Born Kim Hyeong-seo, BIBI has always been hard to define. She is a singer, songwriter, actress, and creative force who bends K-R&B and Alt-Pop into something raw and deeply personal.
Signed under Feel Ghood Music and 88rising, she has collaborated with artists like Tiger JK, DEAN, Jackson Wang, and Rich Brian.
Unlike most idols, she is unfiltered and self-styled, unafraid to mix the cute with the sensual, the playful with the tragic. That tension, BIBI vs EVE, is what this tour was built on, a duality that felt less like theatre and more like a tug-of-war between the human and the myth.
This was her first-ever New Zealand show, and the Aotea Centre was filled long before she arrived. The energy in the room was already feverish before the lights dimmed, the crowd humming with excitement, with their glow sticks, merch and their loved ones.
When a 70s-style film reel flickered onto the screen, the atmosphere shifted from restless to electric. The fog rolled in, the music swelled, and through the haze she appeared, stepping into the light with an easy smile and a wave.
This was my first K-Pop concert, and I came in with little context. My knowledge of Korean entertainment was limited to a handful of dramas and Taehyung’s Eyes, Nose, Lips.
What struck me immediately was the runtime. Western acts I’ve seen, like Twenty One Pilots, might stretch to two hours at most. BIBI’s show ran close to three and this is normal for K-Pop acts, with a 26-song setlist and encores that stretched late into the night.
The time was filled not just with music but with storytelling, comedy, and film-like interludes. She spoke openly and often, chatting about her day, her gratitude to fans, the origins of songs. It felt spontaneous and intimate, like a small club show hidden inside a grand theatre.
Through the interludes, the story of EVE, BIBI’s pop-star clone alter ego, unfolded. Between songs, short films projected EVE’s story, a surreal and emotional narrative of rebirth and self-destruction.
The transitions were moody and cinematic, exploring the line between identity and performance.
When BIBI played EVE, she was fierce and magnetic under red light. When she dropped the character, she became disarmingly real, teasing the audience and laughing at her own jokes.
Some scenes touched on darker imagery involving death and self-harm. They were powerful but intense, and a short content warning beforehand might have been considerate.
The set moved fluidly between moods and genres. Scott & Zelda transformed the stage into a dreamlike library, complete with dancers acting out scenes from her music videos.
Bam Yang Gang carried a nostalgic sweetness, only to be followed by Burn It (feat. DEAN), where she disappeared backstage and re-emerged in a purple two-piece surrounded by dancers and a bed glowing in red light.
It was theatrical, sensual, and completely commanding.
Sugar Rush burst with energy and choreography, while Hongdae R&B saw her pull on a leather jacket and tell stories about nights out in the Hongdae music district.
Real Man played with shadows and silhouettes, her movements sharp against the stage lights.
Apocalypse turned into an exercise in stamina and precision, with BIBI joking mid-song as though choreography had become second nature.
Winter brought a shift in tone, her voice soft and vulnerable as she stood in a white gown. Later, Blue Bird saw her return with wings, a visual that somehow managed to feel both extravagant and sincere.
The most unexpected moments came when she left the stage and wandered through the crowd, microphone in hand, asking people what they did for a living. The answers were as varied as the people themselves. Students, lawyers, dragon dancers, and even a stripper.
She laughed, teased, and listened, genuinely curious. When she realised some of the crowd were underage, she burst out laughing. Oh no, my songs are all R-rated, she said, shaking her head. The exchange went on for nearly twenty minutes. It could have been shorter, but no one seemed to mind.
It was chaotic and unscripted, but it made the entire room feel like part of the show. At one point, a fan even taught her the Māori word aroha, meaning love, and she repeated it softly with a smile.
Later, during City Love, she brought a fan onstage to celebrate his birthday. She asked if he had a lover, and without hesitation, he said yes, you. The crowd screamed in delight.
As they performed Best Lover together, she paused to ask if it was okay to be touchy. He gave her an approving gesture, and the performance that followed was part serenade, part theatre. They sang, laughed, and maintained eye contact through the song. When it ended, she handed him a signed Polaroid and a piece of merch. It was playful but also deeply genuine, the kind of moment that could only happen once.
The night ended with Kazino and Binu, early fan favourites that left the crowd swaying and singing along followed by a three-song encore.
When the final note faded, she took a group photo with everyone, thanking New Zealand for welcoming her. You were my first love tonight, she said before waving goodbye.
As the lights came up, people lingered in the aisles, still talking, still glowing from what they’d just seen. It was more than a concert. It felt like stepping into someone’s private mythology. BIBI blurred the line between art and confession, pop star and storyteller.
In a time when so much Pop music feels packaged and algorithmically precise, her show was something else entirely. It was imperfect, alive, unpredictable, and full of heart. She didn’t just sing her songs; she lived them in real time, with all the awkwardness and beauty that entails.
And that is what made the night so special. Because whether you came for the theatrics, the sensuality, or simply the music, there was no mistaking the feeling.
This night, this room, these people, this version of her — it all happened only once. The kind of magic that doesn’t fade when you leave the venue, but lingers quietly, colouring the days that follow.
Azrie Azizi
Photos by Den
