Big Angel is flipping the J-pop industry on its bloated head—one deep-fried mukbang at a time.
Dubbed “the world’s heaviest girl group,” Big Angel is an 8-member ensemble of plus-sized performers who aren’t just dancing to their own beat—they’re doing it while slamming down 30,000 yen Costco hauls and all-you-can-eat sushi platters. Their lightest member tips the scale at 75kg (165lbs), and the heaviest clocks in at a meaty 110kg (242lbs). That’s not a stat they hide—on the contrary, their weight is often proudly displayed in their TikToks like a badge of honor.
Their origin story? Supposedly, they were once literal angels who got so heavy they plummeted from heaven. Their mission now is to dance, sing, and eat their way back up—though judging by their upload schedule (mukbangs every 3 days), they’re in no rush to lose altitude.
Big Angel may be making waves in the J-pop scene, but let’s not kid ourselves: music is only part of the marketing. Their catalog includes two albums and five singles, but it’s the mukbang content—full-throttle eating shows featuring greasy spreads and oversized portions—that’s likely bringing in the real money.
Their brand is unapologetically food-centric. Each member quite literally represents a dish:
Michiko (the leader): fried chicken
Eri: mayonnaise
Masaki: white rice
Mugi: ramune soda
Hana: steak
Juri: sweet potato
Haruka: melon
Moeno: macaron
Yes, macaron—because nothing says “pop idol” like a sugar crash.
Big Angel markets itself as a body-positive movement in a famously harsh industry, where female idols are expected to survive on lettuce and self-loathing. Compared to that, a group that finds joy in food and celebrates larger body types might seem like a refreshing break. And sure—credit where it’s due—they’re pushing back against a toxic diet culture that chews up and spits out young women.
Their youtube averages 75,000 views per day with top videos exceeding 6M views.
But let’s not pretend this is a revolution without consequences. Mukbangs, while masquerading as “wholesome indulgence,” are a well-documented recipe for metabolic disaster. It’s binge culture disguised as entertainment. And Big Angel, with their cutesy visuals and catchy pop songs, are pushing that diet-shattering fantasy straight into the laps of young, impressionable fans. To the health-conscious eye, it’s not liberation—it’s performative gluttony packaged in kawaii aesthetics.
The group’s promotional logic is clear: lean into the gimmick. Be so audacious that you can’t be ignored. Turn obesity into a character trait. Name your members after condiments and carbs. Ride the wave of “anti-diet” culture until the sponsorships roll in. Meanwhile, the actual artistry—the music, the dance—takes a back seat to spectacle.
So what are we watching here? A genuine act of self-love? Or a long-form food commercial dressed in fishnets and falsies?
Big Angel might be angels fallen from heaven, but they’ve landed squarely in the middle of the algorithm’s sweet spot: shameless excess, parasocial intimacy, and the monetization of dysfunction. And as long as the views roll in, they’re not going anywhere.
For guys who take their health seriously, the message is clear: there’s a fine line between rejecting beauty standards and glamorizing a lifestyle that quietly wrecks your body from the inside out. Big Angel knows how to play the game—but make no mistake, it’s junk food for the soul.
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