Looking across Japan’s music landscape last year, no act better embodied the phrase “they did it all in their first year” than HANA. The major-label debut single, “ROSE,” entered the Billboard Japan Hot 100 at No.1 and became the fastest track by a Japanese dance-vocal group to surpass 100 million streams. They followed with “Blue Jeans” and “BAD LOVE,” making history as the first female group to simultaneously occupy the chart’s top two spots. Add a Best New Artist win at the prestigious Japan Record Awards, and an appearance on “Kōhaku Uta Gassen,” the nation’s year-end broadcast spotlighting its biggest stars, and their rise feels nothing short of decisive. Just a year earlier, these seven “drifters” were chasing what they called “salvation.” Now, as choreographer MiQael—who has been with them since the beginning—once described it, HANA is learning to imagine a different role: not as those in search of salvation, but as those who offer it.
Their point of departure was rejection. When BMSG and its CEO, SKY-HI, began developing a new girl group, they partnered with CHANMINA—an artist with an especially devoted following among teens and twenty-somethings—to announce the 2024 audition program “No No Girls.” From the outset, the project set itself apart. Its striking slogan read: “Height, weight, and age don’t matter. Just show us your voice and your life.” It was a radical proposition. The show reached out to those who had been told “no”—about their appearance, their bodies, their voices—or who had internalized that rejection and learned to tell themselves they were not enough. That singular ethos fostered a kind of courage rarely extended to the hesitant. Applications poured in from around the world, totaling roughly 7,000. The number was not just impressive; it was telling—a measure of how many aspiring talents had been denied simply for failing to conform to the world’s standards.
What made the program especially compelling was that it did not revolve around “proving skill” nor treat competition as the ultimate goal. CHIKA had spent years drifting from one trainee system to another, her sense of self steadily eroded by relentless evaluation. JISOO, during her time at a Korean agency, pushed herself with such severity in pursuit of perfection that self-discipline blurred into self-punishment. MOMOKA finished 20th on “PRODUCE 101 JAPAN THE GIRLS,” stopping just short of debut. NAOKO, bound by strict self-censorship and a naturally reserved temperament, often missed the very moments when she needed to step forward. For women who had long measured themselves not in credit but in penalties, the assignments presented under the banner of “judging” became something else entirely. They became a space to confront themselves, to make peace with who they were, and in doing so, to emerge with a clearer, more assured sense of self.
If there was a moment when the audition’s direction came into sharp focus, it was the fourth-round creative mission. Given only a track and tasked with building a performance from the ground up, the contestants were shown that the goal was not flawless execution, but the excavation of something distinctly their own. In creating a fully realized piece together, the program illuminated another truth: that “the other” can become the key to revealing parts of oneself that might otherwise remain unseen. Comparison was not dismissed—but neither was it allowed to curdle into self-loathing. When competition evolves into a relationship, when a rival is recognized as “another version of myself,” self-belief widens. It begins to move beyond the individual and make room for others. That is why CHANMINA’s words to the members—“If you can’t believe in yourself, then believe in me.”—landed with such force. It was a simple, universal language, one that ultimately drew 560,000 concurrent viewers to the final live evaluation.
Their trajectory since their debut carries forward the very ethos that defined the audition: the ongoing pursuit of their own potential. Paradoxically, what binds their discography so far is the absence of a fixed genre. The Latin-tinged “ROSE” and “Burning Flower,” the wistful strain of modern rock in “Blue Jeans,” the buoyant, trend-conscious pop of “My Body,” and “NONSTOP,” which devotes its entire runtime to rap, each stake out different coordinates. The prevailing impression is one of continual self-challenge. Moderation does not appear to be in their vocabulary; at every turn, they lean toward their limits. It reads less as restlessness than as resolve—a determination to keep extending the arc of growth they have begun to trace.
They have also moved beyond rigid vocal frameworks, shaping each song around the distinct grain of its members’ voices. Rather than adhering strictly to a demo, they approach a track by asking what only they can bring to it—what role, what texture, what inflection belongs uniquely to them. “BAD LOVE” offers an especially telling example from a vocal standpoint. In the chorus—particularly on the line, “’Cause I’m just a kid, I’m just a kid”—each member introduces her own subtle variation. The result is not uniformity, but a group dynamic rooted in latitude and individual expression.
Their approach to lyrics further deepens the immersive quality of their music. In one interview, KOHARU reflected, “There’s a line in ‘Burning Flower’ that says, ‘I’m the hottest one.’ To sing that line truthfully, I had to look back at the kind of person I’m living as right now.” The question of which emotional state to align with a given phrase ultimately resolves into sincerity—and that sincerity has the power to stir feelings long left dormant. The weight and conviction that anchor “Cold Night,” where they cling to self-trust despite lingering negative self-perceptions, emerge from that same process. It works because they layer their lived experiences into the music earnestly and without reservation.
Their success also carries broader implications within today’s music market. As girl groups like NiziU and KATSEYE emerge from domestic agencies with an eye toward overseas markets, and as examples multiply in which nationality and production origins blur—from ROSÉ’s “APT.”, backed by global labels and capital, to “Golden” from the animated series KPop Demon Hunters—the definition of K-pop itself grows increasingly porous. Within this shifting terrain, HANA seems to occupy yet another in-between space. Their multinational lineup, audition-show formation, tightly structured songs, and high-difficulty, razor-sharp synchronized choreography all adhere closely to the grammar of K-pop. Yet without the cultural context of diversity embedded in the Japanese market, their particular distinctiveness might have been harder to sustain. By carefully layering—without flattening—the varied backgrounds of their applicants, they have constructed a form of universality: one that transcends nationality or language, and quietly affirms music’s ability to connect through shared values and narrative.
Their self-titled debut studio album, which came out in late February, marks a new beginning following an incredibly busy year. Their confidence may falter again; another “No” may still await them. But over the past twelve months, we have already witnessed something undeniable: that comparison can be transformed into fuel for growth rather than self-loathing; that when you cannot believe in yourself, you can lean into belief in the person standing beside you; that it is permissible not to be perfect. These are not platitudes casually offered for comfort. They are a luminous blueprint forged from the collision of seven restless journeys.
And that narrative does not belong to the seven members alone. It speaks to anyone who has been told “No” for failing to fit the world’s mold—and who, despite that rejection, still longed to raise their voices. Even if one begins in a place of denial, the moment one chooses to stand on that ground becomes the moment one can turn into someone else’s affirmation: a lost soul once chasing salvation becoming a source of it. In an era defined by comparison and competition, HANA’s music—rooted in the belief that we protect and fortify one another—is quietly becoming a starting point for someone else. It carries a fragrance unmistakably its own.