This recognition-that as a young fan, I was meant to merely be a cog in their celebrity machine-was surprisingly empowering. The choreographed routines, precise harmonies, pelvic thrusts, and posed photos (why so much squatting?) were all designed in service of this message. Some fans created more serious websites that featured reviews and analyses of songs, videos, and concert set lists, as well as news about the boys and everyone in their orbit.īoth on- and offline, I paid so much attention to the Backstreet Boys that I picked up on the key concepts that were being sold to me: Nick, Howie, Kevin, AJ, and Brian were dreamy, they were heartthrobs, and they would never break my heart. Many of the same press images were copied and pasted over declarations of love, punctuated with rows of exclamation points.

If memory serves, there was a lot of Comic Sans font on backgrounds of bright pink, neon green, and electric blue. Using our dial-up connection, I scoured the internet for pixelated photo collections compiled and posted by fellow fans on unsophisticated websites. I played their music on repeat, I screamed at their concerts, and I had torn-out magazine photos taped to my bedroom wall.Īfter my homework was done, I’d spend hours in a spare bedroom of my family’s home in Tacoma, Washington, consuming as much Backstreet Boys–related content as possible. I was, in every sense of the word, a committed fan. These accolades merely confirmed what I already knew on a visceral, spiritual, and hormonal level: that the Backstreet Boys were the greatest boy band ever (again, I was 15). release, Millennium, which celebrates its 20th anniversary this month, set a number of records, including becoming the best-selling album of 1999.

At the time, the group-made up of AJ McLean, Kevin Richardson, Howie Dorough, Brian Littrell, and Nick Carter-was everywhere. In the spring of 1999, I was in the exact target demographic for the Backstreet Boys: 15 years old, female, and very susceptible to intense celebrity crushes.

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