A close friend of mine once cried so dramatically when I told her she would never marry the lead singer of her favourite metal band that you’d have thought she’d just been jilted. Granted, we were 13 and she was in the depths of hormonal angst, but her reaction was genuine nonetheless. Somewhere in her journey to becoming a devoted fan of the band’s music, she’d developed a personal connection with the frontman and become convinced they were meant for each other. Their music was so important to her that she assumed there must be more to it. How could she feel this strongly and not be destined to know him personally? The realisation that millions of other people also felt he was singing directly to them, and that the direction of adoration all went one way, was incredibly painful for her, and somewhat hilarious for me.
This is, I think, a good example of a parasocial relationship – a term coined by social scientists in 1956 to describe the way some people reacted to the new level of access TV and film gave them to their favourite performers. These new visual media offered “an illusion of intimacy”, allowing the audience to be more than just spectators – they felt as if they knew these celebrities. A bond was created, one that has mushroomed since. Back then, access was still tightly controlled. However strong your lust for Elvis, there was a line that couldn’t be crossed. The information you might glean about the snake-hipped singer was meted out in gushing magazine interviews, presided over by cautious managers.
