In the photo studio, a flash pops every five seconds, bookmarking each scene in the courtship that takes place between camera and subject.

JY shoves his fists into his pants pockets, tilts his head and gives the camera a smoldering stare. Flash. He grabs both sides of his pants, turns his body toward the camera, lifts his chin and offers his best thuggish glower. Flash. Staring at the ground, he busts out a few shuffle ball changes, then looks up casually at some far-off distance, his hands slightly gesturing as if he’s just asked a question. Flash.

By now, the photographer and onlookers have fallen away and JY and the lens are in their own world. He gives, the camera takes. He gives, the camera takes.

When the flashing pauses, the magic breaks and the intensity fades. JY, 32, instantly doffs his dramatic persona and now appears pretty ho-hum about having to be at the KoreAm office on a Saturday.

After being fussed over by his stylist, who outfits him in a sweater, black pants with drawstrings at the ankles and suede boots, he slides over to the stereo and peruses the editor in chief’s sad CD collection. Passing over the Celine Dion and Elton John, he is disappointed when he can’t find Alicia Keyes. (Seriously, who doesn’t have Alicia Keyes?) He settles for Usher, and just before the music starts, he sings, “I think that you should let it burn,” in his Korean-accented English.

The real Usher begins to croon, and the camera is ready for its last round, so JY again manages to pull out a dozen different poses in less than a minute, this time while he sings along with R&B’s hottest darling.

“When I’m hurtin’, baby, I ain’t happy, baby,” JY warbles, with his eyes closed. His face is pained and his muscular 6-foot body gently rocks to the music, his hands pulled into exaggerated fists.

It’s the kind of over-emoting that’s best reserved for private performances in the shower. But then again, he’s Park Jin Young, a bona fide K-pop star who makes his living singing with overwrought sentiment and lively gesticulations.

He’s been dubbed the Michael Jackson of Korea, in a country that heralds what I’ve always thought to be a sappy, superficial music scene. (When I mention my feelings on K-pop to JY, he nods his head and says, “I’m a part of K-pop, and I feel responsible when somebody says that [to] think, ‘I’ll work more harder.’ I totally know what you mean, and I somewhat agree with what you’re saying.”)

The “King of Pop” comparison is overwhelming, even for him, and really, who knows if anyone is entitled to be the Michael Jackson of anything. Later, I realize that JY’s mission in America far outweighs the burden of living up to his namesake.