I came across an epiphany today.

And it was kinda random. Not gonna lie. In fact, I almost took an angle grinder to my nasal cavity the moment I thought about it, but just as my nostral hairs were starting to singe, I doubled back on my thoughts and considered it wasn’t such a bad call. So then I followed wherever this thought went (you know, give peace a chance and all that), when I actually got something good out of it.

The topic? Justin Bieber. Add angle grinder, but stick with me, I’ve got this.

See, I was waiting for my haircut appointment and walking through the local bookstore, when I found - and I swear this is legit - a biography of Justin Bieber. Really? Honestly? He’s sixteen years old and looks like Ellen Page plus a bad day in Photobooth, not to mention has the voice of someone who sledgehammered his knee so hard his balls melded with his Adams apple, a la carnival game. But when he’s bigger than Godzilla’s private jet, you’re inbuilt to expect these sorts of things and, in doing so, not giving a shit when they do happen.

Regular readers of my rants may recall that every time I reference Justin Bieber, it is with the same tone of voice that Samuel L. Jackson uses to politely request that the gentlemen in front of him to speak a particular language in Pulp Fiction. And while none of these past opinions have changed much over the year, I have gained something of an understanding of where he sits in my musical hierachy. See, in my stereophonic mindset, when it comes to music, everything has its own shelf. Classic rock can chill with Van Halen and Steven Tyler, while the rappers can eat boot polish and slur slang like they have concussions. Bieber’s place in this realm of niceties was the rat infestation that was chewing through my main support beam.

But now, with this epiphany, I can finally take the fuzzy furball with glowing eyes resembling the torches of Hell’s gates on a shelf somewhere far, far, FAR below the same shelves as Michael Jackson, Backstreet Boys, n’SYNC and, for people like me who still find them halfway decent (I have my guilty pleasures, shut up), Blue. And while it may be slowly gathering dust, it now sits nicely in its place like everything else. It’s a place I’ll never look, but I can live with this. He’ll find the niche nice and cosy anyway, the ratty bastard.

But I digress. See, I read a passage in there that was in the “heyday” of Bieber’s career - you know, the only fucking part in the one chapter saga of Bieber’s miserably small lifespan as an artist - that compared them to the likes of said column-sharers from paragraph past. And despite outrageous skepticism along the lines of “what the fuck is wrong with you and why are you squeezing my tit?”, it holds some validity to me. I mean, think about it. Backstreet Boys, n’SYNC, Steps, Vengaboys. All of them were there, and then they weren’t. But their legacy remains, purely in our generation as those days. You know those songs. The ones you play at the end of any party for all the drunk people reminiscing going “hey, this song used to be cool.”

Let me put forward an example. “5, 6, 7, 8” by the Steps holds the same period of popularity and worth as “Baby”. Let’s review. Steps came out of nowhere, with a song that was poppy, catchy and ever so slightly annoying, but with the force of a hurricane. It was everywhere, like the sands of the Mojave caught in the nether regions of a Vegas showgirl. Where does Bieber differ? His was on Youtube. Sure, his audience might have been bigger, but the outcome is still the same.

Which is why I reconcile that he is just a miniature Justin Timberlake. Except, you know, a woman. JT started with Backstreet Boys as the frontman, was the fucking Shangri-La of every tweenagers fantasies back in the 90s (no pun intended), and then resurfaced as a sex god when the tides rolled back in again. My new theory is that Bieber will disappear for five years, then reappear looking like Megan Fox hitting the g-spots of all those ambiguous teenagers with something morally uncertain but still catchy and poppy and etc. Because sometimes, as much as it pains you to say it, you have to admit that some things are popular for a reason. And some things are the musical version of the Bubonic Plague for a similar reason.

To be successful in the music industry, you need to fill a particular dusty niche in the musical world and milk the Jesus out of it. Bieber has filled the gap that the boy band era left behind for the new generation. And those who have “appreciated” Bieber’s legacy will never understand why the next batch of poncey pop princesses are so huge, when those before were bigger, better and just itched that spot a tad harder than the new kid. It happened when Backstreet took MJ’s place, it happened when Bieber took the place of the monsoon of boy bands, and it’ll roll around again. Some upstart with a synthesiser and five questionably male friends will write the Holy Grail of pop music for their decade and kick Bieber from his spot. Cue cycle. But until then, this is what we’re dealing with here. Call me damage control, if you will.

So, now he sits there, just above another empty shelf that says “the estranged love-child of Ellen DeGeneres and a Korg”. But I’m not holding my breath for that one. At least not till the nuclear Holocaust. But on the positive side, I still hate the little fuzzwank. He’s like the next door neighbours chihuahua. I will never like it, it yaps on and on and on and on when all I want to do is sleep, and I want to impale it with a meat tenderizer before its loving fans flay me alive. But he’s there, and as long as I forget he is there, I can settle.

Anyway, all this talk is giving me a pop headache. Lemme flush it out with a dirty bass line. Cue Muse.

Peace out, y’all.