The Power of Bieb

For me, it was a pop concert. For my daughter 13 and her bestie, it was the pinnacle of a three year idolization crusade. A three day build-up of hotel stake outs and minute by minute checks of social medias. A three hour wait at the doors of the venue. Until the best three hours of their lives. 

It was bad boy pop star tagger from Ontario, Canada himself. Justin Bieber. In the flesh.

The minute he mooched onto the stage, I was fascinated. His 8,000 girl-women fans, plain star struck. There he was, cool as a rare white tiger in his swaggy bleached leathers, gold shadzes and quiffed hair. 

He strolled the length of the narrow stage, all of eight stay-in-your-seats-at-all-time seats away. King Justin was in da house. Giving us the STARE. Slowly. Deliberately. From side to side. His hands clutched together over his crotch in an old man’s pose.

His was a slow strip tease.

I tried not to giggle at this swaggering man child. He ain’t quite Elvis. Yet. He’s 19. His real fans just cried into each other’s Impulsed armpits and tried not to faint. 

‘Justin Bieber,’ he drooled. Dropping the ‘I’m’ like Gaga’s Lady. ‘Just-in Bie-ber.’

When he finally broke into song his fandom fell in love all over again. Swooning. Screaming. Weeping. Holding up their I-phones. Mapping memories of losing their concertinity with Justin. Bieber.

‘He’s so HOT,’ my daughter yelled to newly befriended Beliebers. 

‘YEAH,’ they cried back. 

Our girls had climbed a row ahead, leaving us mums to our middle-aged merlot-ed view of things. I shuffled conservatively trying not to look like I was enjoying myself too much. Because I was. 

I took photos off Juzzer. For my daughter. A record of the night, to make up for the $500 VIP pass - guaranteed one-on-one photo opportunity with The Bieb, that her father and I had decided she didn’t need. 

Between songs, he spoke to the audience like old friends in his soft Canadian drawl. He sounded coldy. I hoped his vocals would hold out. Being at the end of a year long World Tour and all. 

First off - his gold shadze. The girl-crowd went girlier. His was a protracted undressing.

 

I was fixed on his mouth at the end of the second song. His lips were sealed, yet vocals came out. A pre-recorded mix? Lip synching? 

‘I’m going to play an acoustic number now,’ he said. ‘But I just need to warm up my vocals.’ He wasn’t wrong. So he did. Tra la la sort of. He picked up his guitar and started over. I was convinced. From then on. 

‘Let me get a little more comfortable here,’ he teased, in well-rehearsed come on before song number three.

Off went his jacket. He flexed his lean tattooed biceps. I-phones pinged. And so it went.

An overexcited group behind sang every word to every song in a distorted falsetto. Who was I to spoil their fun and tell them to shut it.

Two teenage down syndrome girls dressed in lilac sun dresses - Justin’s colour. Tossed their long blond manes to the beat. Happiness filled. Earlier, a Limosine delivered 10 Cure Kids children (one of Justin’s Charities), for the night of their lives.

That’s what I’ve always enjoyed about these teenage concerts. For one night, all these tender youth have no care. Plump, plain, pretty, bright or challenged – no matter. For one night there were 8,000 Less Lonely Girls in that arena. All getting it on with Justin Beiber. And his music.

Pant pant. Swoon swoon went the crowd. Theirs was a hormonal heaven. 

He played guitar. Drums. Danced crazy energetic hip hop with his huge ensemble. Changed his hi-tops. Leathers. And singlets.

Then pam off came another one.

Oooh cheered the crowd. Deafening. But not bawdy. It was Walt Disney coming of age. And as far as getting it off in public goes, this pop-star-pole dance was way more watchable than Miley Cyrus twerking her bits on the telly.

I adjusted my lens. Stuck a finger in one ear. And captured the Calvin show. He’d definitely give Marky Mark a run for his money. Soon his pants dropped to a truly ridiculous right on Jerry sort of low riding level. Occasionally he hitched them with a mini ineffectual groin grab. Where was his mother?

Perhaps he was channeling his feminine side. Going-out with generations of women rubbing their pantyhose together in just above the knee pencil skirts. It didn’t look comfy. Waddling along. 

He reached out for a hand touch and damn near lost those trou.

But honestly the guy could have worn a bee keepers outfit (minus the headgear) and they would have still Beliebed.

‘Have you been with me from the start?’ Justin asked the crowd during his two song encore. His first hint of vulnerability.

The crowd answered in cheers. Naturally.

My daughter definitely has. Since the sweet age of ten. Her room became a progressive four walled postered shrine to him. She begged for his every publication, cd, dvd and pongy perfume. They’re close. He tweets to her. Along with 47,339,413 other followers…

And then he played his final song. Sweaty girls softly cried. And hugged.

He exited the show in slow motion. Echo-ing his name. Hitching his pants. ‘Just-in Bie- ber. Jus-tin Bie-ber,’ as the stage floor gobbled him up.

Just in case we’d forgotten. Only three long lonely years and he’ll be back…

The Biebs & Me

In keeping with my teenage theme. I have an announcement to make. It’s big…

I am accompanying my newly thirteen year old daughter to a Justin Beiber concert. We’re in the 9^th row. Centre stage, pretty much. I am reborn.

I have in fact secretly been a fan of The Bieb probably for almost as long as my daughter. He’s a good musician. He’s cute. I blubbed watching his movie for heaven’s sake. And that song he did with Nicki Minaj sealed the deal. JUSTIN.

Plus the little guy’s human. His recent outbursts of bad behavior; punching paparazzi and missing concerts dates attests to that. Living in the limelight from a young age is not all that it’s cracked up to be. Ah Juzzer?

But loving JBiebz can be hard. Timely and expensive. Just ask my daughter. There is not an inch of wall in her bedroom not covered by this lad from Strafford, Ontario, Canada. The laddy who just got his Audi leopard dipped (see above).

I loved the Bay City Rollers at thirteen, had a picture of them in all their tartan knicker-bocker glory above my bed. But not that much. I don’t think I would have thought it a matter of life or BC Rollers had they travelled to the far shores of Aotearoa in 1977 offering to perform live for me.

Nevertheless JB, we’ll be there in our Belieber T-shirts, with our placards saying I love you, our cellphones waving and earplugs at the ready. Hopefully we’ll actually hear you sing Girlfriend as 12,000 girls swoon shrilling ‘pick me’ while fainting about us.

The heart warming part for me is that during this age and stage when us parents turn into these ugly aliens our loving children don’t want to be seen in public with, the daughter in question has re-friended me on facebook. Mummy sigh.

At first I thought it was a hoax, a trick, a slight of hand to lift me up then squash me flat. Much like the comments I receive daily. “Mum you can’t be seriously going to wear those shoes with those pants I’m sorry. NO. WRONG.”

I know Chuck Taylors creeping into the wardrobes of so many middle-aged women is wrong. And tragic. But they’re comfy. And reasonably priced if you fit into children’s sizes like I do.

Anyway, I stooped to question the genuineness of the lovely friendly friend request. And sweet daughter assured me it was REAL and necessary so we could experience pre-concert frenzy together. Sharing statuses, promos and Bieb merchandise offers etc.

Now all I need to do is book our flights and buy an emergency pack of Rescue Remedy. If you’ve read this music review you’ll now this is not my first teenage concert. I'm an old hand, so to speak.

Unfortunately the only hiccup in my continued re-birthing is that I’m now not allowed to attend, The One Direction concert in October. Okay, I understand when you're 15 you need to break out.

JUSTIN!

Teenage Dream

At 8.40pm on Wednesday 19^th June, I officially became the mum of two teenage daughters. It’s about time I wrote YA novel I thought. I should know my audience.

A few days prior I'd hosted a coming of age party. Fifteen, 12 and just 13 year olds. It was an eye opener. But quite frankly what stage of parenting isn’t?

As I served the drinks I stated the rules. ‘First rule: No drinks in the living room please. Second rule: have fun.’

‘And have a sugar high,’ squeaked a smiley girl, stuffing her fluro striped face with a handful of party lolly mix.

‘Go crazy,’ I said. And they did.

As soon as I’d served red Fanta in paper cups and retreated to my holding pen. The kitchen. Some of the girls started a burping competition. Fair enough. They were thirsty young things and that drink was obviously carbonated. But even the three boys present were shocked by the volley of throaty belches emanating from these pretty tweenies all togged up in their fluro skinnies and white T-shirts.

It was a glow in the dark party. Oh yes. We had glow sticks, glow glasses, glow-earrings, glow necklaces and glow-bracelets. Thanks K-Mart. We had a happy birthday banner painted with glow paint. And as already mentioned we had a lot of faces covered in glow-paint. Thanks Whitcoulls; and FYI that pink colour leaves orange stains on coloured concrete floors. We had gazillions of white balloons with lcd lights inside. Thanks Warehouse.

And the piece de résistance, reminiscent of 80’s nightclubs, the black light. $23 to hire for the night from Party Plus. If you stood too close to it you looked like an Oompa Loompa whose teeth had just been lasered Ultra White. Sick.

As Justin Bieber screeched out ‘Girlfriend’ for the third time, I busied myself with heating an array of nasty premade party snacks. My daughter wanted a dinner tray of freshly made sushi. I said that would cost too much. The kids gobbled up chicken bits the size and shape of popcorn and freakishly long oven fries. It was comforting to see Alison Holst’s youthful face on the packets of frozen sausage rolls I’d selected. They were good too. Blast them at 220 and the pastry’s all crunch and yum.

One boy complained the playlist was terrible. I was with him on that, but I wasn’t allowed near the stereo. I wasn’t allowed near anything actually unless required for photography or food replenishing. I had to bite my tongue and put Katy Perry on the stereo near the kitchen, loud. When in Rome.

They moved outside and toasted marshmallows over a brazier. Things started getting out of hand. An eleven year old male had taken his shirt off. The girls were jeering. He was taking selfies. For whom I wondered? They ate smores (molten marshmallows squashed between Chocolate Wheatens). Then they disappeared into the dark armed with only their glow in the dark arsenal to play spotlight. It was practically snowing. Some fell down banks, others in gravel. I let them get really wet them called them inside. Then I mopped mud off the floor.

The big screen we borrowed from a friend was a hit. They played One Direction parodies mostly to annoy the resident almost 15 year old. Hardened Beliebers all of them. Next they projected facebook and chatted to outsiders. Stranger things have happened I suppose.

Some of the photos were telling. Like the one of the lass gyrating with the empty wine bottle in her mouth. Now deleted. The bottle in question had been used to play spin-the-bottle-whose-present-will-I-open-next?

At the time I thought perhaps a plastic one would have been more suitable but her father assured me it was washed. And I was a bit preoccupied getting the oven to frozen pastry cooking temperature. Maybe plastic doesn’t spin as well? I can’t remember what we used when I was a young lassy. But it must have been glass; those midsize bottles we returned to the dairy then bought a ten cent mixture. Heady times back in the 70’s, when spin-the-bottle was a kissing game.

The party lasted three hours. It could have been three weeks. When the birthday girl said it was the best party, I knew my job was done. One parent arrived 45 minutes after the allotted pickup to collect four girls. I was lying on the sofa by that stage, wishing I hadn’t had the urge to try all the high salt high fat food on offer. At least I’d held back on the red Fanta. Having that cocktail of processed preservatives repeating would have been lethal.

A few days later the actual birth date arrived. Darling daughter announced at breakfast, ‘hey mum I’m legal.’

The words ‘For what?’ started flashing across my frontal lobes like a cheap Vegas neon.

I swallowed my toast, ‘For what?’ I asked, taking a swig of coffee.

‘Facebook,’ she beamed.

Now, about that YA novel...to be continued