Hostile Fandom

https://anchor.fm/yesterdays-concert/episodes/Taylor-Swift-9910--New-Orleans-e1769op

September 9, 2010: Jackson Square, New Orleans, LA

Their gaze was piercing. Menacing glares bore from the angry horde and intensified an already uncomfortable silence. Was this a concert or a first-degree murder trial?

“C’mon, do your little dance and get off the stage,” one fan commented.

Judgment was passed out like Halloween candy. Snickering and uneasy laughter was heard above the murmurs that slipped through the crowd. We’d all heard about her. We all knew her name. There was more than enough negative media for any naysayer to latch onto. Her reputation preceded her. She was that girl.

Careful, she’ll write a song about you.

I think she likes getting her heart broken.

She’s just dating for the attention.

Every jest made that day was a torch that had already been lit. It was all low hanging fruit, but that didn’t stop anyone from getting some extra mileage at this poor girl’s expense.

A group of grown men cackled at what was undoubtedly “locker room talk.” It wasn’t the first time I heard this group make a crass comment about the artist who was more than half their age. The jeers were becoming more confident, borderline hostile. With each ticking second, the exchange between artist and audience further deteriorated. She hadn’t even opened her mouth yet. All she had done was stand there. How could they treat her like this?

“Alright everyone, commercial break is almost over. I need everyone to get excited for the cameras,” the producer yelled.

Clutching her acoustic guitar, the young singer stared at the unamused sea of blank faces. “Why don’t you move aside for the real musicians,” another fan commented. Was there no mercy?

This must’ve been the most profitable commercial break ever. You could see the desperation in the young singer’s face. She waved at fans in the distance, but when I turned to look there was no one waving back.

“Alright everyone, 10 seconds! I need you to get loud,” the producer yelled again.

Despite the marching orders, the response was lukewarm at best. It was like clapping at a children’s piano recital. We were only doing it so no one would run off the stage in tears. Our entertainment was about to be tossed to the wolves on national television. This was a public execution, and I had an unfortunate front-row seat.

It was the walk of shame I never saw myself doing. With my jersey draped over my shoulder, my plain white tee was nothing for the bitter cold. I carried my shoes in one hand and a half-eaten bag of chips in the other. I planned to eat my feelings when I got home.

Cheers from dorm rooms and frat parties were everywhere. They mocked my shame. Although I did my best to hide my embarrassment, it hung over my shoulder. This cross-campus hike was turning into a never-ending death march.

The air smelled of cheap beer and melted cheese when I walked into my apartment. “You like that final score,” my roommate, Will shouted.

I hung my head in shame, ignoring his comments and pouted to my bedroom. As I hung my Peyton Manning jersey back in my closet, I turned on the television, hoping to find a distraction from the heartbreak. The news was on every channel. The New Orleans Saints defeated the Indianapolis Colts 31–17 in the 2010 Super Bowl. As the only fan not sporting Saints gear at the big game party, I was already well aware of the outcome.

To anyone who claims the early morning cross-campus walk of shame is the true highpoint of embarrassment, I ask them to walk home wearing the colors of the team that just lost in the biggest sporting event of the year. But there was a silver lining in that defeat.

As reigning world champions, the New Orleans Saints were the official kickoff game to launch the 2010–2011 NFL season. This meant New Orleans would get to throw a massive party to start the new season. Lucky for me, New Orleans was only a brief five-hour drive from Ole Miss in Oxford, Mississippi, where I was attending college.

With the picturesque St. Louis Cathedral as the party backdrop, the event was held in the heart of New Orleans’ tourist district. The smells of fried deliciousness from the nearby Cafe du Monde coated the air. This street party had all the Louisiana fixins’ for a good time. Lots of beads, adult beverages, colorful decorations and of course, music. But this wasn’t just zydeco and jazz, it was an exclusive, members-only performance from two of America’s most nationally recognized touring acts, the Dave Matthews Band and Taylor Swift. This was the country club of concert events. If you wanted to be near that stage, you had to have an in.

So how did I manage to find myself in the mix of these elite fans?

I was an official, card-carrying, dues-paying, active fan forum posting member of the Dave Matthews Band fan club, the Warehouse. That’s right, I was that big of a Dave Matthews Band fan, but that’s a story for another day.

Shortly before the concert, the Warehouse sent out a fan club exclusive lottery to be an audience participant at the event. Lo and behold, I was randomly selected. Since the event was on a weeknight and I had class plus a job, I saw very little opportunity to make this getaway. But when I got that confirmation, all bets were off. There was nothing that could stop me.

Regardless of my DMB fandom, this was never not an odd billing. Taylor Swift opening for the Dave Matthews Band? In retrospect, the pairing is even more laughable now. Albeit a group that you either love or hate, the Dave Matthews Band is at least a road-tested group with a large religiously dedicated following that was guaranteed to draw an audience. But at the time no one was laughing that the current reigning Queen of Pop was priming the crowd for a 90s nostalgia act. In 2010, we were laughing because it was Taylor Swift, the teen country singer who sang cheesy heartbreak ballads.

The humidity was suffocating. The New Orlean’s damp air had been drowned out in an afternoon burst of rainfall that left us soaked and starting to smell. Shoulder to shoulder with strangers, we were crammed together on the members-only riser that was smaller than most pits. I lost track of where my musk ended and someone else’s began. But I was in good company. Dave fans surrounded me. These were my people. We swapped tales of our favorite shows, songs we hoped to hear and when we’d be jumping back on tour.

“I don’t care what they play as long as it’s nothing from their new album. Classics only for me,” one fan said.

“Yeah, but did you hear that monster ‘Two-Step’ at the Gorge last weekend?” another fan added.

“No, but I saw they busted out ‘Fool To Think’ for the first time since ’07 so maybe we’ll get that tonight,” I said.

So far the event was basically an unofficial Dave Matthews Band fan club meetup. No one was there for Taylor Swift, and anyone that actually was was smart enough to stay quiet about it.

Compared to DMB’s typical marathon performances, the teasingly short afternoon set left the diehards primed for more. But first we had to get through Taylor Swift’s performance. The producer, a guy who was gunning for youngest on-stage heart attack ever, frantically paced the stage perimeter. Constantly on the radio with someone, his face was redder than my sunburned neck. The golden hour French Quarter sunset did nothing to calm his nerves.

“Alright everyone, we’re about to begin the countdown. When we reach one I need everyone to go crazy. Five. Four. Three.” The bullhorn dropped to his side, and he finished the countdown with his hand. “Two. One.”

On the street behind me, blinding lights illuminated a figure talking to a camera. It was legendary television journalist and sports announcer, Bob Costas. A nationally televised event was literally happening over my shoulder. I waved to my roommates at home. “Hi, Stu, Mohsin and Will! Don’t eat my leftovers in the fridge! See y’all on Monday!”

Bob welcomed America to the start of a new NFL season before going to commercial break. A chorus of horns exploded from the street. Clutching brass instruments of all shapes and sizes, a group of colorfully dressed men pranced down the road through the gen pop. Following them, a truck pulled a large trailer decorated top-to-bottom in gold, purple and green. People hung from the windows of the float and our second thunderstorm of the day started. Beads with the NFL logo splashed the crowd like a hail storm. Inebriated and oversized men lifted their shirts at the passing floats. For the NFL, Mardi Gras happened in September.

Those closest to the stage began to stir. The little girl on my left did a quick 180 from the parade. Her grin grew tenfold. She squealed and bounced in excitement. Those facing the parade turned to see what the commotion was. Oh, it was just that little blonde singer. Oh, look! That float has more beads! Throw me some beads, man!

Sparkling light glimmered off the party-like streamers that dangled from her dress. Led by a stagehand, her knee-high black boots clunked against the stage. As he strapped an acoustic guitar over her shoulder, the young singer brushed a long golden curl from her face. A smile grew through her trademark red lipstick as she waved at the crowd. This is the part of the show where the crowd goes wild. [Pause] Except they didn’t. Sympathetic cheers were drowned out by the roar of cocksure laughs. This was anything but a warm welcome for a Grammy-winning, budding hitmaker, sold-out arena superstar.

Taylor Swift stood center stage to the apathetic glares of a thousand eyes. She fidgeted with her microphone and shifted her weight between the clunky black boots. It pained me to watch her try to stay busy to avoid the commercial break stares. She was the lone person in costume at the Halloween party. I couldn’t let this poor girl suffer anymore.

Squaring my body, I shifted myself onto the tiptoes of my sandals. The riser dug into the soles of my feet. I checked my surroundings, tested my balance and my body left the earth. No more bobbing heads and dirty shoulders blocking my view. I could see the stage perfectly. Throwing my arm in the air, I waved my right hand in an obnoxious exaggeration. I pleaded with my gesture. “Taylor, over here!” Help me stop looking dumb in front of my people. You need this more than I do.

It took another jump before I caught her attention. As my feet landed against the riser our eyes met. I stared back into her blue eyes. For a brief second, I forgot where I was. Forgot who I was surrounded by. A smile cracked my face. Taylor’s shoulders relaxed, and with one hand still grasping the security of her guitar, she softly waved back. A beautiful smile broke through her trademark red lipstick.

I continued waving long after she acknowledged me. It was unconscious. What was I doing? Why was my face so flush all of a sudden? Did my heart just flutter? Why was I smiling so big?

[interrupt last question] “Alright everyone, we’re back in five, four, three,” the producer’s megaphone dropped by his side again.

What just happened to me? Did I just crush on Taylor Swift? Surely, not! Right? I mean, Taylor Swift has waved at a lot of people in her career. It’s unlikely she can even make out the faces against the blinding stage lights. I’ve always known I was a hopeless romantic, but that tall, blonde cutie just waved at me.

Taylor grabbed the microphone and her band boomed to life. The surge of the music snapped me back. I didn’t know it at the time but the song was “Mine” from her most recent album Speak Now. Had I known that then I would’ve wondered if it was some kind of subliminal message? Was she trying to tell me something?

I watched as she whipped her hair, ran the gamut and power pointed her way into the hearts of her audience. The frills of her dress danced and sparkled in the spotlights. The producer stood side stage and continued to pump his hands into the air trying to draw more energy from the crowd. Some waved their hands but most were indifferent towards her performance. Me on the other hand; I was smitten.

The entire table burst into laughter. This must have been my fifth time to tell the story this week. I told anyone and everyone about my brush with love. “Taylor Swift, yeah you know, that country singer girl, well, pretty sure we’re in love now.” The line was guaranteed to hook a crowd.

While I basked in the reception of my audiences, I failed to see my primitive-minded, chest-pounding excuse for toxic masculinity. That didn’t stop me though. I played the part for weeks. I even went so far as to download some of her music so I could tell people I was supporting my boo’s work.

Then karma paid a visit.

It was after midnight when I dropped my friend off at their apartment. As I watched them walk to their door I was stung by sadness. With no one left to entertain, the car’s silence was maddening. I turned up the volume hoping to find a reprieve from the loneliness. Speak Now was still playing after forcing my passenger to endure my schtick. “I’ll be home soon enough, just let it play.”

The song was “Enchanted.” I’d heard it at least a dozen times, but driving the empty roads, watching the streetlights take turns illuminating my vehicle, something changed. The storytelling was flawless. The dynamics were anthemic. My left foot tapped and I caught myself humming along. LIttle goosebumps ran up my spine. And when it finished, I had to hear it again.

Before I could start it again I was home. I ran inside, slammed my door and tore my room apart in search of some earbuds. I couldn’t wait to hear the next song, but I wasn’t about to let my roommates catch me slipping. This wasn’t a joke anymore.

For days I couldn’t pull myself away. With each listen, I found new intricacies and I reveled in the songwriting. This girl was the same age as me and she was walking me through emotions I didn’t even know I had. Her writing incorporated vivid and colorful portraits of flawed human relations. No longer sacrificing her talent for my fragile ego, I was finding solace in her relatability. These songs were the human experience of love and loss. Happiness and sadness. Hope and despair.

Then it happened.

“What are you listening to, bro?”

No longer hidden behind the safety of my earbuds, someone caught me slipping. It had been a while since I played the schtick, going ninety-to-nothing overnight. But this time, when they brought it up, I didn’t play the character. I gave my heart room to be honest. I didn’t want to play the ignorant meathead anymore.

“You should give her music a chance, man. She’s actually a super talented songwriter,” I said.

A glare of confusion and disgust stared back at me. I should’ve learned my lesson because that wouldn’t be the last confrontation. The more comfortable I became with my fandom, the more people fought me. When people tried to argue that her music held no merit, I argued my hottest take: [gusto] Taylor Swift is the Bob Dylan of my generation!

Sure, lyrically that’s some stark contrast, but Taylor is a mouthpiece for an entire generation of men and women that are navigating today’s society. Name another popular artist in the last twenty years that’s not only grown up with her audience but voiced every age of their journey. As an artist, she poured out her heart for the entire world to criticize. All for our amusement. Years of teenage turmoil were shared with pinpoint accuracy. When I was going through a breakup, you best believe I turned to “Dear John.” And every November thirtieth, I was always “Back to December.” I’m telling you, she was dialed in to my generation like no one else.

My argument rarely won anyone over, and now, I was the lone singer on stage with someone else’s audience in attendance. But as Tom says, I won’t back down. On the day her fourth album, Red, was released, I was first in line. My coworkers wouldn’t let me hear the end of it when I refused to take my headphones off that day. Then again, that album is a masterpiece, and at the time, the best thing she’d ever done. People just didn’t know what they were missing.

However, over the years the sexism connected to Taylor’s music that had so easily divided my friends started to ease. Suddenly, more dudes started coming out as Swifties. It was always hushed conversations, but they never asked me to turn “All Too Well” down. But even as I was emboldened in my fandom, my machismo spirit could bend in many ways, but there was one final hurdle I couldn’t jump yet.

The hardwood floor was cold and ruthless against my knees. My heart pounded so hard I thought it was going to spill from my chest. I took my fiance’s hand in mine. A deep, warm breath filled my lungs and I let it all out. I tried to pace myself but the words vomited from my heart.

“You see there’s a lot of different options. I’ll drive the entire way so you can study in the car. This may be good for you because there won’t be any distractions. You won’t have your roommates bothering you or trying to get you out of the house. Instead, you’ll be forced to study in a quiet place. I’ll even turn the radio off so you can have silence. No podcasts, music or anything! This can be my birthday gift! You can go to this show for my birthday, not pay for a thing and we’ll call it even stevens!”

“Lance. Chill, I’ll go see Taylor Swift with you.”

Wait, what? It…it worked! Granted, it took me groveling like a spoiled child but that didn’t matter because I was going to see Taylor Swift! After missing The Red Tour over an imaginary stigma, I refused to miss the 1989 tour. For weeks, my only problem was finding someone to go with me. There was only one option, my fiance and now wife, Anna. Problem was, she wasn’t about that Swiftie life.

She argued that I could give her ticket to a friend and still make the show, but without her, I was out of options. I couldn’t take another girl, because you know, I’m not suicidal.

“What about another guy,” she asked. I had a few buds that were no longer closet fans but how would that go? A room full of happy, beautiful couples on date night, young girls experiencing their first concert, bachelorette parties and the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, then there’s me, a 26-year old dude, bro-ing out with my bud. I’m fairly confident in who I am but that level of tenacity would crumble my self-assuredness

Hoping to avoid an impulse decision to sell the tickets, I held on for weeks, praying some long-forgotten friend would make a sudden return into my life and we could go together. I floated the idea to a few buddies and they all agreed that they weren’t ballsy enough to swing it. I debated going alone. I’ve done plenty of shows alone, what’s one more? But that sounded even worse than bro-ing down. All of my cards were played. I had no other option but to sell the tickets, so that’s when I went for my final Hail Mary. And it worked.

On September 26, 2015, in beautiful Nashville, Tennessee I saw Taylor Swift for the first time as a fan.

Sitting on the edge of my seat, my legs bounced with nervous fervor. I felt like a child eyeing my Christmas presents early. When Taylor took the stage, my legs propelled me from the hard plastic chair into a screaming fanboy. I could’ve made varsity cheer with those moves. The production was huge, dancers, oversized screens and lots of wardrobe changes. It was an aesthetic feast of sight and sound. Anna finally got a glance at what Taylor’s music meant to me. I was an uncontrollable mess of excitement and joy, a far cry from five years earlier in New Orleans. This was karma’s greatest victory. I’m a Swiftie for life.