sombr’s Rise or a Fandom’s Demise?
Older concertgoers have not been impressed with the new crowds swamping the artist’s shows.
When I first saw sombr at the Foundry at the Fillmore in Philadelphia, the crowd fit into a single room, and the merch stand was a cardboard box on a folding table. He played like a kid who spent sleepless nights writing songs on his bedroom floor: vulnerable, precise, and oddly confident. I even got to meet him that night after the concert and talk to him one-on-one, admitting to him that his music helped me through the end of my three-year relationship.
His music felt like a secret that I finally got to share with the other fans in the crowd.
Fast forward over a year, and I found myself at Pier 17 in New York City, watching the same artist headlining a bigger, glossier stage. The difference wasn’t just the Brooklyn Bridge behind him; it was the shape of the crowd, the size of the production, and the tenor of the fandom that followed him from niche favorite to mainstream breakout. Sombr’s rise is one of those modern music stories with streaming, social media, and a single platform doing the heavy lifting: TikTok.
Sombr’s breakthrough didn’t happen because of a record label shoving a single on the radio; it happened because TikTok turned pieces of his songs into short, repeatable moments. Tracks like “back to friends” and “undressed” found a second life as a social media trend: confessionals, dramatic reenactments, and the kind of memorable hooks that travel faster than any playlist creator.
Seeing sombr in Philly felt like being invited to a late-night conversation, his music a confessional conversation of my own heart along with his. At Pier 17, the conversation was still there but louder, amplified, choreographed. Big screens, more backing tracks, and tighter staging, sombr has clearly embraced the “mainstream” while still staying true and authentic to himself and what makes people care.
With the change in size of his concerts comes a shift in audience behavior. Where intimate shows had polite fans who were amazed to meet others who loved their undiscovered indie artist, the bigger New York crowd felt entitled and performative. People were shoving through the crowd in the middle of the set and talking over the performance.
I didn’t arrive early enough to get a front-row, or even close to the stage, spot. I accepted my fate, got a cocktail, and took my spot at the back of the crowd. I sang my heart out to every song, jumping and dancing along with the 6’7 performer captivating my attention. I was just as into the performance and the lyrics as him, feeling every late night I had spent crying and every day I had spent healing from my breakup.
However, the people around me didn’t seem to share my joy. I could see people staring at me, then turning to their friends to laugh or snicker. Even my mom, whom I brought to the concert with me, picked up on this.
It’s fine to go to a concert and only know the artist’s main hits, but I find it incredibly rude to talk over a performer and get annoyed with other fans who want to sing along.
Not every fan there was rude. The groups closer to the front of the stage were more engaged and singing along. However, I have been at the back of the crowd for many a concert and have never seen such off-putting behavior.
Part of the problem is rapid social media fame. Platforms like TikTok create ecosystems where fans don’t just listen, they police, rank, and sometimes weaponize the fandom. Along with that, sombr’s newfound fans are teens without concert etiquette.
After the show, hordes of fangirls waited about, running from one section to another, trying to find the perfect spot to see sombr after the show.
In comparison, fans in Philly after the show were so calm, lining up down the sidewalk and patiently waiting to have a brief one-on-one conversation with sombr. Understandably, he has gained more notoriety since then, but the chaotic energy post-show was overwhelming and cult-like to say the least. It’s a sad byproduct of success; the artist’s world grows, but the intimate norms that built that world don’t scale along with it.
Sombr’s songs still pull on every heartstrong I have. The lines that hit alone in your bedroom still have the same effect on a packed rooftop stage. His talent for marrying indie-tinged melancholy with catchy hooks is what made people stay once the TikTok clips introduced them. Awards, TV spots, and charts have validated that.
But the social architecture that helped him break into mainstream also accelerates the lifecycle of songs and audiences. That pressure can push artists to write for virality or make shows that perform well on camera rather than in the room. So far, sombr has been balancing that tightrope, and I hope he doesn’t lose the authenticity that made me and others fall in love with his musical persona.
