The minimal research I conducted for this post involved wandering around Liverpool city centre counting portraits of Justin Bieber. Every kiosk in town sells Liverpool United gear on one side, Everton gear on the other, and they all sell pencil drawings of Bieber, tee shirts and knickers and mugs with Bieber's face on. When little girls ask me if I know Justin Bieber (after asking me why the fuck I left Canada, which is question one for all Canadians in Liverpool) I always respond that if I had then they wouldn't know him, and I wouldn't have "moved to Liverpool" so much as "fled the police".
I am pretty sure he isn't this popular in Canada. I hope not. Most Canadian pop stars who acquire international fame are not mentioned in Canada once they've left. They are the gay children of extremely right wing parents. I certainly don't remember walking through Ottawa's Byward Market feeling oppressed by all the portraits of Celine Dion or the $15 knickers with Brian Adams's face on the ass.
I don't mind the abuse I get on behalf of Celine because these internationally famous pop stars are just red herrings we throw out now and then to stop the rest of the world from wrecking our real good stuff, although I'm aware that Canadian artists probably wouldn't agree that obscurity is perfection. On the not infrequent occasions I'm chased down the Albert Dock by a horde of scallies screaming "THAT DON'T IMPRESS ME MUCH! THAT DON'T IMPRESS ME MUCH!" I think about the best live gig I've ever attended.
Also it was the first gig I attended as a resident of Liverpool, Joel Plaskett Emergency live in Mojo. Subsequently Mojo became my club of choice despite the necessity of looking only at your feet while dancing just in case you happen to make eye contact with someone and find yourself married, pregnant or dead, before the next episode of Hollyoaks airs. When I got to the club with my aunt and her then-new boyfriend, Joel and the band were sitting at a nearby table, a fact which nearly caused an insurmountable emotional crisis as I fought not to do a wee in my tights. Plainly no one in Liverpool has any idea who Joel Plaskett is. The audience consisted of myself, a pair of twin Canadian girls who had travelled to Liverpool for this gig, and a guy from Reading who made us all nervous with his violently enthusiastic response to Joel getting on stage.
The four of us stood grouped around the little stage - the one time I looked behind me I saw my relatives and the rest of the people there standing as far from us as possible, but none of us gave a shit; we were too busy going mental in a big way.
Mojo is a fantastic club but the sound system is neolithic. After cutting out a couple of times Joel and the band just hopped off the stage and carried on playing an acoustic set while the twins and I sang the girl parts of Million Dollars.
After the set was over the band came and mingled with us, and Joel told me about how they had had to switch hotel rooms after he noticed a used condom dangling precariously from the electric ceiling fan above the bed. What more could I ask of my mid-table celebrities?
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