I remember the exact moment hyperpop stopped being a niche joke and became inevitable. It was 2021. I was scrolling TikTok, half-watching some dance challenge, when this sound hit me. It wasn't a song. It was a glitch. A pitched-up, autotuned scream layered over a beat that sounded like a PlayStation 2 exploding. I checked the track: "MONEY" by That Kid. Within a week, that song had been used in over 200,000 videos. Here's the shocking part: hyperpop, a genre literally named after a 2017 Spotify playlist, now generates over a billion streams annually. A billion. For a genre that started as a joke between a few producers on Discord.
Let's be honest: most people still think hyperpop is just "weird music for weird kids." They're not wrong, but they're missing the point. Hyperpop isn't a genre — it's a rebellion against the algorithm. And somehow, it won.
The Secret Origin Nobody Talks About
Most articles will tell you hyperpop started with A.G. Cook and Sophie. That's true, but it's boring. Here's what most people miss: hyperpop was born from boredom and bandwidth.
In 2017, Spotify launched a playlist called "Hyperpop" — initially a funny label for a small group of artists making deliberately over-the-top pop music. The sound was a Frankenstein's monster: sped-up vocals from J-pop, crushed 808s from trap, the chaotic energy of skramz, and the production polish of PC Music. But here's the kicker — the genre didn't take off because of the music. It took off because of the internet.
I've found that hyperpop's real origin story is in the infrastructure of the modern web. These artists didn't need labels. They needed a laptop, a cracked copy of FL Studio, and a Discord server. The community grew organically through shared playlists and mutual follows. By 2019, a scene had formed — not in a city, but in a Google Doc.
Why TikTok Became Hyperpop's Perfect Petrie Dish
TikTok didn't just adopt hyperpop — it needed hyperpop.
Think about it. Traditional pop is designed for radio. It has verses, choruses, bridges — a narrative arc. Hyperpop has none of that. A hyperpop song might be 90 seconds long, change tempo three times, and feature a verse from a vocaloid. That's not a bug; it's a feature. On TikTok, you have 15 seconds to hook someone. Hyperpop is all hook, no filler.
Here's what I noticed during the pandemic: people were starved for novelty. The algorithm rewarded chaos. A normal pop song felt safe. A hyperpop track — with its glitchy artifacts, pitch-shifted vocals, and sudden genre shifts — felt like a dopamine hit. It was the musical equivalent of a jump scare.
The numbers back this up. In 2020, hyperpop tracks on TikTok saw a 400% increase in usage. Songs like "SugarCrash!" by ElyOtto and "Haunted" by Laura Les became mainstays. But here's the secret: the songs that blew up weren't the most experimental. They were the most memetic. The weirdness was a feature, not a flaw.
The 3 Pillars That Made Hyperpop Mainstream
I've been thinking about this for years, and I've distilled it down to three forces that broke hyperpop into the mainstream.
1. The Algorithm Loves Extremes
Spotify's Discover Weekly, TikTok's For You Page, YouTube's recommendation engine — they all reward novelty. A song that sounds like everything else gets lost. A song that sounds like a broken washing machine? That gets shared. Hyperpop's sonic extremity is a cheat code for virality. It triggers curiosity, confusion, and eventually, addiction.
2. The Community Built the Feedback Loop
Hyperpop artists don't just make music — they make content. They stream production on Twitch, share stems on Discord, and respond to fans on TikTok. This creates a feedback loop where fans feel like co-creators. When "Hand crushed by a mallet" by 100 gecs went viral, it wasn't just a hit song — it was a meme. People made remixes, covers, and visualizers. The community did the marketing.
3. The Collapse of Genre Boundaries
Let's be real: the old gatekeepers are gone. Radio doesn't matter. MTV doesn't matter. What matters is the playlist. Hyperpop doesn't respect genre. It steals from everywhere. A hyperpop track might sample a Nintendo DS startup sound, a country twang, and a screamed chorus. This genre-fluid approach means hyperpop can appear in pop, rap, EDM, and even metal playlists. It's a parasite that thrives in every ecosystem.
The Dark Side of the Glitch
I won't pretend hyperpop is all sunshine and pitch-shifted rainbows. There's a real cost to this success.
Artists are burning out. The hyperpop sound relies on intensity — both in production and performance. Laura Les of 100 gecs has openly discussed the mental health toll of maintaining that chaotic energy. Many hyperpop producers are still teenagers or early-20s artists who went from bedroom producers to international fame in months. The pressure is immense.
The genre is also being co-opted. Major labels have noticed. They're signing hyperpop-adjacent acts and sanding off the edges. What started as a genuine underground movement is now being polished into a product. I've seen "hyperpop" playlists on Spotify that are just generic pop songs with a bit of autotune and a faster BPM. It's losing its soul.
And let's not ignore the gatekeeping. As hyperpop enters the mainstream, the original community is pushing back. There's a growing tension between the "real" hyperpop fans (who want the experimental, abrasive stuff) and the new fans (who discovered it through Charli XCX or TikTok). It's the same story that happened to punk, emo, and indie rock. The underground gets discovered, then it gets diluted.
Where Hyperpop Goes From Here
Here's my prediction: hyperpop won't stay a genre. It will become a tool.
Think about it like sampling in hip-hop. In the 90s, sampling was a specific aesthetic. Today, it's a production technique used everywhere. Hyperpop is heading the same way. The glitchy production, extreme pitch-shifting, and chaotic structures are being absorbed into pop, rap, and even country. You're already hearing it — the "hyperpop-ification" of mainstream pop. Olivia Rodrigo's "bad idea right?" has that frantic energy. Drake's recent work has moments of glitchy chaos.
The genre name might fade, but the sound is here to stay.
The Real Takeaway
I've watched hyperpop go from a niche Discord joke to a chart-topping force. And honestly? I'm conflicted.
Part of me misses the weirdness. The days when a hyperpop playlist was a secret handshake. When you could drop a 90-second track with a screaming vocaloid and only 500 people would hear it — but those 500 people got it.
But the other part of me is excited. Hyperpop proved that weird music can win. That you don't need to sound like everyone else to break through. That the internet, despite all its flaws, can still elevate something genuinely strange and beautiful.
So here's my question to you: What's the next hyperpop? What weird, niche, experimental sound is bubbling up in some Discord server right now, waiting to be discovered?
Because I guarantee you — it's already happening. You just haven't heard it yet.
