Rihanna. Everyone’s favourite sociopath. The decision to fly 150 journalists around the world as part of her 777 tour and seemingly rekindle some form of relationship with no one’s favourite anything (Chris Brown) at the same time left a sour taste in every sleep deprived journo-zombie mouth. Though initially appearing like a rock star of old, excessively middle finger ‘Fuck Carbon Emissions!’ promotional salute amidst pops current tiresome climate; the weeklong tour, beginning in Mexico City and dragging its insomnia plagued corpse to the finish line in New York saw humanity ready to be sectioned. Journalists were beginning to question their mental health and stability. The diamond, cognac and champagne fuelled Boeing 777 appeared to be laced with mescaline, playfully fucking with everyone on board. Was Rihanna real? The Barbadian was rapidly becoming the subject of myth and legend; Unicorns and Tyler Durden. No one was expecting the intimacy of a mile high lap dance from the Diamonds singer, but each individuals purpose of being onboard was ostensibly becoming as futile as the competition winners – whose ages have worryingly not been put to print.
Nudity was dutifully provided, though surprisingly not in the form of RiRi – but due to the free bar provided in Berlin, the ugly shape of a frustrated drunken Australian journalist, streaking through the plane in protest to the cheers of the quote thirsty passengers. One sympathises. Though again, what were the ages of these competition winners? Christ. The scene on the plane appeared very much the beginnings of World War Z; crazed bastard journalists tearing the necks off anyone with a lanyard, screaming “JUST ONE QUOTE! JUST ONE QUOTE!” Missing posters for Rihanna’s well being were passed around, semi jokes of a media blackout were made and press conferences were all but forgotten prompting pleads to “Save our jobs!”
The journalists who were looking for a story it seems, were quickly becoming the story itself, and though Rihanna’s traffic and sales notably increased amidst this deranged tour, the scars and stories of the 777 survivors will be as horrifying and prevalent as Vietnam. They won’t. But for those on board however, napalm and guerrilla warfare wasn’t a far cry. 777 didn’t come without trouble either – aside from sleep deprived journalists crying over wake up calls, Rihanna Navy were also left waiting. Putting Axel Rose to shame, Rihanna, due onstage at 9pm in Berlin was booed and heckled by the crowd before the singer finally arrived at 11.30pm. However, any lingering hostility was quickly consumed by RiRi’s otherworldly presence, resembling a ‘Navy’ sucking dementor.
Despite offering anarchy for those on the 777 and intrigue for those off – this was obviously about money, nothing else. Rihanna isn’t nearly as provocative as she’s deemed, and bases too much emphasis on sexuality in relation to empowerment. She is mad however, and often endearing. And though this was a putrid sales promotion, it generated 1 billion media impressions and found Unapologetic at No.1 on the Billboard 200 – though at a cost of 150 souls. She’s essentially Doctor Parnassus… or Faustus. Pop may be a vacuous hole of rehashed puke at present with Unapologetic offering minimal substance and a profit from provocation, but what the 777 circus represents about music promotion is disconcerting. No one however, can argue her savage journey to the heart of the bank was somewhat remarkable.
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Rihanna. Everyone’s favourite sociopath. The decision to fly 150 journalists around the world as part of her 777 tour and seemingly rekindle some form of relationship with no one’s favourite anything (Chris Brown) at the same time left a sour taste in every sleep deprived journo-zombie mouth. Though initially appearing like a rock star of old, excessively middle finger ‘Fuck Carbon Emissions!’ promotional salute amidst pops current tiresome climate; the weeklong tour, beginning in Mexico City and dragging its insomnia plagued corpse to the finish line in New York saw humanity ready to be sectioned. Journalists were beginning to question their mental health and stability. The diamond, cognac and champagne fuelled Boeing 777 appeared to be laced with mescaline, playfully fucking with everyone on board. Was Rihanna real? The Barbadian was rapidly becoming the subject of myth and legend; Unicorns and Tyler Durden. No one was expecting the intimacy of a mile high lap dance from the Diamonds singer, but each individuals purpose of being onboard was ostensibly becoming as futile as the competition winners – whose ages have worryingly not been put to print.
Nudity was dutifully provided, though surprisingly not in the form of RiRi – but due to the free bar provided in Berlin, the ugly shape of a frustrated drunken Australian journalist, streaking through the plane in protest to the cheers of the quote thirsty passengers. One sympathises. Though again, what were the ages of these competition winners? Christ. The scene on the plane appeared very much the beginnings of World War Z; crazed bastard journalists tearing the necks off anyone with a lanyard, screaming “JUST ONE QUOTE! JUST ONE QUOTE!” Missing posters for Rihanna’s well being were passed around, semi jokes of a media blackout were made and press conferences were all but forgotten prompting pleads to “Save our jobs!”
The journalists who were looking for a story it seems, were quickly becoming the story itself, and though Rihanna’s traffic and sales notably increased amidst this deranged tour, the scars and stories of the 777 survivors will be as horrifying and prevalent as Vietnam. They won’t. But for those on board however, napalm and guerrilla warfare wasn’t a far cry. 777 didn’t come without trouble either – aside from sleep deprived journalists crying over wake up calls, Rihanna Navy were also left waiting. Putting Axel Rose to shame, Rihanna, due onstage at 9pm in Berlin was booed and heckled by the crowd before the singer finally arrived at 11.30pm. However, any lingering hostility was quickly consumed by RiRi’s otherworldly presence, resembling a ‘Navy’ sucking dementor.
Despite offering anarchy for those on the 777 and intrigue for those off – this was obviously about money, nothing else. Rihanna isn’t nearly as provocative as she’s deemed, and bases too much emphasis on sexuality in relation to empowerment. She is mad however, and often endearing. And though this was a putrid sales promotion, it generated 1 billion media impressions and found Unapologetic at No.1 on the Billboard 200 – though at a cost of 150 souls. She’s essentially Doctor Parnassus… or Faustus. Pop may be a vacuous hole of rehashed puke at present with Unapologetic offering minimal substance and a profit from provocation, but what the 777 circus represents about music promotion is disconcerting. No one however, can argue her savage journey to the heart of the bank was somewhat remarkable.
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