Before beginning second year of university last year, back
when my life wasn’t a stinking potpourri of essay deadlines, damp and cradling
my laptop for warmth, a friend and I took a week-long trip to New York,
once-in-a-lifetime style. A little problematically, then, we’d both been
before: ruled out was the obligatory (and radically overrated) Empire State
jaunt, as was anything involving queuing for the Statue of Liberty, Macy’s or
discovering for the first time that those giant salted pretzels actually taste
like shoddily seasoned rubber. Instead, we had to venture off the tourist-beaten
track: by day five, we found ourselves on the subway, headed for the Bronx to
watch a Yankees game (we ditched “tube” when we realised it unfailingly ended
with us explaining how not every Brit
lives in London and that sadly, no, we wouldn’t be able to pass on a “hey” to
Kate and/or Wills). That night, clad in a Yankees hoody (a small, but still
three sizes too big) and surrounded by Jay-Zs, was the first time it dawned on
me: I’m just not very street, am I? Being out of my comfort zone is one thing
(see: most seminars this year), but being out of my comfort stratosphere was
something entirely different. I vowed, then and there, never again to get
myself into a position of feeling more disparate than Kim Kardashian’s stylist
at a PETA gala.
And it was going great: for the past six months, I’ve
swerved the cinema whenever Sci-Fi’s showing and the sports park I won’t even
consider on Rugby-days. But, alas, like all good (and only slightly socially
fatal) things, my keeping myself well away from everything Other last night came
to a brutally abrupt end. On my way to watch everyone’s favourite man-child
star, Justin Bieber, at the O2, I thought I’d be in the best of company: Somebody to Love was our staple Fresher’s
track, I’ve seen Never Say Never at
least four times, and, failing that, I’d guzzled the best part of a bottle of
Champerlane (you’d never know the difference). By the time I left, though,
those Grand Theft Auto types that
looked ready to rap the crap out of me on the subway seemed like wallflowers;
Justin’s fans, “Beliebers”, as they ardently call themselves, took it to a
whole new level of intense.
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| Strength in numbers: Justin's fans are known for their devotedness |
Demographically speaking, high ponytails and UGGs made up
about 65% of the crowd. A couple of weeks ago when I saw One Direction at the
same venue the same could be said, but what was blatant when comparing two
shows was just how harder-cored JB’s fans are. 1D had a troop of squealing,
jumpy four-footers, banners showing the work of every glittery gel pen known to
man, and gaggles of tweens, hands clasped and eyes streaming. Justin, though,
had a sea of frankly quite pained-looking girls who’d trample on you to get an
inch closer the stage (I showed her),
wailing out pop lyrics like deathbed laments and never failing to gasp if their
hero so much as blinked. One Direction’s night fostered an atmosphere of
jollity, Justin’s of hostility. With only scattered exceptions, these fans
followers didn’t even much seem to be enjoying themselves; they were there to
focus on every strut, pout and note their hero doled out in his ninety-minute
set, to see in the flesh the boy that must, for many of them, be the object of an
obsession. Every act boasts about how their
fans are the most dedicated, and pop mania’s nothing new, but for all the
Britneys, the Mileys, the Cheryls and the Ollys I’ve seen in the past year or
two, I’ve never seen a turnout quite so deranged. As worrying, also, were the
mums (a solid 25%): whereas at 1D they acted as coat stands and occasionally
batted their eyelashes once too many at Harry, at Justin they seemed as
involved in the oddball mob mentality as their (mainly) daughters. From my seat
alone I counted four on their phones, not videoing Bieber, but capturing every awkward
moment of their child’s anguish. Not to poo-poo parents wanting to see their
littluns having “fun”, these were mums wholly and happily ready to feed their
kids’ fixation. If it were my ten
year old, she’d be in therapy quicker than you can say Baby.
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| Man of the moment: Justin takes to the O2 stage |
To give Justin his due, the show itself wasn’t bad for a boy
reportedly more likely to have developed a crack addiction than stubble by the
end of 2013. He descended onto the stage, aptly enough, as a winged deity in
Ray-Bans, and promptly took to a note-perfect rendition of his
cheesier-than-Babybel (and no less moreish) hits. Biebs didn’t once mime or
miss a step in his quasi-robotic routine, and though he didn’t much need to
work the crowd, made sure to interact as much as could be deemed safe with his
twenty thousand supporters (and one perturbed blogger). His newer, apparently
much “edgier” acoustic style congealed a little with old favourites like U Smile, but Justin’s management
obviously know better than to let him tamper huskily with their winning
heartthrob formula: traditional at every Bieber concert is the leading of a
simpering fan out on the stage, where Justin creepily serenades her with his
hit One Less Lonely Girl whilst handing
her a bouquet worthy of Mariah Carey. Though cropped, last night saw the
ceremony acted out in almost regal style (and Justin’s practically pushing the
formerly lonely teenager from his stage only pacified the four year old next to
me who looked about ready to annihilate her).
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| As he was: Justin was known for his boyish charm |
For all his detractors, then, (and there are scores of them),
it’s only fair to acknowledge Justin as, artistically, pretty good. What’s sits
a little less comfortably when you see him fawned over by his horde of
Beliebers is his questionable work ethic and newly pukey public persona. Since
about a year ago, but markedly since his split from Disney TV princess Selena
Gomez (of “gotta keep an eye out for…” fame), Justin’s worn less clothes than
Katie Prince circa 2000 and seems to have styled his dignity on her, too. With
a couple of motoring offences, a questionable cigarette late last year and a new
BFF who goes by the name Lil Twist, Justin’s formerly squeaky-clean image has
undergone somewhat of a sullying. At his first night at the O2 this week,
moreover, he kept his young fans waiting almost two hours for him to take to
the stage (a complication which, since, he’s denied had anything to do with him
being a diva). Speaking to staff at the merchandise stand before the gig, when
their stock of £5 wristbands and Gucci-priced apparel was dwindling, it was
clear that Justin’s antics went down a little less than favourably with the
O2’s management team. I won’t repeat what they not-at-all-endearingly called
him in case some of his youngest devotees stumble on this article via Google
(though, I’m sure, if that be the case my days are numbered anyway).
In his rap-intervention to Justin’s signature track,
Ludacris muses: “When I was 13, I had my first love: there was nobody
that compared to my baby
and nobody came between us who could ever come above.”
How true this now seems for the majority of the Justin’s followers, particularly
those for whom “nobody comes above” their increasingly erratic idol. Worst of
all, it seems Justin knows only too well what a hold he has over his
record-buyers. Give me the Bronx any day of the week.
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