goose

Trigger warning; this blog/essay contains mentions of sexual violence, racism, ableism and homophobia. Please keep yourself safe.

-

Recently, I've had a bit of a detachment phase going on.

Realising that your heroes aren't perfect is a very natural, and important, part of maturing; no matter how well put together somebody's image might be, no person is incapable of making a mistake, or doing something “problematic”. Notes app apologies seem to have become a staple of online culture, when a celebrity's old tweets resurface about some miscellaneous topic, and the swift hammer of chronically online twitter — oops, X — users falls down to determine whether this person is “good”.

Of course, when the topic is serious, concerning racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, sexual assault etc., I find that saying we should “cancel” these people shows the trivialisation of serious issues in online spaces. Though, I suppose the concept of an angry mob is something that’s been in our society for a long, long time, so it harkens back to our primal instincts of justice. That being said, you can't “cancel” anybody; rich people find their way back to the top and move on 99.9% of the time, and all we can do is watch. This is the hellscape of capitalism (late stage, if we’re going to be specific). And it is frustrating beyond all words, so we have giant campaigns to seek some kind of catharsis, hoping we can get this person beaten with virtual sticks. The internet is often a lawless place, so we create our own type of karma.

What helps us in our quests, naturally, is the fact that all information can now so easily be dropped into our laps. A quick google search is all you need to find out somebody’s achievements, and their greatest “flops”. Exposé articles and think pieces are ready for us to consume, mull over in silent discomfort, before at the end, there’s the unexplainable dread that we now have to come to a conclusion about all of this, by ourselves; there is no definitive authority on this subject, no great philosophical statement, because, as we are constantly reminded by the snot nosed critics, “art is subjective”. Suddenly, after being metaphorically waved off by the high brows, who declare us too unimaginative to understand the genius of Woody Allen, we now have to decide the morality of a piece of work, or person. We are inexplicably burdened by our love for art.

My mother once told me that “all knowledge is good knowledge”. I don’t really consider my knowing of Johnny Depp’s sexual abuse of his ex-wife to be particularly “good”. My knowledge becomes a dead weight. Clair Dederer, in her book ‘Monsters: What Do We Do With Great Art By Bad People?’ [2023], (which I took quite a few cues and good takeaways from), put it best: “Biography used to be something you sought out, yearned for, actively pursued. Now it falls on your head all day long.”

Because of this, I see that the backlash from fans against a public figure can be more vitriolic than most — these are the people who actively seek out those biographies, and delve deeply into them. Of course, you have the adamant defenders, but there's something oddly heartbreaking about the fury of an ex-fan, who found such value in somebody's work, perhaps deriving a piece of their soul from it, only for the creator to do something they find to be unforgivable.

The most recent of this phenomenon, and possibly the most impactful to me personally, I've found, is the case of Neil Gaiman fans, and how his countless sexual assaults have left much of his audience feeling deeply betrayed. I have seen countless fans, or perhaps ex-fans now, speaking about how his work inspired them, made them feel safe despite the world not wanting them — only to be told that, just like so many other rich, white men, Gaiman took advantage of his power, and inflicted unforgivable trauma on many young women. Discussions of death of the author are rife; separation of art from the artist begins (if it can begin).

Full clarity here — I was never a big fan of Gaiman, not to say that makes me better than anyone who was. I do label myself as a nerd, so perhaps not being very familiar with his works makes me a poser, but I was aware of his significance in comic book culture. He was one of those acclaimed figures that people would talk about online as though he were a modern day God, praising his writing, his activism, and all around “good vibes”. I read “Coraline” once, was vaguely impressed by it, and then moved on. That didn’t make the news of his crimes any less jarring to me; many people who I met through online spaces who were fans of his are absolutely heartbroken, and the backlash felt so personal, so devastated, that in a strange, twisted way, I am intrigued by it.

How can we be so emotionally invested in people we don’t know?

Trust is very rarely a two way street when it comes to the artist you like (though it can be possible). We truly don't know anyone through our screens, no matter how hard we could try to. The outpouring of grief over somebody you don't really know is both something irrational yet rational. You are mourning a person you've only seen a speck of; because artists do put a part of their soul into their work, and if you look for it, you can see it. People grasp that with both hands, find meaning in it, and use it to find strength in themselves. That is something vulnerable, intimate — if you choose to kill the author, after they commit some heinous crime, do you kill a piece of yourself?

What I'm trying to get at here, is that relationships between artists and their audiences are fraught; parasocial, if we're going to use that word (whole nother box of worms). Going back to my first statement, I have been going through a process of carefully detaching myself from the artists I enjoy, so I save myself at least a part of the humiliation and heartbreak in case something awful comes out about them. It's a self preservation tactic based on suspicion, that isn't new. And I am not immune to it. Nobody is.

With great effort, I’ve pulled myself away from Shirley Manson, from Chappell Roan, from Jarvis Cocker, from Anthony Green, from Paramore, from My Chemical Romance (efforts still ongoing here — MCR is a terribly easy band to get attached to). Now I attempt to see things objectively, so I don't have to feverishly hope and pray that none of the artists I love have sexually assaulted a child. I'm aware I sound horrifically cynical.

That being said, the band Thursday from New Jersey will always be perfect to me.

No, no — that's wrong. Hold on.

I know Thursday cannot be perfect, because I will always stand by the philosophy that nothing is perfect. Yet, I have the most trouble detaching myself from this band. It's a bit of a twisted cycle, I will go through phases of completely cutting away any personal strings I have to the artists, and yet inevitably I return.

Probably part of the draw is the golden retriever-like charisma of lead singer Geoff Rickly, who's very vocal on his Instagram stories, and is very open to talking with fans. I'm one of those fans, occasionally asking questions in direct messages, or sharing artwork, though I'm sure I'm incessantly irritating. I find Geoff oddly comforting, as a person I maybe could have been — musically gifted, friendly, and able to make good connections with people. Instead, I sit alone in my small room at university, having dropped most of my musical interests in favour of a law degree that I'm not entirely sure I want to do. And I know I'm young, in comparison, I still have (in my opinion far too much) time left; but the existential dread isn't easy to cope with. I have to make decisions that I feel I am wildly unequipped for, in a world that clearly does not want me. Geoff exudes a kind of warmth and openness, which makes me feel as though maybe I can be as content as him, eventually.

The rest of the band are active on social media, each bringing their own unique personalities. Tucker Rule, the drummer, is the most frequent poster, sharing almost every concert he does (which is a fucking lot, considering his position in LS Dunes as well), as well as a few sweet posts about his family. Stu Richardson, bassist and producer, is relatively quiet, but his few words count just as much as anybody else's, and his handprints are all over their new single's (White Bikes) slick production. I definitely found a sense of safety in the band, after I listened to a podcast between Geoff, Steve Pedulla and Norman Brannon, the two guitarists, and found that queer people in hardcore was, well, something that existed.

And the fandom provides warmth as well; a strange mix of older hardcore guys, and younger, mainly gay and/or trans fans, who create a space which is marginally more accepting than probably every other fandom I've ever been in. Then, just as I was furious about none of my favourite musicians speaking about Palestine, Sudan and the Congo, Geoff Rickly calls on stage almost every night for an end to the genocides in each of those countries, and rags on US imperialism.

It's glorious. It's all I've ever wanted in a band.

It's fucking scary.

Because now, what do I do if these people ever disappoint me? How should I proceed? Should I burn my baseball cap that I got from their website and paid extortionate shipping fees for? Should I toss my Thursday albums in the garbage? The CDs that Geoff so kindly signed, after following their concert in London during summer, I utterly blew my chance to meet him and had a panic induced meltdown in front of their tour bus?

(I still feel embarrassed about that.)

All that pain, all that grief, and hatred, and love — where does it go?

Fuck if I know.

Instead, I'd like to perhaps posit something new. Detaching from your heroes is good; but a full disconnect is usually impossible. Perhaps we should find new things to explore, new ways to fall in love, get heartbroken by, and move on from. This is just the human experience, to love and to lose, and to move onwards; not everybody in the world is going to disappoint you, despite what the cynics may argue. We are not naturally selfish and cruel. Not to bring politics into things, but those traits are normalised under capitalism.

At a point, you realise that the artist who has done something terrible is not one of a kind. They are one of many; sexual assault, in the case of Neil Gaiman, is something that occurs so often among rich, high status, powerful men, that it is normalised. Neil Gaiman seemingly did everything right, he was an ally to the queer community, he was a “feminist” by all accounts, and yet here we are. But I find that putting any more effort into someone like that, who wears the face of a good person, to be tiring and not something anyone should go through.

It will take time, but I feel as though a mild detachment is necessary, for yourself, and the artist, because you can have trust both ways, through a sense of mutual understanding. You don't realise you have something until it's gone, how fandoms mourn their favourite creators when those creators step away from fandom and social media entirely (and for good reason!) and leave us behind; like Alan Moore, Gerard Way or Ryan Ross. Their (public) biographies stop — we are no longer privy to their lives. And who are we to tell these people what they can do? Fame is a terrible thing, most of the time, yet it’s a tragedy that we keep having to learn, every time a young artist passes away.

Funny how it takes somebody dying for us to pull together.

So, I’m going to keep being annoying about Thursday, milk that youthful naivety, until I grow up a little more. I’m going to keep making my silly portraits of band members, because I know the day will come where I will have to put my paintbrush down, and permanently trade it in for a keyboard and court documents. With age, I expect that some things will not affect me as deeply as they do now, and I will understand my idols as I become closer to their age. I will learn to distance myself, with time — but I can still care. It is never a crime to care. Love is a burden I will gladly shoulder for a little while more.

I don’t want to wade into faux deep talk, and get in over my head, so I’ll wrap things up now.

Maybe I've been completely pretentious this entire ramble. Maybe all these words mean fuckall in the grand scheme of things, someone’s surely thinking “we have bigger things to worry about”, and I don’t disagree. So, I'll leave you with this: be kind to yourself, fall in love with new art. When the artists you love disappoint you deeply, scream “fuck you”, with righteous rage and sadness — cry and feel. Write that think piece. Burn a book if you want to.