Part I: On the performance of fandom

I’ve been to three concerts in the past month and they’ve got me thinking about the performance of fandom. In the age of streaming, we have such instant and high quality access to music that we don’t really need live versions. So why do concerts exist? In my mind, it’s because we’re all in constant pursuit of moments of magical reality. When I go to a concert I’m hoping to find the bridge between the inner kingdom that internalises and canonises music, and the outer kingdom within which I pay bills and fully expect to eat / sleep / work until I die. Finding and crossing this bridge comes at a cost, and that cost is a performance of enjoyment.

For me, the experience of live music isn’t always about the music. It’s more to do with the energy transfer between artist and audience. They put effort in, we give effort back. There is a profound harmony to be found in this transference, which feels all the more rare and magical in these fractured times. You can find similar shared harmonic moments at other major events — political rallies, protests, sports games — but when it comes to the live experience of art there are no losers, bad guys or opposing teams. Everyone can win.

I went to see Lorde last week in Auckland. Our seats were amazing, so close to the stage that during Buzzcut Season it felt like she was looking straight at me. I shrank away from her gaze because it turns out I’m not the sort of fan who wants to be seen as an individual. I want to disappear into the collective. BTS ARMY call it the ‘purple ocean’. I want to offer up my energy through the shared performance of fandom, not literal eye contact.

Hearing her early tracks, like Royals, 400 Lux and Ribs, in the hometown they were written was pretty crazy. I’m not proud of my address hits different when 10,000 people are singing the words alongside you and meaning them. For me, Ultrasound made me appreciate I’m a bigger Lorde fan than I realised. I know every word to every song. I teared up when she performed tracks from her new album, Virgin — particularly Shapeshifter, Favourite Daughter, Broken Glass and David. I haven’t really given myself time to reflect on why I like this album so much, but here’s the gist: reaching ‘mid-life’ means you’ve had hundreds of experiences that crack open your heart and leave little shadows for you to trip over as you continue onward. Many of the songs on Virgin take the shape of those little shadows for me, in a bittersweet way.  

Ultrasound is a very polished and precise show — much more than a simple live performance of music. Every song felt like watching a music video being filmed live. Within the safety of this choreographed structure, it felt like Lorde was able to be her truest self in the way she’s been striving for throughout the Virgin era. It’s strange to say that something contrived and performative could also feel deeply honest, but that’s exactly what I mean.

Experiencing the concert as a fan felt like a similar search for honesty. Lorde didn’t ask much of us except to dance, and at the very end, to hold our friends hands and jump. It was as if she were at peace with whatever performance of fandom came her way. The most beautiful and unforgettable part of the show came at the very end, when she donned a glowing jacket and walked right through the pit singing David, by far my favourite track on the record. It was a moment of true connection, you could see her eyes alight with the experience on the big screen. 10,000 people in harmony.

At Ed Sheeran’s Loop Tour a few weeks earlier, the performance of fandom was much more structured. I’d classify myself as an admirer of Ed Sheeran, in that I know all his hits and have actively listened to a couple of albums (his saddest one, Subtract is my pick naturally), but I’ve never been a diehard Sheerio. The thing about an arena concert like Ed’s is that you don’t need to be a full blown fan to enjoy it. It’s a full noise spectacle with a colossal screen, a retractable bridge between the A and B stages, fireworks, flames, and a fan request interlude in the middle. It was pretty mind blowing to see one man and a loop pedal carry that level of performance for 2.5 hours. He knows how to work a crowd and he has expectations of how the performance of fandom will play out. He actively guides his audience through the whole process with humour and charm.

At the beginning of his show there’s a QR code on the screen that you can scan to request a song. Ed plays the 5 most requested songs every night on the Loop Tour, which sometimes involves him having to re-learn his oldest tracks in the dressing room beforehand. We got two of my favourites, Lego House, which is probably the most Ed Sheeran song there is, and Give Me Love. Even though he didn’t play my request (End of Youth is a bit of a buzzkill to be fair), the potential to have it played was so engaging. As were the times he split the crowd in two for a singalong and conducted us like a choir.

When you hear Ed’s most famous songs absolutely bashed to death on the radio, it’s easy to write them off as corny pop constructions destined for wedding playlists. When you’re experiencing one of them live in a crowd of 40,000 people, there is a tangible power to the blunt lack of lyrical subtlety. Love is literally the only good thing in the world, why are people so embarrassed by it? And why does that embarrassment disappear when Ed Sheeran sings Perfect right in front of you, turning everyone in ear shot into corny puddles? There is something about his unpolished, honest style of performance that breaks down barriers. I honestly think if you can remain unaffected at a moment like that you have an empathy deficiency.

My favourite genre of Ed are his forays into dance and electronic music, the best example being Bloodstream (both the original and the Rudimental collab). This was my highlight of the night because it’s a song made to be built live on stage with a loop pedal, and it’s also one of his darkest songs — about substance abuse and emotional dependence. The performance of fandom at this point was to enter a trance-like state of pure overwhelm: music so loud it feels like your own heartbeat, a giant version of Ed’s face decomposing on a giant screen behind him, the slow steady build, the heat of the flames as the song reaches its peak.  

I felt the same sense of emotional overwhelm at my third recent concert, Ludovico Einaudi’s Summer Portraits, even though the genre and skills on display were entirely different. Einaudi is a composer and classical pianist. He played for 2 hours straight, with a small band of strings and percussion for company. While Ed’s audience participation was organised and directed by the artist himself, with Ludovico it felt like his only wish for us was that we’d follow him into his flow state.

The performance of fandom at a classical music concert is vastly different from a pop concert, with layers of behavioural expectation that are born of centuries old cultural norms and traditions. The scene was set at Einaudi’s concert by the fact that no filming was allowed (this was policed by ushers). The only energy transfer between artist and audience occurred through applause. At the end there was a standing ovation that went on for so long my hands hurt. It was a much more civilised sort of harmony, and no less magical than what Lorde and Ed produced.

2026 appears to be my live music era and I’m thrilled and honoured to take part in any performance of fandom, regardless of my commitment to the artist. In a few weeks time I’m going to Melbourne and I’ll be seeing Counting Crows while I’m there. I wonder what that experience will be like? How loud will we sing Mr Jones?

If I get tickets to BTS, will I learn every fan chant?(You know it). There’s actually so much to say about the performance of fandom from the two biggest fandoms in the world: Taylor Swift and BTS, that I think I’ll have to write a second post to cover them.