The Friendships Formed By K-Pop Freebie Swaps

Getty / Shane Anthony Sinclair Hours before BTS kicked off the first night of their Permission to Dance on Stage concert series in Los Angeles, fans had already turned the space outside SoFi Stadium into a celebration. Every few feet, people stopped each other to compliment outfits and hand out "freebies": glossy photocards tucked into plastic sleeves, commemorative pins, and beaded bracelets strung with song titles and members' names. The generous exchange of gifts between fans made the venue feel less like a never-ending line and more like summer camp. This was back in 2021. I had only been living in Los Angeles for a few months. Newly single and having moved across the country during the pandemic, I was trying to rebuild a routine and find community. Showing up to my first BTS concert on my own, I was nervous and a little overwhelmed by the crowds, but I never felt lonely. Somewhere in one of the winding merch lines, a Korean fan standing behind me started explaining the difference between the two versions of the ARMY Bomb — the official light stick used at BTS shows — being sold at the booth. One of them, she warned me seriously, was much harder to find. As the line shuffled forward, we talked about how we got into BTS and shared our favorite performances. After learning I was Jungkook-biased, she reached into her bag and handed me a custom photocard she printed just to give out at the concert. The interaction lasted maybe 20 minutes, but I still remember how effortlessly the conversation unfolded; it was the kind of easy, unguarded connection that came naturally when we were kids in school but has become increasingly harder to find as adults. At K-pop concerts, moments like these happen constantly, and many of them are facilitated by swapping freebies. Courtesy of Antigone Lambros. After that first BTS show, I started noticing just how much the K-Pop experience revolves around freebies — a term that feels reductive given the thought and care that's put into these gifts. Some fans spend months preparing them in advance, even when there aren't any upcoming shows on the horizon. "My sister and I started making freebies right around when the BTS members started to enlist in the military. This was way before any tour dates were ever announced, but we wanted to be ready," says Antigone Lambros, an ARMY from Montana. "It sort of became a joke in our family because we'd bring cans of beads with us everywhere we went. We'd even bring them with us on vacations, stringing together beads on planes, which made my dad nervous because he was afraid they'd spill if there was any turbulence." "At this point, we've made hundreds of bracelets, which might sound excessive, but we want to be able to give them to as many people as we can," Lambros says. This is one of the defining qualities of K-Pop fans: generosity, often expressed through the making and exchanging of freebies. Fans will spend countless hours and small fortunes creating gifts without expecting anything in return. "Making freebies adds so much to the concert experience," says Yvette Gatdula, whose first project was a resin bracelet filled with confetti streamers that fell from the stage during BTS's "Permission to Dance" show in Las Vegas. "I grabbed enough confetti to fill a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. At first, I had no idea what I would do with it all. I just knew I wanted to make and share something that would somehow preserve the joy I felt that night." This sentiment is echoed by Alisa Yeon, an ARMY from New Jersey who creates customized concert tickets as special memorabilia to give out at every show she attends. "It's so much fun to think that someone might be able to look back at this thing I made and remember the good memories of the concert," she says. Part of what makes freebie culture feel so distinct is how quickly it collapses the usual social constructs we follow. As adults, interacting with people you don't know can feel awkward, so we often bypass it altogether. People avoid eye contact on public transit. We keep conversations short in grocery store lines. After years of being chronically on our phones, many of us have grown even more accustomed to moving through public spaces shut off from one another. At K-Pop concerts, that distance seems to dissolve almost immediately. The usual discomfort of talking to strangers gets replaced by an unspoken understanding that everyone is there for the same reason: they love the same music, the same artists, the same intimate constellation of references and inside jokes that might sound unintelligible to anyone else. A freebie offers an invitation into that conversation. Some of the easiest conversations I've had as an adult have happened through these exchanges. Maybe it's because being in a fandom accelerates familiarity. Within minutes of meeting someone, it's not uncommon to discuss deeply personal things, like the song that got you through a breakup, the album you listened to during the pandemic lockdowns, the member who makes you feel understood in ways that are difficult to explain outside these spaces. Freebie culture feels like a whimsical act of resistance against the kind of loneliness fostered by modern life. For a few hours outside a concert venue, people allow themselves to be unusually open with one another. They compliment each other without hesitation. They share chargers, snacks, and sunscreen. They hold places in line for people they met just 15 minutes prior. Oftentimes, these warm interactions are just passing moments that disappear once the concert ends. Sometimes, they turn into friendships that continue long after the confetti clears. "I made a good friend through swapping freebies at a BTS concert in 2022," says Thalia Lambros, a fan (and Antigone's fellow bracelet-making sister). "After the show, I still had more freebies left over so I started giving them out to people while we all waited for our taxis to arrive. I gave one girl a photocard, and as we were talking, 'Butter' started playing loudly nearby. We both knew the choreography to it, so we started dancing together." In the four years since meeting, the two kept in touch through regular texting, FaceTiming and even having virtual BTS listening parties. They're reuniting in person at another show this fall. Though exchanging freebies may have originated at concerts, it's since extended beyond stadiums to fan meetups at cafes, movie theater screenings of shows, and everyday life. Years ago, I was rushing to a work event I was already late for in Koreatown, Los Angeles — a neighborhood where parking is notoriously hard to come by. After circling the block several times with no luck, I finally spotted a young woman walking towards her car. "Are you leaving?" I asked, lowering my window. She nodded, and I quickly pulled into her spot. It would have been a forgettable interaction had it not been for the BT21 figurine she noticed sitting on my dashboard. When I returned to my car hours later, I found a note tucked under my windshield wiper, taped to a photocard. "I saw the Tata figure on your dashboard and was so happy that my parking spot went to fellow ARMY," it read. Years later, I still keep her note inside my center console, even though the purple ink has started to fade. PS Photography / Jenny Jin One of the hardest things to explain to people outside K-pop culture is how a sense of community can emerge in such unexpected ways between strangers — and how, sometimes, those passing interactions can lead to life-changing friendships. At the very least, even a fleeting encounter can remind you of the warmth and generosity people are capable of. In 2021, I went to BTS's "Permission to Dance" concert alone at a time when almost every part of my life felt unsettled. I left the stadium that night with a bag full of handmade gifts and the comforting realization that connection can form in the smallest of exchanges. From a fan lending me a phone charger in line to another pressing a photocard into my hand simply because they wanted me to feel included, these acts of kindness gave me a sense of belonging when I needed it most. 49476804 Jenny Jin is a Los Angeles- and Seoul-based journalist who translates Korean culture for a global audience. Her work has appeared in ELLE, Harper's Bazaar, Allure, Refinery29, Travel + Leisure, Forbes, BuzzFeed, and the Netflix documentary "K for Kimbap."