Growing up, religion was more a matter of culture than faith for my family. My true spiritual formation was shaped by celebrity culture. My aunt dutifully took up my father’s request to be my godmother (despite rarely attending church), but her daughter–my cousin–took on the role of my spiritual director, introducing me to the deities that inhabited the pantheon of late 1990s pop culture. She exposed me to the music, TV shows, tabloid magazines, and merch through which I would seek meaning in life. I came to identify with various fandoms, often fantasizing with intense longing about the day I would encounter my idols in the flesh.
On a few rare occasions, this manifested in the form of actually getting to meet them. I remember their physical presence before my little ten-year-old eyes and the intense sensation of being star-struck. But more often than not, this dream was made real through the less intense experience of seeing said celebrities at live concerts.
There was something deeply liturgical about mega-concerts, so much so that they reminded me of the times I had attended church. Yet the spiritual experience of communing with a pop star ravaged my emotions more intensely than any church service had, arousing desires deep inside my soul, and awakening a sense of reverence that I had never felt for God or the images of saints that adorned the church walls and windows.
As I entered my late teen years, I started to feel stunted in my spiritual journey. It turned out that the satisfaction born of worshiping musicians and seeing them perform live was tragically short lived. The excitement fizzled out, and it left me without any means to make sense of the more mundane and arduous aspects of my daily life.
Eventually, I found myself drawn to traditional monotheism, as I came to understand that lasting fulfillment could only come from worshiping the Infinite himself. In place of god-like celebrities, I turned to God and the saints–who didn’t purport to be deities themselves. Unlike over-hyped celebrities, we can find meaning in the stuff of the saints’ daily living, which serves–rather than distracting from the emptiness of our own lives–to help us to find meaning within it.
When looking at pop musicians, the locus of meaning is found not so much in the music they make, but in the hype surrounding their persona–which oftentimes seems to be something separate from the substance of their artistic craft (or lack thereof). On the contrary, the cult of celebrities and the public spectacles associated with it tend to have what philosopher DC Schindler would call a “diabolic” rather than a “symbolic” effect. Modern thought construes reality to be “neutral,” devoid of inherent meaning; meaning is separated (in Greek, dia-balo) from the object in question, as opposed to the classical view which holds that meaning is inherent to the object itself–it is placed together (sym-balo) with the object, forming an integral whole…and when used according to this meaning, brings our wills into harmony with that of the Creator.
Similarly, the French theorist Jean Baudrillard asserted that the global spread of mass media has rendered the modern experience of reality to be more akin to that of a “simulation.” The hype surrounding a mediocre singer stems not from concrete “referentials” (vocal ability, mastery of an instrument, lyrical creativity, etc.) but from a “hyperreal” simulation of greatness concocted by marketing executives. Record labels are in the business of selling a brand–an “experience"–more so than art itself, and offering devotees false “promises.” The simulation of art and beauty fails to satisfy the way real art and beauty do.
That being said, the “form” of a given concert has a significant effect on our relationship with the musicians and the experience of listening to their music. As Marshall McLuhan famously quipped, the medium is the message. Accordingly, the space within which music is performed and the manner in which it is presented determines whether we will be more inclined to perceive the music as a sign that incites us to seek some kind of transcendent meaning, or if we will place all of our hope in the artist and the experience they give us.
I was brought to reflect more deeply on this when I attended two very different concerts during the same week. The first was at a small local venue in my family’s hometown. My dad used to play Joss Stone’s music back in the mid-2000s when riding in his car or hanging out on our deck. Her masterful combination of old school soul and funk with contemporary hip hop and pop beats appealed to both me and my dad, as did her impressively strong and emotive vocals.
Though she enjoyed some mainstream success in her early career, her star power fizzled after being dropped from her label due to concerns over artistic freedom. Despite having fallen away from the mainstream and–as a result–taking a massive pay cut, Stone continues to make music and perform for her faithful fans who respect her for her craft and integrity as an artist.
My family and I walked over to the venue after a quick dinner and as soon as the show started, we were enraptured with awe. My dad was impressed by how “she’s still got it,” as she belted, cooed, strummed the guitar, and pranced off the stage and out into the crowd. My dad was particularly moved when she performed one of her older ballads, as he was taken by both the heartfelt lyrics and her soulful delivery. The intimacy of the venue, and the subtlety of the lighting, enhanced rather than distracted from the beauty of the music itself.
Though I was sad that the concert was over and continued replaying the videos I recorded on my phone to “relive” the moment, I was more overtaken by a sense of gratitude for the beauty I had just experienced, for the gift of watching someone so gifted and passionate share her talents with us. That gratitude stayed with me as I went back to my boring everyday life the next day. In a word, the concert was more generative than it was consuming, inspiring me to live more fully and to seek meaning and purpose in my own work and relationships the way Stone did with her work.
The second concert was inspired less by my esteem for the artist and his skill, but by a classic case of Girardian mimetic desire. The Colombian reggaeton singer Feid has skyrocketed to success rapidly thanks to the marketing genius of his label and his producers’ reliance on formulaic production that seems to have been algorithmically-generated. A handful of my younger guy friends worship Feid for reasons that never really made sense to me. His songs–despite being infectiously catchy—aren’t really that deep and all sound the same. And though his persona is cool and “fresh,” I can’t say he speaks to my soul.
Feid is more of a brand than he is a musical artist, one that manages to appeal to vast swaths of the public. Despite my reservations about his mediocrity, I found myself captivated by the impulse to be part of the crowd. I knew that my friends would be posting videos of themselves rocking out at his concert to their IG stories, and quite frankly, I didn’t want to be the odd man out. And while his music was by no means profound or soul-stirring, I knew that with a little bit of alcohol and nicotine in my system, I would have a good time dancing along to the rhythm of his songs–even if they all sound the same.
Armed with my merch (Feid t-shirt and signature sunglasses) and mind-altering substances, I blasted his songs with my friends in the car as we arrived at the pre-concert tailgate. I resisted the temptation to buy more merch from the bootleg vendors outside the stadium and opted to take a selfie in front of his tour bus (for the gram).
Ferxxo (as his fans call him) descended from the ceiling onto a set as lights flashed around him. He proceeded to skip around the stage while singing (lip syncing?) over a backing track. Had my reason not been impaired by the euphoria induced by the combination of alcohol, continuous vape hits, and the pounding of the bass, I would’ve probably scoffed at the lack of effort he put into his performance. On top of barely singing, and the only live instrument played (poorly) being an electric guitar, he didn’t dance (literally skipped around the stage the whole time) or engage with the audience. To put it bluntly, it was completely mailed in.
The aftermath was a mirror inversion of the previous concert. While I was grateful for getting to spend time with beloved friends, I was left fiending for another high, another adrenaline bump, as I returned to my boring everyday life. Unlike Joss Stone, whose skill and beauty inspired me to live my mundane affairs with more fervor, Feid left me feeling drab and exhausted, as I was unable to see any connection between the hype in which his concert was enshrouded and the meaning of my daily routine. All I could do was post up on IG, wait for engagement with my story, and wait around for the next high…
When reality is separated from its inherent meaning and we are left trapped in a Baudrillardian simulation, we are made painfully vulnerable by the power of mimetic desire. In his commentary on Rene Girard, Luke Burgis breaks down how the major corporations that control the entertainment industry feed off of our mimetic desire, banking on our proclivity to get sidetracked in our pursuit of higher goods by our attraction to following the herd and grasping for goods that–though incapable of fulfilling our ultimate need for meaning–allow us to feel like we fit in with the in-crowd. When any notion of transcendent ideals fall out of our purview, we are left enslaved by the impulse to copy, to imitate others, leaving us frustrated and prone to chaos and violence.
Concerts that center the beauty of the music being performed can break us out of the mimetic cycle, and bring us in touch with the higher ideals that are actually able to fulfill us in a deep and lasting way. Is it any wonder that artists who value their craft so much are often dropped from their labels for refusing to conform to the market’s standards? Is it any wonder that artists who sell their brand rather than artistic integrity, belonging to a fandom rather than just being a mere fan, who can manage to sell out mega-arenas, are given lucrative deals, despite the lack of originality and artistic skill?
While it would seem reasonable to dismiss claims about the music industry’s ties to the occult, we would be right to feel that there is something amiss, a bit sinister, about an artist like Taylor Swift–whose talent, though considerable, is nothing close to the deific–managing to amass fans devoted enough to spend several thousand dollars on a concert ticket.
I can’t claim to be a holy roller. But as much as I may not have renounced my interest in pop music and celebrity culture, I must admit that my perspective has changed. When attending a mega concert, I’m more conscious of what I am (and am not) taking in. There’s certainly something exciting about being in an arena surrounded by other fans who know all the words to an artist’s songs. But I know better than to fool myself into “drinking the kool aid,” and building the experience up to be something it is not.
While the cult of celebrity may not be diabolic in the literal sense, it certainly renders us more susceptible to be taken hold of by our own “demons” within, leaving us defenseless in our attempt to grapple with the emptiness, sadness, and frustration that are part and parcel of the human experience. It certainly pays to pay attention to the devil in the details.
Stephen G. Adubato is a writer and professor of philosophy based in New York. He is also the curator of the Cracks in Postmodernity blog, podcast, and magazine. Follow him on Twitter @stephengadubato.
