The Moment You Stop Being a Superfan

I recall, very clearly, the moment I first became a fan of a particular pop band. I won't name them in this article, but with enough research you might work out who I'm talking about.

The year was 2002. I was 15 years old. From the moment I heard their first song — an embarrassingly cheesy track with terrible lyrics, looking back a decade-and-a-half on — I was hooked.

I bought the merchandise. I wore them on my t-shirts. I had their band logo on my hoodies. The day they released their album, I rushed to the local music shop straight from school and bought it — no small feat for an autistic teenager scared of being out in public, let alone going into a shop on my own.

Within a few hours I'd learned the lyrics to every song on their album.

Whenever they released a new music video, and it launched at midnight, I would sit up by the TV and wait for it. You never knew when it would be played, so I'd channel-hop through the night. Often, I'd find the video halfway through, and would have to keep channel hopping until that lucky moment when I would catch the very start and be able to watch it all the way from beginning to end.

Hearing their song on the radio was incredibly exciting. It meant that others were listening, too.

And going to their first tour, the moment before they came on stage was the most exciting moment of my life. I can't describe just how real the feeling was, that my entire heart and chest were about to explode from the anticipation. I can remember that feeling so clearly, though nothing has ever replicated it.

For three years I was obsessed. I bought magazines that featured them, downloaded little snippets of tracks before they were released, joined fan forums and read every detail about them on every website that mentioned them.

I even had an opportunity to go along to where they were filming a new music video (along with hundreds of other fans), but had no way of getting there to be part of it. That haunted me for years, I'll be honest.

Their music got me through some of the toughest times in my life, gave me something to focus on, and to hope for.

Dealing with the split...

Three years later, the band broke up. I was upset, but so much a fan that I could still follow what the band members were up to. As a result, I wasn't that bothered and knew that they'd come back with more music.

All members of the band had solo careers, to varying success, and I followed them — not with the same level of passion, but still paying attention all the time.

For a decade, I continued to listen to their music almost daily. No word of a lie.

I'd grown and changed, and I was no longer the screaming teenager willing to wear band merchandise. I recognised that their very first songs were cheesy rubbish — that they had only a few enduring, musically impressive songs — but I listened all the same. For the nostalgia. Because no matter how much I changed, the music sparked that deep 'teenage fan' emotion.

Given that I was, by now, in my late 20s, still listening to their music, I figure that the 'superfan' label still stood.

The band returns...

After a decade away, the band announced their return. They'd reformed and they were back. Naturally, I was first in line fighting for tickets — I got the best seat in the house, and spent a small fortune to be there!

It felt weird to be amongst the screaming fans this time around. They were teenagers, wearing the merchandise and queueing outside. They would have been toddlers when I did what they were doing.

Not long later, another gig. This time, it was being filmed and I finally made it onto the band's music video, standing on the front row and singing my heart out. Music TV was no longer a big thing, but I could clearly remember those days in front of the TV, constantly changing channel to catch the latest track. Seeing myself in one of their videos, stupid as it might sound, healed a small pain that had been there for a decade - a missed opportunity, finally repaired.

As an autistic adult, planning and preparing is essential to me. This makes concerts extremely stressful, especially when they're standing room only.

Often, I will pay extra for seats where I get 'early access,' meaning that I can enter the venue an hour before standard admission and be in my seat waiting, which allows me to avoid the crowd and work out exactly where I'm going so that I can relax.

When there aren't any seats, I will sit outside a venue for 6-8 hours in any weather, to be one of the first in the queue, and to ensure that I get a spot near the front where I can feel safer. I go to these gigs alone, so I don't even have someone to save a space for me if I move. After all, I'm a grown woman and nobody that I know is interested in seeing a band that was popular with teenagers almost 20 years ago!

As you can imagine, going to any gig is a big commitment and it's one that I don't take lightly. It's stress and panic that doesn't quite subside even when I've claimed my spot, because the bustling and jostling often means that I'm moved and I lose my good view — being just a little over 5 feet doesn't help me, either.

Feeling it all fade...

I was at my third gig since the band's return. It was in a small, intimate venue. This in itself shouldn't be a surprise — they'd been aiming to look like a more mature and serious band since their return, and their music style had evolved in line with my tastes. They'd given up the big arena tours, in favour of this more intimate approach with a focus on the music rather than the commercial element. But this venue wasn't just small, but in a 'nothing' location. Not somewhere known for its music venues. Still, I went along, and my expectations were high. After all, I was still a superfan!

I got a space on the second row, after queueing for many hours. They played an acoustic set, to start. I loved the music, but things didn't feel right.

I could tell, from looking at the band and listening to their interactions between songs, that they simply weren't interested in being there. Their interactions seemed forced. One band member made a negative comment about the town they were playing in, as though the venue was beneath them and they saw it as a pathetic place to play. Other members of the band were unusually quiet, without the same enthusiasm I'd always known. Though I could appreciate the music, I wasn't really enjoying the experience.

Then, it happened. After a short interval, they returned to play more of their music. This time, they'd ditched the acoustic style for something more typical and expected. And I stood there, still joining in with every song and appreciating being in their presence, when I realised that I would never make the effort to see them in concert again. Perhaps it's shallow, but I'm sure many fans would understand.

First, I noticed that the lead singer had the lyrics to his songs on the floor. Whilst I was singing along passionately to his songs, he was staring at the floor as he read the lyrics from pieces of A4 paper taped to the stage, rather than engaging with his fans.

I felt genuinely hurt. They didn't even care enough about what they were doing, to learn songs that would take me a day or two to memorise. Did they not even believe in their own music?

Then it got worse. A new song, and something I'd never seen before. The lead singer began miming. He only mimed a few lines at the start of the song, but it was enough.

Perhaps those at the back of the room couldn't tell, but from my position near the front it was clear. I watched his mouth moving not-quite-in-time, over-exaggerated. I heard the song, clearly pre-recorded and not live. None of that raw, natural sound. And that was the moment that I stopped considering myself to be a superfan, or even a fan at all.

Because the truth is that I had always respected them because they'd always written and performed their own music. It might not have been the best music, but it was theirs. They might have had to mime in certain situations, but whenever they had a choice they'd performed live and they'd given it their all.

They'd even come back talking about how they wanted to be taken seriously as musicians.

And I'd been standing by as a fan for all those years, and loved the new direction they'd taken.

When I saw that they couldn't even be bothered to learn their own songs, and wouldn't even make the effort to sing live and would rather opt for the pre-recorded sound over the raw, natural performance that you go to a live event for, I lost all respect.

A message to bands and musicians everywhere...

I walked out of that gig disappointed. It should have been one of the best experiences of my life, like their other concerts had been. Instead, I'd watched a band that I'd always admired and believed in, give up on what they were doing.

I know that many people wouldn't have followed the band for so long. I got to watch the end of the band as I knew it, with such disappointment, simply because I'd seen things through from their very beginnings. If I'd grown out of being a fan years ago, when so many others did, then I'd not even have noticed this decline. But, the fact is that I did.

So here's my message to you:

Your music can mean so much more to other people than it could ever mean to you. It can get them through their hardest moments. Your fans might follow you for many years. They're your supporters. They believe in you.

There may come a time when you no longer believe in what you're doing. When it's all too much and you're tired. When you're exhausted from the effort. When you just don't care any more. When you're ready to give it all up, or you're wishing that you could do things differently.

When that times comes, please don't let it show on stage. Your fans have given you their respect. At least respect them enough to avoid scheduling any more gigs, or to put in that effort one last time for those superfans on the front row. As a music fan, I'd rather a band faded into oblivion without any warning than performed with a lack of passion and let me be the one to fade away.