TW: Contains brief discussions of suicide and mental health themes
It’s long been clear that Kim Hyung-seo, better known as BIBI, has never been interested in fitting the idol mould. From her debut album Lowlife Princess: Noir to her latest release EVE: Romance, she’s carved out a persona that feels entirely her own. So when Melbourne finally landed a stop on the EVE world tour, expectations—at least for those in the know—were high.
For me, though, and I suspect many others there, we walked in without much context. My friend and I had long admired BIBI’s sound, drawn to her moody production, sultry delivery, and alluring charm, but as English speakers, we’d only ever caught fragments of what she was really saying. As the night unfolded, it became clear just how much of BIBI’s world we’d only ever half-understood.
Outside Festival Hall, the queue curled around the block; a slow-moving tide of strangers suspended between anticipation and apathy. My friend and I filled the lull with a volley of increasingly absurd would-you-rathers until, at last, we were swept inside. That’s when I caught my first hint of what awaited us: a warning sign taped to the wall. In my rush, I only registered one line: “flashing lights.” It was small, almost forgettable, yet it stuck with me. I’d never seen a notice like that at any concert before, and as I found my seat and waited for the lights to dim, I couldn’t help but wonder why.
What follows, however, is unexpectedly subdued. BIBI stepped onto the stage to a wave of cheers and opened with the dreamy glide of ‘Midnight Cruise,’ followed by ‘Hangang Gongwon,’ delivered quite restrained. Two songs in, and she hasn’t moved from the centre stage. I caught myself wondering: Is this what the whole night will be?
But just as quickly, she shattered that thought. BIBI launched into what I didn’t realise would be a night of relentless crowd work. She introduced herself, bantered with the audience, and within minutes, her charm had completely taken over. By the time she began her viral hit ‘Scott and Zelda,’ joined by her dancers in a whimsical, K-drama-like sequence, the show had found its rhythm.
From there, she never let that energy slip. Each song arrived as a shift in mood, marked by a change in backdrop, lighting, and outfit. After the sweet, crush-like innocence of ‘Scott and Zelda’ followed by ‘Bam Yang Gang,’ BIBI pivoted. “Is everyone over eighteen?” she teased, before ducking backstage and re-emerging moments later as a full femme fatale, launching straight into ‘Burn it.’
The stage pulsed red as BIBI stepped into a new version of herself, bold and unfiltered. In that moment, everything clicked: the flashing-light warning at the door, the lyrical layers we’d only half grasped, and the deliberate construction of her world. It no longer played out like a concert, but more like musical theatre—something BIBI herself says outright later, though you can sense it long before she says it.
BIBI also wove a series of VCRs (pre-recorded short films) tied to EVE: Romance into the set. It was clear she didn’t come to Melbourne just to showcase her versatility as a musician, but also her vision as a director and actor. Each clip extended the show’s narrative, with BIBI embodying the character of EVE, a woman consumed by depression who ultimately takes her own life. The portrayal was graphic and emotionally jarring, and I found myself wondering if the sequence might have benefitted from a trigger warning.
But discomfort, it seemed, was the point. Through the fractured storyline of EVE and her clone, EVE-1, who descends into madness trying to claim her own identity, BIBI turned her stage into a fever dream of identity and obsession. The vignettes revealed her not only as a captivating performer, but as a complex, multifaceted storyteller—unafraid to confront darkness, vulnerability, and reinvention on her own terms.
Yet amid all the spectacle, what grounded the night was her instinct for connection. A one-hour set stretched to nearly two and a half as she bantered with fans, fielded questions, and even climbed into the pit to chat about their jobs. During ‘Best Lover,’ she pulled a VIP onto stage—a young man, Peter, who matched her chaotic energy with equal enthusiasm. Their chemistry was surprisingly electric, and as they chatted before the song began, she laughed “You’re actually funny!", causing the whole room to erupt.
By the finale, BIBI’s energy bordered on delirious joy. She closed with ‘Binu,’ her first-ever release, before thanking the crowd, urging everyone to “stay healthy” and “take your medicine.” Moments later, her manager half-dragged her off mid-monologue, a finale only BIBI could pull off.
As the lights rose, the crowd stayed suspended for a beat, still caught between laughter and disbelief. BIBI had blurred the line between performance and something deeply personal, and Melbourne was left dazed in her light.
Photograph by Tammy Choo / @tammy.choo, via Amnplify.