Bangtan Hermana Notes: The Kinship in BTS’s Narrative of Return

When news of BTS walking the King’s Path broke across social media, many of us instinctively affixed “of the King” to the word return. As an author of folklore retellings and someone who has studied folk art, I think this calls for unpacking. BTS’s album title is Arirang, positioned as a folk song, a song of the people. An intangible art.

Folk songs are art whose material is people. They are intangible not because they are unreal, but because they live only through being carried across seasons, borders, and generations.

I am not rejecting honor, especially when ARMYs before me have invested deep fan labor. I am staying true to the form of Arirang as an art in itself, which BTS has chosen to name their comeback album. Seen this way, BTS engaging Arirang is not merely converting cultural heritage into pop.

It is them stepping into a role that is older than pop: the carrier. The bearer of culture.

BTS is moving from palace threshold to civic space to open square. From history into the present. From one voice to many.

Kinship, in this reading, is not symbolic. It is structural. Folk songs are never held by the singer alone; they survive because they are sustained by a chorus. This is where ARMY enters not just as audience, not merely as consumers, but as co-carriers.

Millions of us will never meet, yet we recognize ourselves in the same song, at the same time, across distance and difference. That shared act of listening, repeating, and remembering is what turns sound into belonging. When BTS sings Arirang, they are not simply addressing a market; they are calling a kin group into being again. A people imagined into relation through voice, timing, and care. This is not fandom as hierarchy nor a parasocial relationship. It is community as chorus.

This is also why, for me, the shorthand “kings of K-pop” fails to hold. Kingship relies on vertical power, singular ascent, and fixed centers. What BTS has built over a decade and more, does not move that way, despite ARMY’s valiant campaigns across charts and voting seasons. BTS’s work spreads laterally through themes that recur rather than resolve (the Möbius strip at Sowoozoo), through members who diverge and return without severing the root (solo mixtapes, songs, and projects during the enlistment era), through listeners who form countless nodes of meaning across cultures and generations (ARMY as a diverse fandom). In this structure, nothing depends on a throne. Nothing requires a crown. The song moves because people move with it. If this return matters, it is not because rulers are being restored, but because a shared imagination is being renewed, one that resists enclosure, survives translation, and remains alive precisely because it does not belong to anyone alone.

A folk song’s light flickers. It endures not because it is fixed, but because it is vulnerable enough to be carried. Its life depends on repetition, memory, and people choosing to keep singing even when conditions are uncertain or difficult. Spectacle can amplify it, but it can also thin it out. Smoothing the roughness, closing the gaps where ordinary people once stepped in. Kinship is what protects the song here. When meaning is shared rather than owned, when the chorus matters as much as the voice at the center, the song stays alive. What is at risk in moments like this is not relevance, but intimacy.

So I stay with the tension. I let the scale be what it is, and I keep my attention on the smaller movements: how the song is framed, how restraint is practiced, how space is left open for listeners to enter. Folk traditions survive not by being resolved into monuments, but by remaining passable: hand to hand, voice to voice, generation to generation. If Arirang continues to flicker through this return, it will be because kinship, not kingship, is doing the carrying.

#BTSComeback2026 #BTS_ARIRANG