"“I have no one to talk to about this,” I thought while I sat nauseous in the back of the bus, blasting “Red Wine Supernova” in my AirPods on my way to a pottery class that I would never return to. It was late September of 2023. After moving to a city where I knew no one after college, I had promptly engaged in a devastating gay situationship, discovered I had no real hobbies, and realized it was probably a mistake to move away from all of my closest friends. I had no one to talk to about my problems. But I also had no one to talk to about how obsessed I was with Chappell Roan.
Since then, the feeling of being directly spoken to by Chappell Roan’s lyrics has become a distinctly less solitary experience. When I was listening to The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess on the bus, Roan had 3 million monthly listeners on Spotify. Now, there are 42 million more. Her astronomical rise to fame has been analyzed by data journalists, podcasters, and cultural critics alike. Right now, she has four songs in the Billboard Top 100.
But the numbers weren’t the only thing making me feel less lonely. Right around when Roan started touring with Olivia Rodrigo, I made my first two queer friends in my new city. Around the time of her NPR Tiny Desk Concert, I had connected with two more. By the drop of “Good Luck Babe!”—two more. And by the time her set at Gov Ball was exploding the internet, we were a tight-knit friend group, waiting impatiently in line for Chappell Roan-themed nights at a Chicago lesbian bar. I finally had someone to talk to about this.
At its best, fandom has delivered me some of the most important and valuable personal connections in my life. But at its worst, fandom has thrust me into a devoted parasocial relationship, keeping me committed to a woman I don’t even know. One year into my adult life, managing the intensity of my own fandom—my own Chappell Roan fandom, specifically—feels like the modern emotional burden I didn’t ask for. Roan’s rapid rise to fame, alongside more than a few controversies, has left me grappling with the idea that my fandom has gone too far. Now what do I do?
Who is Chappell Roan?
Hello, elder millennials. Allow me to introduce you to my Taylor Swift. Kayleigh Amstutz, known publicly as Chappell Roan, is a 26-year-old queer pop artist who has exploded to mainstream success this year. Onstage, she takes on a drag persona, capturing massive live audiences and millions of online views with her big voice, out-there outfits, and easily replicable dances.
You might recognize Chappell Roan from one of her viral performances. There was her first late-night appearance on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert last February, when she sang “Red Wine Supernova” in a wedding dress. There was her viral Coachella performance, where she dressed up as a butterfly in the colors of the lesbian pride flag and told the audience, “I’m your favorite artist’s favorite artist.” And, most recently, she performed her hit single “Good Luck, Babe!” at the 2024 VMAs. She’s been on a fast track to pop stardom this summer—until the past month gave some fans pause.
Why are Chappell Roan’s fans so mad at her?
In June, at a concert in Raleigh, Roan got emotional as she addressed the gigantic crowd. “I think my career is going really fast, and it’s hard to keep up,” she said. This was the first indication that she was overwhelmed by how rapidly she had been thrust into the spotlight.
In mid-August, Roan posted two consecutive TikToks sharing how she had been putting up with abuse and stalking from her fanbase, effectively calling them off. “I don’t care that abuse, harassment, stalking, whatever, are normal things to do to people who are famous,” she said. “I don’t care that this crazy type of behavior comes along with the job, that doesn’t make it okay. That doesn’t make it normal.” Some fans bristled at her calling out her fanbase so soon after acquiring them, while others cheered her on for boundary-setting.
Then came the election questions. In September, Roan—who had already publicly declined an invitation to perform at the White House under the Biden administration—said in a Rolling Stone interview that she felt no pressure to endorse a political candidate. “I don’t have a side because I hate both sides, and I’m so embarrassed about everything going on right now,” she said.
This set many fans, who were expecting a Harris endorsement from Roan, off. “Chappell roan is an embarrassment to lesbians” wrote one user on Twitter. All of the backlash resulted in her posting a frazzled explanation on TikTok and canceling her performances in NYC and DC at the All Things Go music festival. There have been a lot of angry TikToks, a lot of fans announcing their departures, and many, many indications from Roan that this is all a bit much for a 26-year-old who was virtually nameless two years ago.
If we’re always so disappointed in the artists we love, what is the point of being a fan?
Watching Chappell Roan rise to fame was like a mirror of watching myself enter my first year of adulthood as a queer, Gen Z, creative woman. I thought I was the only one who was sick of going on dates with boring guys, convinced a “feminininomenon” would save me from future suburban blues. And then there was Roan, who felt the same way. And then, suddenly, miraculously, there was everyone else along with her. Watching the TikToks and tweets multiply, I understood that I was becoming part of a fandom for the first time. I wondered if this was what it felt like to be 23 when 1989 dropped.
“At its worst, fandom has thrust me into a devoted parasocial relationship, keeping me committed to a woman I don’t even know.”
Superfans treat standom like they’ve been handed a precious, breakable gift. I understand the impulse. What could I possibly feel besides gratitude toward the woman who made me feel so seen during a breakup that I couldn’t even really call a breakup? Why wouldn’t I cling to the songs that I was dissecting with new friends who meant so much to me? There was a pit in my stomach, though, when I watched my Swiftie friends and coworkers cheer Taylor on after she cringily sucked the air out of the room at the 2023 Grammys with her Tortured Poet’s Department announcement. If calling myself a fan meant being unable to recognize when my favorite artist was being totally annoying, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a fan at all.
To be clear, I don’t personally disagree with anything Roan has done or said. I’m grateful to her for advocating for stronger boundaries between fans and public figures and proud of her for taking a break for her health. I do (begrudgingly) understand why she doesn’t want to endorse a Presidential candidate in the midst of the current political climate.
But the past few weeks have shown me that one day, inevitably, my fav will disappoint me. I’m going to have to figure out how to graciously admit when Chappell Roan is wrong without accidentally sliding too far in the opposite direction and sending her hate mail via Instagram comments. One day—not now, but soon—I will need to detach my fandom from Roan as an artist and attach it to the memories I’ve made of her music, instead. Maybe it’s just part of growing up.
How I’m reframing my Chappell Roan fandom
I have this eight-second video on my phone from July 31st this year. It’s a video of the inside of my favorite gay bar in the city, on a Chappell Roan theme night. Purple lights flash in the foreground, and there’s a neon sign that has the lyrics to “Femininomenon” lit up in the back: “Can you play a song with a fucking beat?” None of my friends are in the video, but the strangers are just as joyful. They are—and I am—the queer kids in the Midwest that Roan spoke to in her VMA Best New Artist acceptance speech. When I’m having a hard day, I watch this video and wish I could crawl inside it.
“One day—not now, but soon—I will need to detach my fandom from Roan as an artist and attach it to the memories I’ve made to her music, instead.”
Chappell Roan has been the soundtrack to my life for the past year, filling my mind up with beautiful, gay, pink-cowgirl-hatted memories. Blasting “HOT TO GO” in the car with my college best friends on our first reunion trip. Walking along the shore of Lake Michigan in the middle of winter, playing “California” and missing my closest friends and family. Alternating “Pink Pony Club” and “Miss Americana and The Heartbreak Prince” the morning before a big work event. Crying in the mirror to “Kaleidoscope” when ex-situationship summer reared its head. They’re memories, most of which involve my love for other people, that I could have hardly dreamed up a year ago on the bus ride to pottery.
“Fan culture and love poems have taught us to put the object of our adoration on a pedestal or an altar or a stage, to see ourselves as always looking upwards, always in a state of praise. But in the act of loving, you are the centre, you are the maker of meaning,” wrote Ismene Ormonde for Byline earlier this year, in an essay on Taylor Swift. As my parasocial relationship with Chappell Roan grows increasingly complex, I like to remind myself of this position. I am a fan who loves her, and so I get to decide how I want to love her—even if, someday, that means loving her as a kind critic. And in my love, I get to make meaning. I always have the power to look to the left and right, at the people singing along with me, instead of up at the star.
Emma Ginsberg, Associate Editor
Emma is a writer, editor, and podcast producer who has been creating at The Everygirl since 2021. She writes for all sections on the site, edits the Entertainment and Community sections, and helps produce The Everygirl Podcast. With a degree in American Studies, Emma is especially passionate about evaluating the impact that pop culture and internet culture have on the day-to-day lives of real women.