Send my sympathies to the Daily Mail because Britney Spears looks flat-out phenomenal tonight. Her skin is toned, her body’s limber and that world-famous torso of hers looks impossibly flawless in a series of embellished glamazon bikinis. She’s far from the only attraction of the Femme Fatale tour, which employs two live programmers, a hype team of 16 dancers, countless oversized props and a light show big enough to power Britney’s hometown of Kentwood, Louisiana three times over (yes, really), but she’s doing a great job of Bogarting the limelight.
Somehow, though, the mood is bittersweet. Watching the 29-year-old sex symbol being ferried around the stage on a vulgar piece of scaffolding, it feels more like the set of The Britney Spears Story than a real-life show. You can practically hear the director’s cues. Mark A, hair flick. Mark B, pelvic thrust. Mark C, body roll. At best, Britney barely sings, barely acts and barely dances, making her the world’s most handsomely-paid stripper.
On the upside, she’s visibly more engaged than the painfully vacant Britney we welcomed in 2009. This time, she plays around with the audience, throwing out the occasional “What’s up, Dublin?”, although some grainy YouTube clips prove that she’s simply sticking to the script.
Still, we mustn’t forget that the album that brought us here, the delectable Femme Fatale, is one of the strongest of her career precisely because it stuck to the script. An enticing hit of dirty electro with infectious dubstep hooks, it never strayed from the holy trinity of pop subject matter, ie. getting drunk, dancing and hooking up.
Tonight’s set-list takes in most of Femme Fatale, as well as a clever selection of Spears’ more danceworthy numbers; ‘I’m A Slave 4 U’, ‘Toxic’, ‘Womanizer’ and ‘Baby... One More Time’ (but, of course) are all padded out with hard-hitting Euro-disco wallops.
The show itself is as generic as they come. Britney rides out in the obligatory convertible, squirms around in the obligatory cage and floats to the ceiling on the obligatory swing. Japan, ancient Egypt and some form of biker petting zoo are all visited with little or no explanation. Things only start to make sense when she’s joined on stage by a burly young audience member named Stephen, who, like Britney, knows all the words. “He’s never coming back!” she grins, before throwing her legs around his neck, and he’s loving it for the same reason we are: because Britney Spears is one of the biggest pop culture icons of our time and she’s right there.
In a way, it doesn’t bother me that Ms. Spears’ star power is waning. Sparkle and vitality is a lot to expect from someone who’s been dancing professionally for almost two decades, and for whom fame has brought as much heartache as bounty. Besides, she’s obviously still got enough magnetism to hold my gaze for 90 minutes.
“Thank you so much, Dublin!” she hollers, as she disappears down a trap door. “You guys rock!”
Oh, Britney. I bet you say that to all the cities.
As soon as Ms. Spears-Alexander-Federline gives her final sign-off, I’m out, as is my custom when sharing a room with 14,000 wailing pop junkies. I scurry onto the street thinking I’m home free, but a security guard stops me in my tracks. One of the venue’s colossal gates is thrown open and out rolls Britney in a black people carrier. I can’t see much through the tinted windows, but that flick of messy blonde hair is unmistakable. Britney and the rest of her convoy haul ass, speeding along North Wall Quay and right over the East-Link bridge. Inside the O2, the fans are still screaming.