I have been reading about modern toxic fandoms, highlighted most vividly in recent weeks by Chappell Roan, who – as discussed in these pages last week – has spoken very publicly about the way fan behaviour nowadays often borders on harassment and stalking. She’s been backed up by Hayley Williams from Paramore, and Mitski. And yes, I do note that all these singers are women.
When I read about their experiences it horrifies me, but I’m not totally surprised. I’ve had my own unpleasant encounters with “fans” lately, and it’s made me think about the ways in which fame has changed during my lifetime.
I’ve been what I would call a little bit famous for 40 years. It used to be quite easy to keep your head down. Back in the 1980s there were paparazzi, but we only encountered them when we went to a glitzy event like a private Prince gig. They didn’t intrude into the daily life of someone as low key as me.
Even in the 1990s, when we had more success, we still found that the separation between our private and public lives was not that difficult. We were recognised occasionally by people who liked our records, not by the public at large. Encounters were usually brief and polite, an autograph being the most anyone asked for.
Things have changed, though, and I’m old enough to have watched it happen. Social media has been empowering, giving artists the ability to speak directly to an audience, but it does mean that we feel more present in people’s lives, more accessible to them. The glass screen between driver and passenger has come down.
The rise of the selfie now means that anyone who does recognise you wants a photo. That brings with it the knowledge that a photo of you at the shops, wearing track pants and no make-up, will be on the internet forever. It also brings the feeling that you are being turned into “content” for the person photographing you; something they can use to pep up their Instagram account. All of this is fine up to a point, but what seems to be vanishing is the point at which a famous person is allowed to say no.
A few days ago, I was in the pub, waiting to meet my daughters. I hadn’t left the house much for the previous fortnight due to the medical stuff with Ben that I’ve written about here. I was happy to be out, although a bit battered and bruised by events – feeling vulnerable and missing a layer of skin.
Sitting alone at my table, I was approached by a man who told me I was his favourite singer. I thanked him, and he asked for a selfie. “Do you mind if I say no?” I replied, but instead of accepting this answer he sat down next to me and held out his phone to start photographing. “Oh, don’t do that,” I pleaded, visibly upset. But he would not stop. If I’d been in a stronger mood I think I would have dealt with him more briskly, but instead I waited till he finally gave up, then burst into tears.
A few months earlier, on my way home from exercise, feeling sweaty and unkempt in my leggings and T-shirt, another man approached me for a selfie. Again, I thanked him for liking my music, but politely refused. Later he appeared on social media telling everyone that I was a bitch, and describing exactly where he had seen me, suggesting it might be a regular haunt of mine. Unpleasant behaviour and a bit sinister.
I found both these experiences unsettling. Unlike previous over-enthusiastic fans, these men were being entitled, rude and aggressive. Asking me for something and refusing to hear the word no, they seemed a hair’s breadth from anger.
I’m 62 years old. The height of my career was a long time ago, and yet these things are happening now. My fans aren’t kids. They are old enough to know better. I can only begin to imagine what it is like for young artists, and my heart goes out to them. I know there’s no going back to the old days, but something has to change.
[See also: Chappell Roan’s war on fandom]
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This article appears in the 02 Oct 2024 issue of the New Statesman, The fury of history