filipino Music

Aside from visual aesthetics, auditory elements also set P-Pop apart. Continuing with ALAMAT, their multilingual songs, use of traditional Filipino musical instruments in their music, or their rousing ‘Alamat, Handa, ‘Rap’ spiel wkes the soul, allowing one to be hopeful of the Filipino music scene.

While I think (especially now) that despite the foreign challenges, OPM continued to survive, P-Pop has seen a resurgence in the acceptability of admiring and following local acts after a long period of Filipinos thinking that liking international artists is cooler than loving the local scene. This may not be a general truth, but I observe this.

But what I like here is my rediscovery of how good lyricist Filipinos are. I mentioned Nica del Rosario before, who may not fit into the P-Pop categorization, but guess who was the leading composer and writer of ‘Karera;’ it’s her, the one I can call today’s Nicanor Abelardo!

P-Pop paved the way for Filipino creativity in writing to reach new heights, bearing the challenge of fitting Filipino languages (which include English) with modern music without sacrificing the essence of the lyrics. It also brings in writer-composer-singers who dance so well and present the P-Pop idol image so well.

The Influence of P-Pop

2024 has seen P-Pop groups frequent international stages for their performance and not just for the Filipino diasporic communities. Aside from being brought to the general attention of Filipinos, P-Pop has eventually seeped into the international consciousness and would perhaps have more exposure in the future.

As merely an observer, I cannot tell concretely how the local music scene has changed since P-Pop’s emergence. However, with the seemingly absent TV network wars and the general appreciation of all kinds of music, the Filipino music industry has felt P-Pop’s passion.

BINI, a known talent of ABS-CBN, has been popping up on the network’s former rival’s various TV shows. Their hits are also performed on GMA’s Sunday noontime variety show, though BINI is frequently its counterpart.

While collaboration between artists was widespread before, collaborations among PPop groups or seasoned OPM artists are also revitalizing local music. Whether this partnership involved one artist showing up on another’s music video (like in the case of Maloi from BINI in Maki‘s ‘Dilaw‘) or legendary performances (especially Gary Valenciano performing ‘Gento‘ with SB19), these are truly remarkable.

Community and Culture

Of course, fan wars and rivalries are still expected; I think it is human nature for people to want their favorite group to surpass others. It’s been happening in all waves of trends in the entertainment industry; thus, it is well expected in P-Pop.

Yet what struck me with the rise of the different groups is how individual members usually speak out in support of other groups or even praise them for what they do. It brings a sense of pride that each artist would want people in the same industry to rise and be known for their craft.

Thus, aside from toxic individuals, most relationships between fans are amicable at best. When I first posted praises for BINI, I found fans supporting me and retweeting my tweets. When I shared how ALAMAT’s ‘ILY ILY’ impacted me, I was welcomed by users to the fanbase, all who found belonging in the music and the members’ artistry.

Learning and Growth

I have always been a language junkie, and I was blessed to have learned Chinese in high school. Currently, I have three pending languages in my Duolingo app. But after I came to explore P-Pop, especially ALAMAT, I hungered to learn the local Filipino languages.

My family has also been multilingual, as I have Cebuano roots and live in the Hiligyanon-majority areas. Add to that the school’s Filipino, English, Mandarin, and Hokkien lessons. But now I think over things in Ilocano and Tausug. What if I learn more about this?

Also, the shared heritage highlighted in the songs reflected a Filipino culture that’s living, ever-evolving, and flourishing. I’m so proud to have been at the forefront of this growth in Filipino artristy.

Perhaps another personal growth for me is how I am now receptive to different types of subgenres. P-Pop has grown to feature various kinds of music genres. And I wouldn’t say I liked hip-hop and rap music before. But because of P-Pop, I now enjoy them all. I never cringed with the rap breaks and enjoyed the instrument change.

Looking Forward

I have been exposed to numerous PPop groups but have barely grazed the surface. More is yet to come, with more agencies developing their P-Pop groups. I’m still juggling the groups that drew me in and am in the process of appreciating HORI7ON (who breaks the KPOP/P-Pop divide), Press Hit Play, and KAIA.

Aside from groups, P-Pop has also opened to single acts from individual members of the groups like PABLO, Felip, and JOSH CULLEN of SB19. The industry is also ripe for single acts developed outside NCR, like Gl4ddyy, whose songs resonated with me.

P-Pop has also seen an international boost, especially this year. What does the future hold for these artists? While not concretely sure, I am confident that they will be showered with success. As long as the fans continue to support them and the industry follows through their journeys, we can be sure that P-Pop will continue to rise.

Personal Reflection

I may be late to the party, but I am dancing now. These past few months, I have opened my eyes to the promise of P-Pop and the future of OPM. It reignited my love for music in general and served as a rebuke for ignoring the Filipino music scene in the past.