IDOLS, SUBCULTURES AND FASHION CONFORMITY – THE LINEAGE OF REPLICAS

Every morning I do the same, I get up, get showered, put on some nice clothes and head down to my favourite cafe for a flat white. Armed with my notepad and laptop I sit, write and watch the world go by, I love to people watch. Where I live, I’ve noticed everyone dresses the same, the same proper hipster posh outfit and honestly? It drives me mad. I criticise them for having no individuality, no original thought. Then I look down at myself, the leather, the fishnets, the Doc Martens, the rockier edge I’ve worn all my life and I tell myself I’m different because I defy everything around here. But what does that even mean? It’s still a uniform, it’s just my uniform.

Most of my life I have found myself in posh areas surrounded by these sort of people, the ones I claim to reject that aren’t “like me.” See it’s not just about what we wear, it’s where we live, where we shop, how we see ourselves. Pitching against others like we’re better because we do A, B or C. It’s exhausting. I like nice things and I’m not pretending otherwise, but trust me if I see another person in Birkenstocks with a shaggy haircut or overhear that unmistakable silver‑spoon voice I don’t know what I’ll do. And there it is right there, that last sentence… let me explain.

I can only be this self-deprecating because I’ve grown up and had enough life experience to see and learn from my own hypocrisy.

Over the years, I wasn’t above any of this, this is a realisation of my own flaws. In my youth, I fell for the same mythology I now dissect. Grunge, brit-pop, mods/skinhead, I built myself out of these borrowed parts and convinced myself it was rebellion. I treated certain artists like proof that I was different, when really I was just unknowingly following another script. Everyone does it, you pick a group mod, casual, goth, hipster etc, you copy the clothes, then you think it’s different or you pretend it’s self‑expression. You’re not like ‘everyone else.’

It’s quite funny when I think about it now, my ego has died a slow death. Over the last six months I’ve been doing a lot of Buddhist prayer and teachings, and it’s helped me see this more clearly. When I look at the people I emulated and elevated, the ones I thought were originals, they turned out to be modelling themselves on older versions too. Authenticity is so important to me, and all I see now is a lineage of replicas. No wonder the whole thing feels hollow.

That’s the real problem now, most people don’t know who they are because identity has become something you outsource. The old anchors like class, place, community just don’t hold anymore, so people cling to aesthetics, attitudes and micro‑scenes. And the idols they cling to aren’t even authentic themselves. They’re recycling poses from previous decades, selling second‑hand cool as if it’s revelation. So fans copy artists who are copying older artists, and everyone ends up feeling like a photocopy of a photocopy. The disappointments stack up. Some artists collapse under their own contradictions. Others just reveal how derivative they are. None of it is personal, it’s structural. I expected originality from people who were performing a lineage. I expected stability from people who were improvising. I expected a blueprint from people who were tracing one.

This is why we elevate these bands and frontmen and women. They aren’t just musicians. They’re sources of style, attitude, subcultural code. They make us feel unique. Music becomes the tool we use to place the unrecognisable parts of ourselves. It becomes identification, belonging, emotional scaffolding. Fans don’t just listen. They construct themselves around the artist.

This is also dangerous when the idol’s attitude is one of disrespect. Because the pedestal we build isn’t made of admiration, it’s made of need. We don’t borrow their swagger, we swallow it whole. Their contempt becomes our edge, their cruelty becomes our honesty, their casual disdain for everyone else becomes the very language we use to feel superior. We internalise the poison and call it personality.
It’s the same hunger that once sent mods and rockers smashing into each other on Brighton beach, two rival tribes in rival uniforms, each swearing their pose was the real thing. When our idols openly look down on outsiders, sneer at the “uncool,” or treat anyone outside the tribe with contempt, we don’t just cheer it on. We copy the script. That casual cruelty becomes our new subcultural code, setting a vicious precedent for how we bully and gatekeep anyone who doesn’t wear the right clothes or fit in “our clique”.

The pedestal isn’t about greatness. It’s about need.

Psychologists call this a parasocial relationship, a one‑sided bond that feels genuine. Kurtin et al. (2019) found that listeners form deeper ties with musicians than with TV characters. It makes sense. You hear the album on repeat. You see yourself in the songs. You feel connected to the creator. You’ve never met them, but the bond feels familiar. And it shapes how people dress. The idol becomes a model who is cooler, sharper, better at articulating their misery. People adopt the aesthetic code to signal identity.

Social Identity Theory explains the rest. Shared preferences become the criteria for group membership. That’s why fans cling to their artists and their clothes. It’s not just music. It’s a passport. A justification for the leather, the parka or the desert boots. A shield against the Birkenstock brigade.

Music becomes emotional regulation. A pressure valve. Life is hard, and fans need something that understands them. The pedestal isn’t built from the artist’s greatness but from the listener’s need for relief. Lynn McCutcheon’s Celebrity Attitude Scale divides fans into categories. Most fans sit in the entertainment‑and‑socialisation group, they enjoy the music and the community. Others internalise the artist’s values. A small group becomes borderline pathological, letting the attachment bleed into daily life. Most fit the first group, but not all.

Sometimes the bond becomes so strong that fans form unrealistic expectations. Dynamic pricing proves it. Demand rises, prices explode, and fans pay the cost. Research on live‑event psychology shows how dynamic pricing destroys parasocial bonds. The illusion dissolves. The pedestal shakes.

And then there are the artists who deceive their audience outright. When someone you treated as a kindred spirit behaves immorally, disappointment is inevitable. Fans feel personally betrayed because the relationship, though one‑sided, felt intimate. Disillusionment follows. Estrangement sets in.

Despite everything, I have Ian Brown’s name on my hand and Joy Division lyrics on my skin. I’m not abandoning the artists who shaped me. But these days I prefer to see them realistically, I’ve grown up, I know they make mistakes. They say stupid things, they change direction. It shouldn’t destroy the fan/music relationship. It should remind us that they are human, just like us, and they were never saints.

Yet research shows us the opposite. Steinhardt and McClaran (2023) found that people judge the music more negatively after learning negative biographical facts. The brain struggles to separate the art from the artist. But Winkler et al. (2026) showed that some fans manage it. They keep listening to the music even when the person collapses.

Morrissey is the clearest example. For decades, his music saved people who felt isolated, myself included. But the interviews, the statements, the provocations changed everything. Some fans left him forever. Others still listen to The Queen Is Dead, but with disgust. That’s the reality of the pedestal, once it breaks, it never returns to its original height. Crimes make it even simpler. Some people can’t listen anymore. Others separate the work from the person. There’s no correct response. Blind worship is impossible.

The only sustainable position is realism. Accept the good and the bad. Understand that the pedestal is a construct, not a truth. If you refuse to admit that, the whole thing collapses under disappointment and resentment.

Most fans know the pedestal is absurd. They still build it. Why? Because in an unpredictable world, it gives them a sense of security. Even if it’s just a stranger’s voice bringing three and a half minutes of order.

Everything is transient and idols change. We replace them, they make mistakes. Some apologise. Some don’t. It was never about worshipping flawless people. It was always about the music and the feelings it pulls out of us.

Sources
•  Kurtin et al. (2019) – Parasocial relationships with musicians (deeper ties than with TV characters).

•  McCutcheon et al. (2002) – Celebrity Attitude Scale (entertainment-social, intense-personal, and borderline-pathological fandom levels).

•  Steinhardt & McClaran (2023) – Negative biographical facts make people judge the music more harshly.

•  Winkler et al. (2026) – Some fans successfully separate the art from the artist even after controversies.