Justin Bieber is the biggest pop star in the world, and he’s a pretty good singer, too. But the teen idol’s life isn’t as simple as it looks on TV. He struggles to stay grounded, and at times he feels like he’s losing his mind.
He tries to be the solid person for younger artists that he wishes he’d had himself. There’s a scene in the recent Billie Eilish documentary—which you should go watch, it’s a beautiful film about an extraordinary artist—in which Bieber meets for the first time with a lifelong fan who is struggling onstage in front of thousands. Bieber is her safety net. He’s there to help her come back down to earth, and he does so with warmth and patience and understanding. It’s a powerful moment, and one that shows just how far the Bieber brand extends.
Bieber grew up in the suburbs of Canada, and he kept his musical passions to himself until he was 12. That year, he entered a talent contest and finished second, and for friends and family who missed the competition, his mother uploaded videos of the baby-faced, mop-topped teen singing R&B and pop songs to YouTube. It was then that American talent executive Scooter Braun stumbled upon the clips and became Bieber’s manager.
Braun arranged for the teen to record his debut album in Atlanta, where Bieber’s mother moved temporarily. The resulting My World was a worldwide success, with each of its first three singles reaching number one on the charts. It made Bieber the youngest male solo artist to achieve the feat since Stevie Wonder in 1963.
As Bieber grew up, his celebrity overshadowed his music, and his romantic relationships (with people such as Selena Gomez) and occasional skirmishes with the law attracted considerable tabloid attention. But Bieber refocused on his music with 2015’s Purpose, an album that found him collaborating with other musicians, including Dan + Shay and Jack U.
This is a man who still wants to be an ordinary guy, but in the past couple of years, he has found himself at odds with his fans and the industry that has become his savior. He’s spoken of his desire to be free of a culture that has conditioned him to believe the only thing worth living for is to perform in exchange for money. He says the two things that brought him back were his marriage and his faith.
It’s late afternoon at Lupo’s, the Italian restaurant in Providence where he’s meeting fans before a show at the Rhode Island Center for the Arts. The line is snaking outside the door. It’s full of girls, some of whom have been waiting since 8:45 a.m. They are wearing shirts and jeans, some have their faces painted. Many have posters, which they clutch to their chests. They want pictures, autographs and hugs. And they have to get it all done in a three-minute window before the doors open.