By Hasan Beyaz
When you hit play on HANRORO’s music, it feels closer to a private thought, articulated carefully and shared only when it’s ready. That intimacy is what makes her presence within Korea’s indie landscape feel so distinct. Not because she arrived loudly, but because she arrived with a kind of painful honesty that resists performance.
Born in 2000, HANRORO didn’t begin her twenties with a clear sense of artistic direction. She was studying Korean Language and Literature, living as an ordinary college student, when the global pause of the COVID-19 pandemic forced a moment of stillness that many people recognise but few articulate. Confined to her room and surrounded by uncertainty, she found herself asking what mattered enough to try in a world that suddenly felt fragile. The answer – music – wasn’t the result of long-term planning, but of urgency. A decision made in the face of impermanence.
That question has never really left her. If tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, what’s worth trying? It’s baked into everything she’s made since, permeating her lyrics and shaping the emotional temperature of her work. Early recognition came quickly, including nominations at the Korean Music Awards and public support from artists like BTS’s RM, LE SSERAFIM’s Huh Yunjin, and NMIXX’s Haewon. Her songwriting has also resonated strongly with her peers. TXT’s members, particularly Soobin, have spoken openly about their admiration for her music, and in 2023 she contributed as a songwriter to the group’s album The Name Chapter: FREEFALL, penning “Skipping Stones.” The track frames endurance through fragility, using rippling water as an image for inner turbulence – and the resolve to keep going anyway. That balance, strength found through vulnerability rather than denial, mirrors the emotional core that runs through her own work.
That balance, strength found through vulnerability rather than denial, mirrors the emotional core that runs through her own work.
Rather than pushing her toward something louder or more commercial, that visibility seems to have inspired HANRORO to move further inward. Her work often chooses reflection over resolution, and that choice is precisely what gives it generational weight. Artists who sit at the centre of youth culture – and who are themselves navigating pressure, visibility, and expectation at an extreme level – recognise her voice as truthful. But that recognition isn’t confined to her peers. For many listeners, her music offers a way to articulate feelings that resist easy resolution: the exhaustion of constant self-definition, the fear of choosing wrongly, and the fragile hope of continuing anyway.
By 2024, HANRORO was named an Apple Music Up Next Korea artist and made her first national television appearance, her presence still understated but increasingly assured. Yet the real through-line in her work isn’t momentum so much as restraint. Across her catalogue, she returns to youth, pressure, friendship, and survival without rushing toward answers, allowing space for recognition rather than closure.
That instinct reaches its clearest form in JAMONG SALGU CLUB, her 2025 project that expands her songwriting into literature. Paired with her first published short story of the same name, the EP reflects her growing sense that three-minute songs were no longer enough space to hold what she wanted to say. Together, the music and the book trace a fragile emotional landscape shaped by loss, endurance, and the difficult decision to keep going.
For listeners navigating their own uncertainty, HANRORO’s music doesn’t always offer neat and tidy answers. She offers something rarer: language for feelings that haven’t fully settled yet. Some artists feel important because they’re everywhere. HANRORO feels important because she says the things people don’t yet know how to say.
Amid a packed end-of-year schedule, HANRORO caught up with tmrw via email to reflect on JAMONG SALGU CLUB, her growing sense of responsibility as an artist, and where her curiosity is pulling her next.
1. You were a regular college student before discovering music. What made you realise you wanted to pursue this seriously?
When the world came to a halt because of COVID-19, everything felt frozen. In my early twenties, stuck inside my room, I was overwhelmed by emptiness and a swirl of worries. I asked myself, “In a world where I could die tomorrow, what is the one thing I truly want to try?” And the answer was music.
2. You studied Korean Language and Literature. How does that background shape the way you write lyrics and build stories in your music?
Honestly, I don’t think my classes themselves had a major impact… But the philosophical conversations I shared with a few friends in the Korean Literature department, and the fragile, uncertain feelings we experienced at that young age – those were what truly shaped my lyrics.
3. The JAMONG SALGU CLUB EP and the published JAMONG SALGU CLUB short story are very connected. How did the idea of combining music and literature first begin?
I started to feel that a three-minute song was too small a space to hold all the messages I wanted to share with the world. I’d always said that writing a book was on my bucket list, and since I finally had the time, I decided to dive in headfirst – just like when I first started making music.
From the beginning, I also hoped that the songs from “JAMONG SALGU CLUB” would be used as active soundtrack pieces for the novel – the way sound plays an important role when you’re reading a book or watching a film. In a way, I guess those hopeful desires are what brought me to where I am today.
4. The EP is organised around “death”, but it carries messages of courage and hope. What was the most difficult emotion to express honestly while writing?
It wasn’t exactly difficult, but there was a kind of worry that stayed with me. I believe everyone has their own way of accepting “departure(loss).” Personally, I prefer to grieve fully, cherish the longing, and then live the rest of my life well while looking forward to the day we meet again.
But I sometimes wondered how people who can’t relate to that approach – or who prefer the complete opposite approach – would feel when listening to my songs.
In the end, I came to believe that if these tracks can offer another perspective, and if someone can receive them as a new, different form of comfort, then the songs have fulfilled their purpose. That conclusion helped me settle my worries.
5. “0+0” feels like the moment when light finally appears. How do you write about hope in a way that still feels real?
I don’t think it was something I was able to do purely on my own. I think it naturally feels real because we know the truth is that hope is never really far from us. Even in the midst of real-life misfortunes, we’re beings who can look toward tomorrow if we’re given even the smallest spark of hope. All I did was play a part in reminding people of that truth – gently lighting that tiny spark again…
6. Many young listeners say your music comforts them, and you seem to be a voice for your generation. Do you think about this responsibility when you write, or do you focus only on your own truth?
In the beginning, I focused more on expressing my own emotions, but these days I feel a much greater sense of responsibility. I constantly think about how I can reach more people – how I can communicate with them and offer comfort.
My ultimate goal is to become a voice that speaks not just for my generation, but for people as human beings, beyond time and age.
7. RM, Yunjin, Haewon, and TXT have all supported your work. How have these moments affected your confidence or your career?
There’s nothing quite like being praised by people who work in the same field. Looking at it from another angle, it also made me realize that people of all kinds – regardless of profession, gender, or age – are genuinely enjoying my music.
That gave me a lot of courage. It made me want to keep creating songs that can reach even more listeners.
8. Your concerts have grown so much since 2023. What goes through your mind now when you perform on a much bigger stage?
I had three thoughts running through my mind. First, “So I’ve come this far by continuously putting in the effort.” Second, deep gratitude for my fans. And third, “But I still have so much more I want to achieve!”
Knowing how rare it is to be in an environment that fuels this kind of positive desire, I remind myself to stay steady – to work hard, stay humble, and keep making music without losing energy.
9. Your songs often deal with youth, pressure, friendship, and survival. Who do you feel you’re writing for the most – your past self, people your age, or the next generation?
It’s always about who I am at this very moment. Whether I’m longing for the past, sending a message about living together, or wishing happiness for the next generation – those are all things the present ‘me’ is thinking and feeling. So I try to stay faithful to my current thoughts, nothing more and nothing less, and express them as honestly as I can.
10. You debuted as a published author this year. Do you want to continue writing books, or was this story something unique you felt you needed to express?
I don’t know when it will be, but if the opportunity comes, I hope to keep writing. It has a creative charm that’s different from music, and if it can become a powerful tool to complement my songs – like it did for this album – I wouldn’t hesitate to take on the challenge again.
11. After finishing a project like JAMONG SALGU CLUB that connects music and literature so closely, what direction are you most curious to explore next?
I want to explore two things: warm-hearted people trying to build a kind world, and the quiet desire to reduce unnecessary friction in a finite life. Lastly, whatever form it takes, I hope to keep growing into an artist who keeps kindness in my heart.