Dakota Rodriguez has been a self-described stan — a passionate, if not obsessive, fan — since her early teenage years.
At 14, she started her first fan account on Twitter to share her love for the singer-songwriter Billie Eilish. During Covid, she fell into the world of K-pop girl groups, including Blackpink.
But for months, Ms. Rodriguez, 21, has channeled her fervor into a relative newcomer: Katseye, a six-member girl group who have gathered a formidable fandom.
“It was like a switch went off in my brain,” said Ms. Rodriguez, who saw Katseye perform three times last year. She, along with a friend from the fandom, camped overnight on a New York City pavement last November, a chilly 18-hour stretch, just to get the best view for one of those shows.
Then, in February, the group’s label announced with little explanation that one of its members, Manon Bannerman, would take a hiatus. It sent the fandom into spiral.
The news upset Ms. Rodriguez so much that she stopped interacting with Katseye’s content. “I’m very sad about it,” she said. “That’s our girl. We love Manon.”
It was the latest controversy to rile up the stan world, where there are more outlets now than ever to share gossip, show devotion and mobilize. Joining a fandom can be an enthralling ride.
Relationships between famous artists and their fans, from Beatlemania to Beliebers, have always leaned parasocial, a one-sided channel for intimacy. But today’s superfans can dive into electrifying worlds on platforms like Discord, X and Reddit, where friendships, rivalry and drama emerge side by side.
Shared camaraderie often blooms into new identities: Arianators, Livies, Hotties, the BeyHive. Their time, attention and money may well translate to cultural and economic influence for celebrities. But that passion is a double-edged force. Disagreements between stans can escalate into venomous online harassment, not only for artists but for the stans who run their fan accounts.
And if their idols upset them, even the most die-hard fans may make an extreme decision: to unstan.
Perhaps no other fandom has been so suddenly thrust on this roller coaster as stans of Katseye.
The group, conceptualized by seasoned music executives who saw opportunity in fusing K-pop and Western music sensibilities, are chronically online Gen Z-ers with a mix of backgrounds. Two members have come out as queer. And they are polished singers and dancers who have embraced a cool-girl fashion. All this has positioned Katseye as an answer for young fans who have long been eager for more inclusive representation in pop music.
Last year, Katseye racked up over 30 billion views on TikTok, where they participate in dance challenges and trends, and sometimes even respond to criticism. A Gap ad, in which the group danced to the song “Milkshake,” received more than 60 million views on YouTube. Its first solo tour sold out.
So when the group’s creators announced in February that Manon, Katseye’s only Black member, was taking a hiatus for her “health and well-being,” the fans, known as Eyekons, were immediately concerned. Her exit set off a conversation about the treatment of Black women in the pop music industry. It also upended the fandom’s typically unified mission of propping the group up. Some fans, through a boycott, have demanded answers from Katseye’s representatives.
In Katseye, Ms. Rodriguez, who is Black and Hispanic, said she had seen herself reflected in a girl group for the first time. Watching the way the group showed up as themselves, she said, had made her feel “a thousand percent” more confident.
That has given her and other Eyekons a personal stake in Katseye’s success, an investment that dates back to the group’s early days.
But the loyalty of even the most die-hard superfans can be challenged.
Stage 1: Formation
In 2021, Universal Music Group, the music titan, and Hybe, the South Korean entertainment conglomerate, cast a net worldwide for aspiring female artists from the ages 15 to 19 to form a “global, diverse and multitalented girl pop group.”
Prospective members would be based in the United States and put through a training program modeled on ones that have produced stars in South Korea. Then came a survival show called “The Debut: Dream Academy,” which allowed audiences to vote on the final six-person lineup.
That series allowed fans to build a personal relationship with the potential members even before the group debuted, said Hae Joo Kim, an associate professor at the Berklee College of Music.
A well-sustained fandom is “the engine that drives K-pop,” said Dr. Kim, and is closely tied to how emotionally invested fans become in a group’s journey.
“You have to remind yourself that you don’t know them personally,” said Joy Lebofsky, an early Katseye fan who attended one New York City show. The group interacts heavily with fans, she added. Members of Katseye have joined her livestreams on TikTok, and complimented her dance covers.
Ms. Lebofsky has used Weverse, a platform created by Hybe that allows fans to interact with artists. She said the group members’ Weverse accounts gave responses to her messages that were paragraphs long.
A 2024 Netflix documentary called “Pop Star Academy: Katseye,” covered the audition process, including the physical toll of training and the mental stress of public scrutiny.
The documentary, produced in part by the group’s creators, brought Katseye not only new fans, but also controversy. Critics questioned whether the regimen was unnecessarily brutal on the teenage contestants. Some supporters, concerned that the documentary damaged the group’s image, have since petitioned for the series to be removed.
A representative for Katseye did not respond to questions about the criticism of the documentary.
Katseye’s final lineup was unveiled in a pageant-style live show in November 2023. The chosen members — Sophia Laforteza, 23, Lara Raj, 20, Daniela Avanzini, 21, Yoonchae Jeung, 18, Megan Skiendiel, 20, and Manon, 23 — looked stunned as they were announced.
One stan, Devyn, 22,was desperate for Manon, an influencer of Ghanaian and Swiss-Italian descent, to win. Devyn, who is Black, wanted to see a Black member in the group. But she also felt there was something special about Manon’s talent, calling her an angel gracing her screen.
With few people to talk to in real life about the show, she immersed herself in campaigns on “stan Twitter.” (Devyn asked that only her first name be used over concerns around her personal information being shared online by other fans who disagree with her support of a boycott.)
When a host called Manon’s name in the finale, Devyn was in the audience cheering.
The fan soon went to work, creating a fan account on X to keep people engaged with the group. She ran live chat rooms to discuss updates and hosted Katseye-themed holiday events, naming her growing online community Eyekonville. Some newer fans nicknamed her “Grandma-kon,” she said.
In the two years since Katseye’s debut, she and other Eyekons have watched the group go from little-known trainees to international stars. On Spotify, the group has more than 30 million monthly listeners. When Katseye was nominated for two Grammys this year, Devyn said she felt as if she had been nominated as well.
“I feel like a proud mom,” said Kene Agu, 21, another fan who also camped out to see Katseye last November.
Though they might not be reciprocal, these sorts of relationships can be deeply meaningful. “Our parasocial connections can help us fulfill important, emotional needs” especially during uncertain times, said Veronica Lamarche, a social psychologist and relationship researcher at the University of Essex.
At times, the energy Devyn has spent on promoting Katseye has felt like unpaid labor, she said. (Hybe’s chief executive, Lee Jae-sang, called Katseye a “sustainable growth driver” for the company in February, citing their sold-out tour and solid album and merchandise sales.)
But the skills she has learned, she added, were valuable. She thinks of herself as a community builder and hopes that the work — and the portfolio she has created — will eventually pay off elsewhere.
Stage 2: A Push-Pull With Fans
Super fandom in recent years has become more accepted, according to Norma Coates, an associate professor of media studies and music at Western University.
But those dominated by women have often been “pathologized,” she said, comparing their perception to the fan bases of sports teams. The numbers from fandoms such as Swifties, who helped Taylor Swift sell over $2 billion in tickets, have now proved a point: “They’re not just ‘stupid little girls,’” Dr. Coates said. “They’re an economic engine.”
Running a fan account with the mission of amplifying Katseye’s every move, post and photo online, can be a sprawling operation. Gaby, 20, who helps run one of Katseye’s most prominent fan accounts, Katseye News, likened it to a mini company that relies on more than 25 people. (Gaby also asked to be referred to by her first name, saying her personal details had been leaked online.)
A typical day on the team involves being constantly alert: Some volunteers check Spotify, Billboard and YouTube daily to track how Katseye is performing on the charts. Other volunteers watch and repost updates from Weverse accounts, or scan for photos from public appearances. Arguments among fans are monitored.
Gaby sandwiches Katseye News updates in between her studies and a job. Last year, between festival performances and appearances, she saw Katseye 14 times. In all, she estimates, she spent $20,000 on them — not including money spent on merchandise. (She said she could spend that money comfortably because of her job. Her advice: Don’t go into debt over an idol.)
But their work largely stopped after the announcement of Manon’s hiatus.
With few details given on her return, cracks widened in the fandom. Katseye News and other accounts, angry, turned it on Katseye’s creators.
Some fans pointed to a Weverse message in which Manon, in somewhat cryptic language, wrote in an update: “Sometimes things unfold in ways we don’t fully control, but I’m trusting the bigger picture.” Other observers noted an interview with The Cut, in which she addressed fellow trainees and teachers who criticized her in the Netflix documentary for missing rehearsals. “Being called lazy, especially as a Black girl, is not fair,” she said.
A faction of the fandom accused Hybe and Geffen of not doing enough to protect Manon from racist harassment. They cut engagement with the group’s official accounts, withdrew from the paid version of Weverse and stopped buying products associated with Katseye. “We are showing their company we won’t tolerate any members erasure,” they said in a post this month.
The boycott, aimed at the managers not the members, would continue, the faction said, until they had confirmation Manon would not be forcibly removed from the group. Different fans argued that the boycott was sabotaging the group.
“It’s so disappointing,” said Ms. Lebofsky, a supporter of the boycott, “especially because the whole point was to be global.”
A representative for Katseye declined to comment on Manon’s hiatus and on the boycott demands from fans.
For some ardent Eyekons, disputes over the hiatus turned what had once been a comforting outlet into a place of toxicity.
Devyn, the fan known as Grandma-kon, made a once unthinkable decision: to stop being a Katseye stan.
Stage 3: Showing Up IRL
Katseye is set for big stages this year, including performances at Coachella in April.
But the furor over Manon’s departure is one example of the complexities and intensities of fandom in the online age.
Some public figures have pointed to the invasiveness that results when the overly parasocial cross boundaries in their search for personal details. Artists like Chappell Roan have criticized fans for “creepy behavior.” Suicides by several K-pop stars have prompted questions around the intense scrutiny they face.
Through Weverse and various interviews, Katseye members have spoken about receiving death threats and asked their fans to stop spreading “misinformation.”
Ms. Rodriguez and Ms. Agu, who camped together for the show, first crossed paths in the Twitter circles of Billie Eilish fans. For them, stan-ing has been about being their real, unabashed fangirl selves with each other.
For all their dedication, they say they try to avoid delving too deeply into their idols’ personal lives.
They, too, are distressed by Manon’s absence.
But it has not changed their memories of the night (and day) they waited for Katseye in New York City last November. The V.I.P. tickets had cost them $240 a pop.
They laid down a blue blanket, set up lawn chairs, and passed the time listening to music.
When the hour came, the friends were separated in the frenzy as they ran for the best spots along the barricade. But even without each other, Ms. Rodriguez said she did not feel alone. During the song “My Way,” Daniela had looked her way, as if she were singing directly to her.
“It just felt so personal,” she said, adding that her eyes had welled up. “It felt like it was just me and her in the room.”
Isabella Kwai is a Times reporter based in London, covering breaking news and other trends.
The post How Fandom Is Driving Katseye’s Pop Music Machine appeared first on New York Times.
