This weekend in New York City, my father and I passed a transparent, pink-tinted Lululemon building. A sign outside advertised the new location’s opening, and an exclusive event for “celebrities and influencers.”
“What’s an influencer?” my dad asked. I told him they are people who post on the internet and have a following. Less famous than a big time actor or model, more famous than him or me. Many brand themselves around a particular skill, lifestyle, or personality.
“But who are they influencing?” my dad continued. I stopped for a moment. “Everyone, I guess.” Perhaps my answer should have included everything, too.
In conversation about our social media feeds, my friends often qualify the content their algorithms push as “niche wellness influencers,” “strange fact TikTok,” or “cute animal Instagram Reels.” These characterizations leave me wondering, “niche” as opposed to what? Nobody seems to believe they’re on the “basic” or “general” side of the internet. The fragmentation of the digital monoculture leads us to sink further into our corners--not just of the internet, but of our affiliations and identities. But this embrace of individuality highlights more than a passion for the “weird” or “unique.” It signals a full tackle against the mainstream…or at least its remnants left in the wake of the internet.
Subcultures–or ways of life that are “different from [that of] the rest of that society” – have always existed. In the 1920’s the term entered the field of sociology and, since, has been ascribed to groups emerging in response to a cultural moment. For instance, the Teddy boys and girls of the 1950s, 1970s Punks, 1980s Goths, and 1990s Skaters. In each case subcultures have arisen “within society feeling disenfranchised with culture at large.”
This logic tracks with my generation, who resists voting and party identification. We seem to emphatically reject the idea that our identities may exist on a binary--not only politically but also in terms of gender, sexuality, and race. According to Vox Media, Gen Z subscribes to identities “based on a collection of intersectional attributes,” with 81% preferring definition by personal qualities (like hobbies or character traits) over demographic descriptions. This rejection might signal our desire to be understood and represented as multi-dimensional, unconfined to a label we can’t control.
This spirit of renouncing tradition appears in cultural markers like film, politics, language, and even our choice in bumper stickers. A New York Times article titled “There’s Something Weird About This Year’s Oscars” details the peculiar nature of this season's most celebrated films. The Substance features Demi Moore “[jabbing] herself with a goop” and Margaret Qualley emerging from her back. The qualities and themes of films like Anora–about a Brooklyn sex worker who marries a Russian oligarch’s kid–and the three-and-a-half-hour-long film The Brutalist refute Oscar-winning precedents. Contenders “serve puke and pus and anal rape,” and the indie content which was once reserved for wins at Cannes can–and probably will– now make it big at The Oscars.
Naturally, aspirational and highly curated content still exists–as do the two party system, traditional Oscar-bait movies, pop music, and truly derogatory uses of the word “weird.” But somewhere along the line, I think “basic” became the greatest insult of all. Our insistence that our TikTok feeds are “niche” or that the films we honor are “weird” seems to say: it isn’t original enough anymore not to be mainstream. We must be anti-mainstream.
The cultural prestige of strangeness is not new. Perhaps one of the most obvious shifts in connotations around the idea was brought on by Weird Al Yankovic. The pop star rose to prominence in the 1990s, bringing with him a new “quirky and lovable” outlook on weirdness. Phrases like “Keep Austin Weird” and “weird and wonderful,” popularized around Yankovic’s time, reflect a similar ethos.
Today, as Yankovic did, individuals embrace labels that highlight a departure from the mainstream. “Niche internet micro celebrities” are “people online who are known to a small but often dedicated group and they represent a growing variant of the attention economy.” The label arose on Instagram meme pages, known usually for satire, but widespread adoption nods to a “shift in how people think about internet-driven influence.” The incidental nature of their fame is central to their popularity itself--carelessness is their cool factor.
This way of thinking about the figures we follow demonstrates consumers’ desire for relatability and an authenticity aligning with our self-concept. Beyond this, their marketed niche-ness, genuine nature, and particular appeal doesn’t just say they aren’t basic. They are un-basic. Following them is, too.
While the value we place on individuality has augmented, I argue the “mainstream” itself has changed more. Today, the mainstream is the amalgamation of all things niche-, micro-, and highly specific. As Evan Britton, founder and CEO of Famous Birthdays puts it, “fame is niche now.” The digital monoculture has fragmented. Lululemon buildings can be pink and transparent now, for some reason. Influencers and celebrities can be nearly synonyms. And my dad…well, my dad is more confused than ever.
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