The difference between old fandom and present standom is one that I’ve been hammering on about for quite some time, but I don’t think I’ve provided tangible ways to differentiate the two.
To be a fan is to like something to some degree—your definition of how much may vary—to be in fandom is to participate in the construction of a virtual community. Virtual not because it’s online—fandom communities have existed long before then, but virtual because they are flexible and ever-shapeshifting, with a turnover that requires diligence to maintain morale and purpose.
A study of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fandom dynamics was conducted on an official online forum where a fandom community coalesced, against the stated purpose of the site. Their actions were about “protecting the atmosphere and community rules and ties developed over a three-year-plus period.”1 A fandom can never be static as a community; without constant activity, it is marked for death.
It’s known in industry circles that there are different types of fans. Campfire, the transmedia marketing company, has their own fan classification system. There’s the “skimmer, dipper, and diver,” which translate fairly neatly into the broad categories of casual fan, fan, and stan. They know which of the tiers they are targeting, and it’s that of the most devoted fan, the diver, the typical stan. In one way, it’s not what they intended. “Stan” wasn’t in use when marketing decks were conceived; what they wanted was to get the fandom’s attention, because those are by default seen as the most engaged.
Before the internet facilitated communication for fans they were still on the cutting edge, adopting new technology such as mimeographs—the predecessor to photocopiers— to produce and distribute independently created fanzines. They also asked for submissions and encouraged contact from other fans. Fredrik Pohl explored the evolution of science fiction fandom in the late 1980s, “fans married fans and raised their children to be fans: there are third- and even fourth-generation fans beginning to show up these days.”2 Even back then, fandom was passed down generationally, much like sports team allegiances often are.
Whereas fandom norms of the past were being established within groups, and adapted to the tools in use, present-day fandom is highly dependent on corporate guidance. Mel Stanfill pinpointed the issue in “Exploiting Fandom”:
“The norm produced by transmedia is not interactive but reactive. Fans are invited to engage the options as given by the owner of the object of fandom, maintaining them firmly in a position of response. Transmedia is inherently consumptive.”
Engagement, interaction, consumption were all part of fandom of yore, but it was mostly internally regulated. Money was unwelcome, and any time a fan tried to charge for their fan content it reliably would result in fandom-wide backlash. The unspoken rules of fandom were enforced communally, and mostly remain the same across platforms and fandoms.
Anyone who has stumbled onto a Twitter argument between stans can tell that these users are not averse to capitalism in the slightest, instead, they seem to operate within the preferred industry metrics. While ‘consumption’ was present in traditional fandoms as well, it was all horizontal. Numeric metrics, data points, and dollars spent only mattered if they were an existential threat to the fan object, as in the plentiful “save my show” letter campaigns. There is no cultural resistance within standom, rather, cultural importance supersedes the personal importance fans would traditionally ascribe to their fan objects. All the energy that was previously directed toward the community has shifted outward toward the brand that is being worshipped.
Nancy M. Baym, whose book Playing to the Crowd explores the way fan-artist interactions and relationships are changing, offers multiple perspectives from artists and established fan communities. Talking about Buffet’s Parrot Heads and Turbonegro’s Turbojugend, Baym agrees with the suggestion that fandom offers “an alternative basis for obtaining meaning, in contrast to the basis offered through market capitalism or materialism.”
Baym’s book was my first introduction to Turbojugend (TJ) the so-called fan club with 2,500 worldwide chapters and its own two-day festival in Germany. They are an excellent study of a self-sustaining community that sprouted in fandom. The fan club was technically created and named by the band; according to them, it was a joke, a play on the irony of a band without any fans trying to start a fan club for themselves.
While that type of humility might make a great publicity angle, considering the community only grew and established itself when the band was on hiatus suggests the growth was organic. In fact, a Philadelphia chapter leader has insisted that TJ are not a fan club, but more akin to a group of scouts. Still, the structure is consistent with that of fandom. There are “higher ups” that have opportunities to meet the band—in fact, the new band’s current vocalist was once president of the London TJ chapter.
“It's like this jacket erases all the problems. When you arrive at a gathering, all the members of the Turbojugend immediately treat you like a friend.”
Still, it’s fairly recognized that the TJ community has grown beyond a fan club in that supporting the band is more of an extra feature of membership; not a requirement. Johnny Gasoline, long-time TJ member told VICE, “It is even at a point where the group itself has become an accessory.” As bizarre as that might sound, this isn’t that unusual for fandoms. I’ve been lured in by specific fandoms based on the community and fandom migration patterns.
The band itself is acutely aware of their fan club’s priorities, a frequent anecdote shared by bassist Happy Tom is that of the fansite poll that revealed nearly all participants would choose the fan community over the band, should they be forced to make such a choice.
That is also not a surprise to me, since even in more loosely connected fandom communities, it’s the other people that really are there for you, not the creative content. Happy-Tom also described the relationship between the fan community and the band as, “a kind of fearful and hostile relationship,” and I suspect many performers with ardent, zealous stans would agree; many fans would likely say the same about the stans they share a fandom with. Happy-Tom went on to say he feared what would happen if one of their albums were poorly received, “The Turbojugend are starting to remind me quite a lot of the Manson Family - except they do beer and speed instead of LSD and they haven't killed anyone... yet!”
So what’s the difference between the TJ community and groups of stans?
When journalists talk to self-identified stans they frequently describe what they do as “a job” — something they are responsible for. They even frame fan activity as “a job” just one that’s less demanding than that of stans. A Miley Cyrus stan was quoted in The Outline emphasizing that his “job as a fan [is] to dispel misinformation,” but the focus on industry metrics suggests that the ‘job’ is more about pivoting and reframing. As defined in the article, stans “feel responsible for [fan objects’] successes and, sometimes, even their personal happiness.” Instead of trying to build and sustain a community, stans are primed to prop up careers.
This overreach is tied to the way industry has pivoted to encourage this type of devotion, even today this devotion is portrayed as a positive for contemporary artists. Quoted in The Sunday Times, Atlantic Records’ Ed Howard echoed the One Thousand Fan thesis, saying, “It’s much better to have 1,000 fans on a mailing list who are really committed — a bit like an old-fashioned fan club — than 100,000 streams from people who don’t really care.”
These “really committed” people will be stans. And despite the very well known misbehaviour that we witness, these are the people seen as the lynchpin to a career in music in 2022. One hundred thousand streams can still be accomplished, since stan streaming parties are frequent and even encouraged, as well as buying multiples. A number one is a number one, regardless of how many individuals actually have an album in their hands.
Whether the relation between industry and fandom was ever symbiotic, I’m not sure, but I know it isn’t currently. The corporate plan was to “empower” fans to drive promotions and embrace materialism, using the existing metrics as a guideline. You might say it worked, but it didn’t account for the empty promises that are being broadcast, and emotional investment in a brand will never really deliver. The strength of fandom communities has been depleted as focus shifts towards fan objects and their brands. And all that’s on offer is the reflection of artificial praise.
The consequences of idolatry being fostered from all corners of the industry have not gone unnoticed, but it has come too late, with no alternative on the horizon. The quote from a marketing executive shared in my astroturfing piece bears repeating: stans “[actually] have a mind of their own, and they’re going to say what they want and do what they want, and we can’t control them.”
It’s not too far from what Happy-Tom said himself, “Turbojugend is a Frankenstein's monster that we created, and now it is out of our control.”
Fighting the Forces, www.buffy.com Cliques, Boundaries and Hierarchies in an Internet Community, Amanda Zweerink, Sarah N. Gatson, 2002
Astounding Story in American Heritage Frederik Pohl, 1989
Interesting discussion. I tend to think fandoms fit into the description of "imagined communities" that is often employed in discussions of Nationalism. I wonder how the current state of fanart, fanfiction and the TikTok "remix" culture play along the idea of fandom as "reactive" instead of "interactive".