There were a handful of live performances by The Singer himself, as well as some interaction with the fans. Questions and answers, although presumably “why is a no talent with a bad haircut a popstar?” wouldn’t be one of them. The tickets were ridiculously expensive, and there was lots of hugely priced venue only merchandise as well. Naturally, the entire tour was already sold out.
He was almost in awe at the way that the whole thing was designed to separate the fans from their money. It was, of course, what they deserved for making the Singer famous to begin, but even Vegas could learn a little about fleecing their marks from the machine running the Singer.
The first one was also going to have an area where the fans could watch the Singer go into the venue, and while it wasn’t precise a red carpet event, he was also going to go through a fairly crowded press gauntlet. This was going to be Johnny’s shot at the Singer. No pun intended.
Johnny wasn’t nervous. Not at all. It wasn’t like the Starlet. He felt filled with purpose. He knew that he was doing the right thing, and he could feel the universe aligning around him. He imagined, as he waited there in the cattle pen with the camera on his shoulder, a world where people were actually famous for something. He was going to be an example, an icon.
But first he had to do it. He was pressed up against the metal gate that separated the press from the popular, right next to an exceptionally chatty woman from some website he’d never heard of. She kept talking to him, and he kept nodding, but he couldn’t hear a damn thing she said.
The Singer had, as yet, not appeared, but the noise from the crowd of girls behind him was already enough that he couldn’t hear himself think. He turned around, like he was shooting B roll with the camera, and at looked at a sea of teenage hormones. He wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen that many people in one place. He was absolutely sure he’d never seen that many teenagers in one place, or that much raw emotion. He pitied them.
The mass was kept at bay by a bunch of fearsome looking security and some barriers behind the press cordon. Looking at it now, in person, in front of thousands upon thousands of people, it didn’t look like nearly enough. Johnny wasn’t sure if they were expecting this many people, or if this was anywhere near enough to keep them from mobbing the Singer.
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