Four months ago I went to a concert. The exact city, venue and date doesn’t matter, and you will understand why it doesn’t matter in just a…
The fascinating emptiness of one Mr. Louis Tomlinson
Simone De Aurevoir
Feb 20, 2024
Four months ago I went to a concert. The exact city, venue and date doesn’t matter, and you will understand why it doesn’t matter in just a moment. The concert in question was given by Louis Tomlinson, a former member of One Direction, and what I experienced that night was so odd, so puzzling, so fascinating, that I couldn’t help but write it down. Allow me to explain.
The concert took place on a Tuesday evening. It is part of his Faith in the Future tour, and I was accompanying a close friend who is a huge “Louie”, as his fans are called. (Despite the difference in spelling, the man’s name and his fandom are actually pronounced the same way.) I joined her mostly out of solidarity and a little bit out of morbid curiosity. She had previously given me only small glimpses into the Louis Tomlinson fandom, and as a pop culture enthusiast, naturally I was intrigued by this window into an obscure cultural bubble. I remember thinking, “It might be interesting to see what she’s so obsessed with”.
Her first act of initiation had been to take me to see All of Those Voices, the documentary movie about Louis Tomlinson‘s life after One Direction, which depicted his chain smoking Northern English charm, his image of the humble underdog, and the unexpected upwards trajectory of his career over the last five years. It had also instilled in me a vague sense of fear of the fandom. Then again, the intensity of the Gospel is always off putting to atheists, so I thought nothing more of it.
Knowing that football/soccer games dictate which colors to wear and which to avoid, I had half-jokingly asked my friend about taboo colors the day before, not really expecting an answer. Immediately, she texts back — “Don’t wear green, and avoid any obvious combinations of blue and green.” If you’re feeling a sense of foreboding right now, that’s the right instinct.
On the night of the concert, we arrive at the 15,000 seat arena in the brisk evening air. To my surprise, the concrete vestibule is almost empty, save for the small crowd clustering around a merch stand. “They’re all already inside”, my friend explains confidently. We enter through the main entrance into the stuffy warmth of the lobby, through security, past another overcrowded merch stand, and through the soundproofed swinging doors into the main concert hall.
I suddenly feel very small as I enter this gigantic darkened arena space, where the air is even warmer, and buzzing with excitement. Indeed, everybody else is already here. The show won’t actually start for an hour, but the arena is already fully packed. We squeeze past a long row of excited faces to get to our seats, where the local chapter of Louis’s fan club has deposited some items for audience interaction: a blank white sheet of paper and a little snippet of red transparent tracing paper, both with instructions for how and when to hold them up.
While we’re settling in, the second of the two opening bands is already playing — a forgettable mess of clichés from Northern England. “As a white indie boy, Louis tours exclusively with other white indie boys”, my friend remarks with cheeky self awareness. While the clichés are playing, we look around the sold out arena. The two of us are only a little bit younger than Louis himself, which makes us some of the oldest people in the venue (not counting the occasional parental custodians who accompany their teen children).

Fans camping out for a spot in the first row for Louis’s show in Glasgow, 2022. Photograph by Steve Welsh
To me, it looks like we’re just two old pieces of driftwood in a sea of teeth in braces, puffy cheeks and pigtail buns, but my friend explains to me what I’m really seeing. “See that guy over there? That shirt is a Doncaster Jersey with Louis’s team number.” Or: “This girl in front of us? That’s a handmade replica of a t-shirt Louis wore on tour in 2016.” Already, I am amazed at the depth of not just her knowledge, but everybody’s knowledge of the history of this Louis Tomlinson. And then, to my delight, we actually see the forbidden combo: a girl wearing two glow-in-the-dark bracelets next to each other; one blue, one green.
It’s at this point that I finally get an explanation of the meaning behind the colors: Back when the band was still active, all five members of One Direction had a color assigned to them, based on their mic colors at live shows. Harry Styles was green, Zayn Malik was yellow, Liam Payne was red, Louis Tomlinson was blue, and Niall Horan was white. Therefore, wearing blue would symbolize fandom of Louis; wearing, say, red would be an indicator of favoring Liam, and green would symbolize fandom of Harry Styles. And wearing blue and green together would… well, we’ll get to that in a moment.
Since this is Louis’s concert, you might think that the audience would be a sea of exclusively blue clothing, but there is actually a notable amount of rainbow accessories — capes, earrings, fans, etc. — that make for an overall colorful impression.
I wonder out loud how it is possible that somebody who was big with teenagers in the early 2010s has so many teenage fans in 2023. After all, when I was a teenager myself in the late 2000s, it would have seemed unspeakably ridiculous if I had stanned, let’s say, the Spice Girls. (I’m not even sure I was aware of the Spice Girls back then.)
My friend, ever helpful, explains to me that most younger fans came across the fandom in 2020, facilitated by YouTube, Twitter, Tumblr, and pandemic-induced boredom.
Tumblr especially is infamous for its ability to grow and nurture expansive fandoms of pop culture items for years on end, even if the source material is long past its relevance peak (see Supernatural), its quality peak (see Doctor Who) or both (see Sherlock).
The momentum of Louis’ fandom on social media even led to the unusual phenomenon of venues getting bigger every time his concerts were rescheduled due to the pandemic. And this is when it starts to dawn on me. I am not attending a concert; I am witnessing a Tumblr dashboard come to life.
I’m just about to share this thought with my friend when the background music cuts off mid-song, the lights drop, and the sudden darkness comes with a piercing collective shriek that makes the earplugs flutter in my ear canal.
The band comes in first, taking their places. After barely a beat of pause, Louis walks onstage, with messy hair, wearing a tank top and designer sweatpants, walking at a matter-of-fact pace. I assume the shrieking got even louder, but at this noise level it was hard to tell.
Louis takes his place behind the mic stand in the middle and immediately launches into the first song, The Greatest — a stadium anthem basically written explicitly for this spot on the setlist. Not wasting any time on greetings or announcements, he immediately follows up with the other big hit, Kill My Mind. From there, directly onto Bigger Than Me, another stadium-ready rock pop number.
I’m alarmed as I suddenly realize that the only catchy, recognizable songs have come and gone, ushering in the phase of uninterrupted filler songs. (I had dutifully listened to the tour setlist multiple times in preparation for the concert, but my brain just wouldn’t latch on to anything beyond the first three songs.)
At this point, I’m worried this will be a repeat of that time when I went to see P!nk live in concert and noticed too late that I knew none of her songs from after 2005. However, P!nk is a charismatic person and a great live singer who was doing somersaults on a bungee rope as 10 dancers were trampolining and performing aerial acrobatics around her.
Louis is not on a bungee rope. There are no dancers, there is no set piece, there is no stage show, no performance, no outfit changes, no real interaction with the band, and no traditional crowd work. He simply stands behind the mic, singing his songs, the screens above him showing live closeups of his face in black and white, and I’m not sure he smiles even once. For a teen heartthrob, he’s… not very throbby.
(His outfit, by the way, will already have been documented and analyzed by a dedicated Instagram account, @fashionlouist, the owners of which can somehow identify the exact brand and name of each piece he’s wearing within the first 20 minutes of every show. His sweatpants today cost £380.)

Louis on the same tour, earlier in the year. Photograph by Amber Patrick
After the fourth song, Louis finally addresses the audience. “(City), make some noise!” He thanks the two opening acts, and points out that this is one of the loudest crowds he has ever had. That’s it. I’m amused at how his lines are almost comically generic, but my friend explains what I’m not getting: “He always thanks the band, and he always says this wouldn’t be possible without the fans. And he wouldn’t say that if he didn’t mean it. And he only says something about the venue when it’s a really special one.”
She doesn’t see his boilerplate statements as him being uninterested or uninteresting. She sees consistency and authenticity, and judging by the beaming smiles all around me, so does everybody else.
Similarly, his outfit may look to me like he tried to make the least amount of effort, but the fandom like that he is “finally getting more comfortable wearing what he wants”.
In case you’re wondering, Louis’s appeal doesn’t lie in his singing skills either — his pitch gets shaky when the melody dips below the falsetto range, but he is clearly making a great effort in this department. Live singing is hard, and for the most part he’s doing a good job at it.
The interchangeable songs go on for a while, and still the elated fans around me seem to know every syllable. It is very warm, very loud, and for an outsider like me, very boring.
I go outside multiple times to have water, to get another beer, to go to the bathroom. I can’t help but notice that I am the only one in my row leaving her seat during the show. Everybody smiles politely as they let me squeeze past, but every time I do it I’m keenly aware of how inappropriate my behavior is. No one else seems to need or want a break.
In the ghostly emptiness outside I overhear a member of the bar staff complaining about the awful evening. At first I don’t understand what they could possibly find offensive about this quintessentially inoffensive music, but it later dawns on me that they were probably referring to the complete lack of beer and concessions sales. Most attendees are either too young to drink legally or too young to want to spend 6,50€ on a beer. Most of them seem to be sharing one cup of water, and no one is leaving during the concert to go to the bar for a refill.
Down the hall, I hear yelling and commotion which turns out to be paramedics on their way outside, transporting a passed-out teenage fan on a stretcher, accompanied by their panicked friend.
When I return to my seat, everybody around me is still scream-singing along to every single word of every single song, including my friend. They are having a great time. It looks like I missed out on “She Is Beauty We Are World Class“, which, as I had learned earlier that evening, is the song his fans collectively take as an opportunity to show off their rainbow flags and create a queer-accepting atmosphere at the show. Though Louis is, by all accounts, a cishet man, the One Direction fandom has a very, let’s say, specific relationship to queerness and queer symbols. More on that in just a moment.
My ears perk up for a bit when Louis gets to Back to You, a label-mandated collab with Digital Farm Animals and Bebe Rexha from 2017. He plays an altered version of the song with more of a rock sound, but it still stands out to me simply for using different chord progressions than all his other songs.
Funnily enough, in the lyrics of another song (We Made It), he directly addresses this qualm of mine: “Singing something poppy on the same four chords, used to worry about it but I don‘t no more“. To his credit, he really doesn’t pretend to be more than he is — that’s all other people‘s doing. Let me explain.
Not counting parents or outsiders like myself, there are three groups of people in this room: former fans of One Direction, Underdog Cheerleaders, and Larry Stylinson conspiracy theorists.
The first group is easy to explain and even easier to relate to: they were big fans of One Direction (or “1D”), and since that band doesn’t exist anymore, the closest thing to it are the concerts by its former members, all of whom have embarked on solo careers. These fans are the ones who visibly come to life during the two 1D songs that Louis plays this evening; and the ones waving the huge rainbow flag with all five 1D members printed on it. (Again, more on that in a second.)
The second group, whom I call the Underdog Cheerleaders, are the group that my friend belongs to. These are the people who are convinced that there was a grand plan by 1D’s management to make Harry Styles the breakout star of the group, and to suppress the careers of all other members for that reason.
But because they, the true fans, appreciate Louis for exactly what he is, they will do anything they can to support this underdog millionaire, whether by making his songs chart by listening at the same time, buying tickets to his livestream performance during Covid, or writing to the BBC to beg them to stop blacklisting his music. (Whether that was ever actually the case is unconfirmed.)
For them, the appeal lies not in his singing, his performance, or songwriting skills. The qualities that are always repeated when people praise Louis Tomlinson are that he is humble and down to earth; a simple lad from a working class family in northern England.
This is pointed out in every single write up about this man. His humanity is further compounded by the untimely deaths of his mother and sister within a few years of each other while he was ascending to solo fame. For the Underdog Cheerleaders, it’s not about music so much as it is about identifying with, celebrating and uplifting the least memorable person in a lineup of five.
And the third group… they are the ones who would purposely pair blue with green. These are the so-called Larries, the people who ship Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson as a couple.
You can find a great deep dive on the topic here, but the long and short of it is this: While there were ships for almost all possible combinations between the five members of One Direction (resulting in droll ship names such as Nouis or Ziall), the Larry ship was by far the most popular.
The ideological overlap between the Underdog Cheerleaders and the Larries is not zero, but while the cheerleaders just want to see the nice guy win, the Larries also want the nice guy (and Harry Styles) to come out as gay.
They are willing to accept any explanation, however flawed or implausible, for why Louis and Harry have yet to come out as a couple even though they have definitely secretly been together for a decade now and their respective heterosexual partners are absolutely paid actors and they even totally have a secret baby together.
The lack of evidence, the repeated denials by the two men in question and their polite but increasingly desperate requests to stop the madness have only fueled the fire.
The one thing that all three groups share is that for all of them, Louis’s public perception is forever tied up with the existence of Harry Styles. Whether he wants to or not, Louis is forever defined against his more popular former band mate, whether as his colleague, competitor, villain, or lover.
It’s about an hour and a half into the show as I allow myself a peek at the set list on my phone. We’re finally nearing the end. Watching the unsmiling face of Louis Tomlinson, I’m wondering — is he enjoying himself? Who even is this person?

By seeing this image, you have experienced the complete stage show of the “Faith in the Future” tour. Photograph by Steve Jennings
The encore consists of three songs. When Louis gets to the last one, he descends into the pit. Still singing, he walks up to the first row who have been camping outside since the day before in order to get this spot. He touches a few of the outstretched hands, walks along the front row to the left, bends into the crowd for a few seconds, and when he reappears he no longer has his tank top on. His fans have ripped it off his body. He retreats back onto the stage, says a few polite words of thanks, and disappears.
And then, the magic is over as quickly as it began. The lights turn on, background music plays, and people immediately start filing out in an orderly manner. Some are clasping the red confetti bands that rained over the audience during the last song, and their faces look like they will treasure this souvenir forever. In the chilly darkness outside, a well-informed busker with a guitar sings songs by Louis and 1D, and a small crowd gathers around him to sing along while waiting for the shuttle bus back to the city.
At the end of the night, I’m left wondering what all these thousands of young fans really care about. Even though everybody knows all the music by heart, it doesn’t really seem to be about the music. And even though there’s a throng of fans crowded around the stage exit for a chance to wave at the tour bus with Louis in it, I don’t know whether this really has anything to do with him personally.
Because at its innermost core, this fandom is about itself. Not in the sense of its specific members — I didn’t see many fans interacting and making new friends — but rather, the fandom as an abstract entity.
It’s the joy of belonging to an in-group; of sending and receiving signals that only the initiated will understand. The firm belief that you’re backing the right horse, that you’re part of something “Bigger Than Me”, that there is a purpose to your music listening.
Who is Louis Tomlinson? I still have no idea, and neither does it really matter. Nobody else cares. They will make Louis Tomlinson into whatever they need him to be.
