It’s crazy just how fast the night changes.
After the sudden death of musician Liam Payne earlier this month, fans worldwide were shocked and saddened, and I—perhaps surprisingly to many—was one of them. The star’s death didn’t just feel like one of a celebrity, but part of a collective childhood was lost along with him.
I’ve been reflecting on why the passing of a stranger, whose music I hadn’t obsessed over in almost a decade, and was by no means a perfect person, hit me, and others so hard.
To me, Payne’s death was the final blow that cracked the rosy glass hovering over my childhood, and more specifically girlhood, memories.
Anyone who knew me during my tween years knew I loved One Direction. I received their CDs and other paraphernalia from my grandparents for Christmas without fail. I would immediately force my parents to play their music in the car, swapping out my mum’s Usher and Counting Crows for records like Up All Night and Take Me Home.
I learnt the boys’—for that’s what they were, at 16 and 17 years old at the band’s conception—names and hobbies, my fandom fueled by the marketing machine that’s Syco Entertainment.
You name it, you could buy it. I lamented I didn’t have a Niall doll of my own, but I was admittedly creeped out by the towels and bedsheets owned by some of my friends.
The authorized, and unauthorized biographies on my bookshelves aside, I loved their music first and foremost. I would listen to soul-searching deep cuts like “They Don’t Know About Us” and “Moments” on my iPod long after my parents had turned out the light, and dance in my room to more upbeat numbers like “Stole My Heart.”
There was something about it that made me, as a tween, feel seen. Even if it was grossly uncool to like One Direction publicly but as time went on, it became something that continued to bring me comfort in private.
In recent years, I’ve come to embrace my past love for the boy band. I’m no longer embarrassed to wear what I like on my sleeve—sometimes literally. Just two weeks ago, I wore my One Direction t-shirt on campus. It’s a real relic I wore to their concert back in 2013.
All this to say, One Direction played a big role in my formative years and had a hand in developing my genuine love for music, not that you could tell by looking at my recent listens. My taste now leans far from pop, though I can still appreciate an earworm when I hear it.
I remember calling my friend Maddie on my parents’ landline phone to tell her she was invited to come with me to the concert and hearing her shocked gasp at the other end of the line—that was my first concert. Music is a key part of my adult life, and it makes me smile, but now a little sad, to think of where it began.
When Liam Payne’s death was announced I received texts, DM’s and even a call—my Directioner friends were just as shocked as I was. I recall having a conversation with a friend asking why we felt so sad. We didn’t know Payne personally, and we knew he was a less than perfect individual, whose behaviour didn’t always align with our enjoyment of his art. I didn’t really follow his solo career and had only seen increasingly negative public opinion about him on social media as of late.
But I’ve come to realize part of the reason his passing has seemed to stick with me is because of what he, and One Direction, meant to my girlhood. Their music made me feel like a part of something, scoring important moments in my adolescence.
From comforting me during the times someone’s birthday invite got “lost in the mail” to laughing till my stomach hurt playing Just Dance to “Kiss You” at sleepovers, and even performing a truly mortifying group number at a school talent show, their music, and in turn, the band themselves, have hovered in the background during some of my key memories.
It’s a feeling I’m sure will pass, but reflecting on Payne’s death has led me on a trip down memory lane that has left a few more cracks in the concrete than before.
Tags
Liam Payne, Music, One Direction, reflection
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