This kind of obsession isn’t just the alluring aura of commodity fetishism, it’s something far more significant. “What do you think about real boys?” the interviewer asks one fan, a nineteen-year-old with a One Direction tattoo and a tendency to camp out by the Styles family residence. She’s not interested; she doesn’t really speak to them. “Most One Direction fans are single. It’s weird. We’re all just single.” Real boys just get in the way the whole time, another explains. “Boy bands have ruined my life,” she says. She smiles. She doesn’t mind. What’s a life? There’s something admirable about this passion, something genuinely heroic about the extent to which these people sacrifice their own lives in the cause of a pop group-cum-transcendent Idea. In hisPhilosophy for Militants, Badiou proposes as the ‘revolutionary conception of our time’ a ‘militant desire’ standing against normal desires: the militant idea of desire is a ‘desire that permanently affirms the existence of that which has no name.’ Under a social order that has tried to eradicate all such yearnings, Directioners remain authentically militant in their devotion to a timeless and transhistorical Cause.
The object of this militant desire is not called One Direction. All the fans interviewed were painfully aware of a lack structuring their lives. For those who haven’t met the band, this lack becomes One Direction-shaped. They’ll meet their favourite member, sleep with them, marry them, and then everything will be better. For those who have, it’s a different story. Once is never enough; they have to meet them again and again, with ever-diminishing returns. They grow to realise that the band itself is insufficient. What they want is a different mode of existence. That something as banal as a manufactured pop group can embody this desire ought to be heartening: it’s the transcendent fervour, not its proximal object, that’s important. These girls are victims of the traumatic atomisation of contemporary capitalism. Many are cut off from conventional relationships; they spend long hours alone with Twitter and Tumblr, endlessly reiterating their love for something that exists beyond their comprehension, in a shared devotion that has become something like what Badiou terms the ‘local creation of something generic’ – something based not on the facile ‘connections’ of social media but a dissolution into a strong general unity of purpose.
Dope article minus the Adorno adoration.
What really brings his point home is the self reflection on his own fanboyism, and how it’s material nature is indecipherable from that of 1D despite its subject. Benjamin spent much of his writing pointing out how under bourgeois relations, we are all just fanboys (collectors) looking for the transcendent, and this really brings that home. Otakus are not that weird, they are just way ahead of the rest of us on this front.
"White has been married twice and divorced twice. He has two children. He is protective of his family’s privacy and gives few details of his private life. He states that he does not consider it relevant to his art, saying "It’s the same thing as asking Michelangelo, ‘What kind of shoes do you wear?’…In the end, it doesn’t really matter … the only thing that’s going to be left is our records and photos."
Jack White, on how his family is like his shoes.
In the future there will be no clubs, there will be no art. There will be only this website and the choice of either shaking it vigorously or not while you’re slowly fed a drip of gatorade through the sole orifice on your m.rapgenius.gov issue humanity-shell. Shaking it gives you free karma points and steady upvotes.