Status: this is an essay i wrote for english comp. not to be taken seriously, obvs.
Justin Bieber: Modern Music Messiah and How I Caught the Bieber Fever
My Savior, the Biebz
Savior of music. The next Michael Jackson (Thriller era, of course). Modern music messiah. The second coming of Christ. These are all things that have never and will never be said about precocious teen pop sensation Justin Bieber, and are also all things Justin Bieber tells himself in the mirror each morning while meticulously tousling his boy-next-door-with-an-edge hairdo(n’t). Equipped with a voice that is one part natural and two parts auto-tune, an angelic face reminiscent of only the finest Victorian artwork, and a repertoire of dance moves straight out of the Backstreet Boys handbook, Bieber’s intent is clear: I am here to revitalize and revolutionize the face of pop music, one cavity-inducing hit single at a time. Having initially thought Bieber was a female adolescent and believing his name to be Beaver when he first hit the YouTube circuit, I was skeptical at first, perhaps even a little frightened. But after being subjected to endless hours of his infectious first single One Time during a brief but torturous stint at Guantanamo Bay, I, too, became a Belieber.
It all began on March 1, 1994, colloquially known as Christmas, when Justin Drew Bieber was inflicted upon the world in Ontario, Canada (not in a Bethlehem manger, surprisingly) as the son of eighteen-year-old single mother Patricia Mallette (not the Virgin Mary, also surprisingly). According to legend, Bieber actually moon-walked out of his weeping mother’s womb and into the hearts of all the nurses like an adorable succubus, belting out Michael Jackson’s beloved hit Man in the Mirror, glass shattering with every note he missed. The nurses swooned upon his delivery, inexplicably crying and screaming as if they were newborn children themselves, while their male counterparts looked on in what could only be described as a furious blend of bewilderment, revulsion, and envy. The first words Bieber ever heard, spoken in a reverent whisper by a middle-aged nurse, were, “May I please have your autograph?” The strapping young lad flashed the nurse a coy smile, gave her a twitch-like wink, and said, “Sure, dude.” And so began the era of the deadly and infinitely perplexing Bieber Fever.
The year was 2007 and the then-thirteen-year-old Bieber was already an internet sensation, having contaminated MySpace, YouTube, and the ears of the innocent with his covers of songs by such prestigious talent as Stevie Wonder, Ne-Yo, and of course Michael Jackson. Naturally, Bieber’s covers were vastly superior to the originals that inspired them and the public responded, hailing the soulful pubescent crooner as the next Aaron Carter (Remember him? No? Me neither.). Though YouTube had already long crowned Bieber king of the internet and of the world, it wasn’t until sometime in mid-2007—the exact date remains a mystery, much like the exact birth date of Jesus Christ (coincidence?)—that Scooter Braun, marketing executive of So So Def Recordings, accidentally stumbled upon Bieber’s song covers—because no one would purposely search for them, except maybe if they had a name like Scooter—and was so impressed by the bright-eyed seraphim that he immediately tracked the wonder boy down, desperate to exploit him for every penny his built-in legion of middle school fan-girls were willing to pay. After some verbal wrestling with his mother, Braun flew Bieber out to Atlanta, Georgia, where he performed for King Usher of R and Bland. After Usher picked his jaw up off the floor and put his eyes back in their sockets, he begged Bieber to sign a contract with his and Braun’s joint record label, Raymond Braun Media Group; the pair have been musical blood brothers ever since.
In March of 2010, Bieber released his first full-length studio album, My World 2.0, garnering critical acclaim by music journalists who didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Bieber was a little older now, no longer the barely pubescent little boy that had first taken the world by storm by way of social media. The fame-hungry sparkle in his hazel eyes had grown a little brighter, his hair was cut a little shorter, his puberty-stricken voice a little more soulful, his angel kiss freckles faded by the exhaustion of stardom and the pain of art-inspiring heartache. His age and the wisdom it bestowed upon him were evident in such heartfelt, not at all manufactured lyrics like, “And I was like/Baby, baby, baby, oh/Like baby, baby, baby, no/Baby, baby, baby, oh,” from his cleverly titled hit single Baby, or “For you I’d write a symphony/I’d tell the violin/It’s time to sink or swim/Watch him play for ya,” from Somebody to Love, which was so powerful and moving that it retroactively inspired the psychedelic hit Somebody to Love by famous acid-trippers Jefferson Airplane.
Within weeks of the release of My World 2.0, Bieber Fever had reached epidemic proportions, having claimed the lives of nearly ninety million women and girls, as well as the occasional confused little boy. Symptoms included hysterical crying and screaming, delirium, loss of coordination and cognitive function, loss of hearing, and a loss of bras and underwear. “I never worry about getting more fans as it spreads,” Bieber said about the virus in a February 2011 interview with someone who doesn’t get paid enough to do this job. He then issued the world an ominous warning, breaking into a fit of stereotypical mad scientist laughter before choking on a cloud of his own musky cologne—“And by the way, there is no cure for Bieber Fever!” Incurable, indeed—just like hepatitis C and other diseases typically caused by bad decisions.
As of the time of this essay, the now eighteen-year-old Justin Bieber—C.I.A. codename “the Biebz”—is undeniably among the most recognized, respected, and seminal figures in modern history, his influence reaching far beyond the music industry and inappropriately touching every corner of not only the Earth, but the entire universe and beyond. In addition to his musical genius and mystifying lady-seducing skills, Bieber, a true renaissance man, is rumored to be haphazardly planning his next endeavor: running for the 2044 U.S. presidency as the founder and sole member of the Biebocratic Party. In a 2011 interview he weighed in on our current political system with brilliant insight far beyond his eighteen years—“I’m not sure about parties,” he told Rolling Stone magazine, stroking his peach fuzz beard like a philosopher. “But whatever they have in Korea, that’s bad.” Despite his being a natural-born Canadian and thus ineligible for the U.S. presidency, you can bet your Bieb he’s got my vote.
With three full-length albums under his belt, hot Disney starlet Selena Gomez on his arm, and the entire female population making sweet, premarital love to the ground on which he walks, the cult of personality that is Justin Bieber is truly a force to be reckoned with. As I sit here with my damp cardboard and dry Sharpie markers, creating my Bieber/Cyrus 2044 (as in Miley Cyrus—like, duh) bumper sticker and yard sign, I stare at the television with the eyes of a hopeless methamphetamine addict, watching Bieber give an interview to a reporter that I desperately wish was me. Dressed in retina-burningly bright yellow sweatpants, an equally luminous tee shirt printed with a cleverly stupid saying, and Nikes that cost more than my yearly grocery bill, Bieber pontificates about his star status, telling the interviewer with the same coy smirk he flashed at that nurse eighteen years ago, “You can’t really expect anything from my new album.” Don’t worry, Justin; by now we all know not to expect anything from you.
Bieber/Cyrus 2044!
It all began on March 1, 1994, colloquially known as Christmas, when Justin Drew Bieber was inflicted upon the world in Ontario, Canada (not in a Bethlehem manger, surprisingly) as the son of eighteen-year-old single mother Patricia Mallette (not the Virgin Mary, also surprisingly). According to legend, Bieber actually moon-walked out of his weeping mother’s womb and into the hearts of all the nurses like an adorable succubus, belting out Michael Jackson’s beloved hit Man in the Mirror, glass shattering with every note he missed. The nurses swooned upon his delivery, inexplicably crying and screaming as if they were newborn children themselves, while their male counterparts looked on in what could only be described as a furious blend of bewilderment, revulsion, and envy. The first words Bieber ever heard, spoken in a reverent whisper by a middle-aged nurse, were, “May I please have your autograph?” The strapping young lad flashed the nurse a coy smile, gave her a twitch-like wink, and said, “Sure, dude.” And so began the era of the deadly and infinitely perplexing Bieber Fever.
The year was 2007 and the then-thirteen-year-old Bieber was already an internet sensation, having contaminated MySpace, YouTube, and the ears of the innocent with his covers of songs by such prestigious talent as Stevie Wonder, Ne-Yo, and of course Michael Jackson. Naturally, Bieber’s covers were vastly superior to the originals that inspired them and the public responded, hailing the soulful pubescent crooner as the next Aaron Carter (Remember him? No? Me neither.). Though YouTube had already long crowned Bieber king of the internet and of the world, it wasn’t until sometime in mid-2007—the exact date remains a mystery, much like the exact birth date of Jesus Christ (coincidence?)—that Scooter Braun, marketing executive of So So Def Recordings, accidentally stumbled upon Bieber’s song covers—because no one would purposely search for them, except maybe if they had a name like Scooter—and was so impressed by the bright-eyed seraphim that he immediately tracked the wonder boy down, desperate to exploit him for every penny his built-in legion of middle school fan-girls were willing to pay. After some verbal wrestling with his mother, Braun flew Bieber out to Atlanta, Georgia, where he performed for King Usher of R and Bland. After Usher picked his jaw up off the floor and put his eyes back in their sockets, he begged Bieber to sign a contract with his and Braun’s joint record label, Raymond Braun Media Group; the pair have been musical blood brothers ever since.
In March of 2010, Bieber released his first full-length studio album, My World 2.0, garnering critical acclaim by music journalists who didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Bieber was a little older now, no longer the barely pubescent little boy that had first taken the world by storm by way of social media. The fame-hungry sparkle in his hazel eyes had grown a little brighter, his hair was cut a little shorter, his puberty-stricken voice a little more soulful, his angel kiss freckles faded by the exhaustion of stardom and the pain of art-inspiring heartache. His age and the wisdom it bestowed upon him were evident in such heartfelt, not at all manufactured lyrics like, “And I was like/Baby, baby, baby, oh/Like baby, baby, baby, no/Baby, baby, baby, oh,” from his cleverly titled hit single Baby, or “For you I’d write a symphony/I’d tell the violin/It’s time to sink or swim/Watch him play for ya,” from Somebody to Love, which was so powerful and moving that it retroactively inspired the psychedelic hit Somebody to Love by famous acid-trippers Jefferson Airplane.
Within weeks of the release of My World 2.0, Bieber Fever had reached epidemic proportions, having claimed the lives of nearly ninety million women and girls, as well as the occasional confused little boy. Symptoms included hysterical crying and screaming, delirium, loss of coordination and cognitive function, loss of hearing, and a loss of bras and underwear. “I never worry about getting more fans as it spreads,” Bieber said about the virus in a February 2011 interview with someone who doesn’t get paid enough to do this job. He then issued the world an ominous warning, breaking into a fit of stereotypical mad scientist laughter before choking on a cloud of his own musky cologne—“And by the way, there is no cure for Bieber Fever!” Incurable, indeed—just like hepatitis C and other diseases typically caused by bad decisions.
As of the time of this essay, the now eighteen-year-old Justin Bieber—C.I.A. codename “the Biebz”—is undeniably among the most recognized, respected, and seminal figures in modern history, his influence reaching far beyond the music industry and inappropriately touching every corner of not only the Earth, but the entire universe and beyond. In addition to his musical genius and mystifying lady-seducing skills, Bieber, a true renaissance man, is rumored to be haphazardly planning his next endeavor: running for the 2044 U.S. presidency as the founder and sole member of the Biebocratic Party. In a 2011 interview he weighed in on our current political system with brilliant insight far beyond his eighteen years—“I’m not sure about parties,” he told Rolling Stone magazine, stroking his peach fuzz beard like a philosopher. “But whatever they have in Korea, that’s bad.” Despite his being a natural-born Canadian and thus ineligible for the U.S. presidency, you can bet your Bieb he’s got my vote.
With three full-length albums under his belt, hot Disney starlet Selena Gomez on his arm, and the entire female population making sweet, premarital love to the ground on which he walks, the cult of personality that is Justin Bieber is truly a force to be reckoned with. As I sit here with my damp cardboard and dry Sharpie markers, creating my Bieber/Cyrus 2044 (as in Miley Cyrus—like, duh) bumper sticker and yard sign, I stare at the television with the eyes of a hopeless methamphetamine addict, watching Bieber give an interview to a reporter that I desperately wish was me. Dressed in retina-burningly bright yellow sweatpants, an equally luminous tee shirt printed with a cleverly stupid saying, and Nikes that cost more than my yearly grocery bill, Bieber pontificates about his star status, telling the interviewer with the same coy smirk he flashed at that nurse eighteen years ago, “You can’t really expect anything from my new album.” Don’t worry, Justin; by now we all know not to expect anything from you.
Bieber/Cyrus 2044!
♠ ♠ ♠
vote or die.