There's no compelling reason for Justin Bieber fans to adore him as unconditionally as they do, and even less reason — haters gonna hate, etc. — to loathe this tiny teen idol leviathan. He's Canadian. He's armed with a set of dreamy eyes, an undefined teenage frame and a perfectly flawed coiffure designed to siphon off the allowances of any and every red-blooded junior miss with Internet access. On top of that, his hollow, diabetic-coma-inducing pop flavors are the stuff of which sweet pre-adolescent dreams are made — catnip for the Nickelodeon circuit. And nails on the blackboard for anyone who fancies himself to possess a modicum of taste.
So what about Bieber Fever?
There was a time when fresh-faced teen songbirds like Bieber whored themselves up from the ranks of Saturday morning TV commercials and rehashed rehashes of the Mickey Mouse Club before earning access to our praise and adoration. But somewhere in the cauldron of mystical pop culture techno-necromancy, someone combined the essences of Leif Garrett, Shirley Temple and Oprah, forged them with the wonders of modern science, and created the Harry Potter of pop R&B. He was then plucked from YouTube obscurity by Usher "Dumbledore" Raymond, and immediately handed his crown as the reigning prince of heart-throbbing tween pop, rivaling — nay, trumping — saccharine titans like Miley Cyrus and the JoBros in an Internet minute, using little more than the power of his prepubescent voice as his spell, and a webcam as his magic wand. By comparison, previous Web celebs — e.g. the Chocolate Rains, Chris Crockers and other fly-by-night near-nobodies of the tubes — amount to little more than negligible blips. Has the "Will It Blend?" guy performed for the president? Hell no. But you can bet your sweet ass The Biebs has.
You could take that as one less reason to care for Bieber's ilk, since the Internet has never run short on annoying shredders, singers, jokers, dreamers and hopeless, quixotic optimists proudly streaming all they may or may not have to offer online for the world to see. And now, with Bieber's success, that number has doubtlessly mushroomed exponentially. In the minds of these deluded bedroom-based bastards, Bieber isn't so much a wunderkind as one winning ticket in a numbers game that implicitly promises it's only a matter of time before they all get the 15 minutes Warhol promised. In their defense, thanks to shows like Tosh.0 that exploit their individual humiliations on the reg, these oversharing extroverts are sadly finding more and more validation — and not in a good way.
Who knows how many of those Richie Rich money-stacks The Biebs has invested in the Internet, but it doesn't even matter. He pretty much owns that shit outright. YouTube, the site that catapulted him to superstardom, remains a perpetual shrine, stocked daily with tributes, homage, slideshows, and even toddlers hysterically and tearfully yearning for a moment in his presence. He's shown his face in surprisingly hilarious cameos on Funny or Die lampooning this very fact. (YouTube is also home to footage of him escaping a screaming Arizona mob on a Segway.) And have I mentioned Twitter? His name, or any number of variations on it, are forever trending on the micro-blogging site. That is to say, at any given moment, a few thousand individuals are taking however many seconds of their day to type his name into a little box for any multitude of reasons. Meanwhile, virtual shrines have been erected elsewhere, not just for him, but also for young lesbian women whose visages resemble his.
The Bible doesn't actually say much in the way of describing the Antichrist, but those who falsely claim it does might well suggest that lil' J.B. is a harbinger of some sort of doom — if not for mankind generally, then most certainly for his own kind. In all seriousness, while it's obviously more fun to paint Bieber as adorable horseman of the apocalypse than as the innocuous pop-culture cash calf he actually is, the very fact of his career — and the process by which it came to be — is a fascinating study in our fameball-enabling world. At the same time, the rise of Bieber is haunted by the specter of so many fallen teen idols who have come before him. All that power given to just one tiny prince will eventually go one way or the other, right? Just how long will it take for this squeaky-clean pipsqueak to wash up alongside the Corey Haims, Gary Colemans and Lindsay Lohans on that lonely beach of has-beens? How long before that Vitamin-Water fountain of youth stumbles in his stride through puberty, and his fickle legions outgrow him, or avert their gaze toward an even dreamier, newer sensation? Exactly how much sick pleasure will it give us to watch him fade into obscurity, only to find him holed up in a filthy Los Angeles motel smoking designer drugs out of a light bulb with Demi Lovato?
The world is both your oyster and your enemy, Justin. It's your biggest fan and your worst enemy. We love you and we hate you. Some of us love to hate you, and some of us who love you, hate you because you can't love us back. Some of us only hate you to balance out your rampant adoration, but will no doubt switch teams once your brand evolves from trendy into ironic. Some will root for your limitless success, but those same folks will in turn pick your bones like vultures the instant you step into any sort of misfortune. (Remember that time you banged your head on the revolving door? That shit was hilarious. Just wait till your secret naked cell phone pics leak.) You will no doubt pack in a battleship's worth of estrogen this week at Bridgestone Arena. Should you ever doubt yourself, and the times get you down, should your star fade into the cruel cycles of fame, take solace in knowing that history has proven, time and again, that at least 200 of those faithful Nashvillians will gladly pay twice as much to see you again, 20 years from now, at the Wildhorse Saloon.
Email music@nashvillescene.com.
