Dear Courtney,
I am a big fan of yours. I have seen you three times in the
span of about two years and have managed to see you go from Toronto's small
venues to one of the biggest non-stadiums. Your songs have been the soundtrack
to my life for the past two years. The first time I ever heard your music, a
friend introduced me to Avant Gardener. I was having some kind of panic attack
that day, so it was amazing to me that here was someone singing a song about an
inability to breathe just as I was going through that same thing. Meanwhile,
Elevator Operator kept me going through the strike that I was involved in just
about when the album was released. I loved your lyrics in general. You were a
crazy poet who managed to explain everything perfectly: My motto in life became
I wanna go out but I wanna stay home, "I don't want no 9 to 5 telling me
that I'm alive" clashed so well with "I don't know what I was
thinking I should get a job" and I found nothing more inspiring than
"I used to hate myself but now I think I'm alright". When you sold
out the Danforth, I was incredibly happy for you. It was like a friend of mine
had accomplished something huge: I was there at the beginning and now I was
here to see you reap the benefits. And yet, when I walked into that building
and saw all of those people there, I felt a sense of dread, jealousy, a longing
for the past, a feeling that my favourite artist was no longer mine.
I don't mean to be dehumanizing nor do I mean to be selfish,
even though I know I am, but this is where fandom lies. The first time I saw
you, you were at the Silver Dollar. I was standing directly in front of you,
face to face. After the show, I came up to you to talk to you and shake your
hand; I wanted a hug and a conversation and a friendship and a correspondence,
but I settled for a quick chat and a shake. Thinking back now, I realize that
that conversation was hollow: I either talked about how great you were or how I
was involved in this whole connection. I have begun to realize that our
connection, the connection between the fan and the admired, you, is very
one-sided. I project my feelings onto you. As Kanye West would say, "I
invented Courtney...I thought I was Courtney".
The second time I saw you was at Lee's Palace. I still
managed to get a spot up front, but you were no longer an equal. You were above
me, elevated. You sang down towards me and I watched you just out of reach. You
now had the ability to reach out to a bigger room. I started to realize my
folly: I had told people about you. I wanted everyone to know about you: I
didn't want you to be a secret. I wanted you to be famous, but I also wanted
you to be mine and mine alone. I wanted everyone to know you but no one to know
you.
As I'm writing this, I have just returned from your show at
the Danforth. As Kim Deal would say "I'm happy for you but I feel like
crying". Courtney, you've made it! I used to think to myself that with
your unusual, decidedly non-mainstream style, you would remain an oddity. I
felt bad about it, but it was one part wish fulfillment and one part prayer,
but you are no longer a secret. Everyone there knew you and loved you. They all
knew all the lyrics, they all moved to the sound: you looked so happy to be
seeing this. You called out to the crowd at one point during your show: you
asked who was there at the Silver Dollar show. I raised my hand with a howl.
There weren't many hands or howls in that room; maybe one percent. But I think
I know what they were thinking; it was what I was thinking: we wanted to go
back there, to that Silver Dollar room. We all wanted to fix our error. We all
wanted to go back there and never tell anyone about you. We discovered you and
if we could do that, we could keep you. It's disgusting, isn't it? I'm happy
for you, but today, I felt like crying, because I couldn't be selfish; I
couldn't hold onto you and I couldn't project my own ideal version of you, and
by extension myself, onto you. I'm an awful person, but that's what fandom is:
we will support you but we will secretly wish for something less.
I hope this letter finds you well and I hope that you won't
hate me for this. But, really, how can you? You are not who I imagine you to
be; you are just an extension of me presented through a stranger. At least
that's who you are from where I'm standing, in the back, no longer able to look
at you one-on-one, relegated to the crowd. Courtney, I hope this letter finds
you well. I just want you to know that I am sincerely happy for you and your
rising star and your success. I just wish that you could have been a secret for
a little while longer.
Truly yours,
Your Biggest Fan
