By Rosie Lu
My earliest memory of Justin Bieber is hearing “Love Yourself” at least five times on the radio during a three-hour drive to Lake Tahoe, but I certainly didn’t mind; I happily hummed and sang along with what little lyrics my five-year-old self knew. Something about Bieber’s early music envelops listeners in an empathetic sort of belonging, even if most don’t relate directly to the lyrics. Millions fell in love with the charismatic singer not just as an artist, but as a person.
But Beliebers were chasing something that didn’t exist, the image of the perfect romantic pining for each and every one of them, painted by the media and his agency. Underneath, Justin Bieber was just a teenage boy, with a childhood stolen and replaced by too much fame and admiration for someone so young. In the past few years, he’s opened up about the challenges of growing up under the spotlight, admitting that the millions of dollars in his fifteen-year-old self’s bank account and the lovestruck fans at his disposal weren’t exactly used for the best. But that honesty set him on a trajectory of recovering from the drug abuse and depression that so many child-star-turned-adults have succumbed to.
That was the story that Bieber’s intimate, simple Coachella set told this year—in a world of high-energy choreography and flashing lights, something about his lone figure in a pink hoodie, offset against the vastness of the fully-booked venue, felt so real, so down to earth. That laid-back vibe was heavily criticized, and it might seem rightfully so—one of the highest-paid performers at America’s most important musical festival, browsing the internet and pulling up music videos just like you and I would at home. But I argue that the YouTube sing-alongs weren’t lazy, and not a legal loophole either, but a genius artistic choice.
I didn’t grow up along the former child popstar like his original fanbase, and neither did I know much about his history before researching this article, but in “That Should Be Me,” in “Baby,” in every beloved old hit he played, I saw him look—really look, at his younger self, perhaps with a hint of wistfulness but also with his second I made it! moment, as the hundreds of thousands of indistinguishable listeners in the crowd belted along to his music videos as they once had. This time, it wasn’t just about the dashing prince of pop, but also those not-so-perfect parts of his career. During “Beauty and the Beat,” the glowing joy of Justin Bieber’s face as he raised his voice an octave to match his younger self, though seen only through a phone screen for me, was what made me want to know more. The raw humanness that captured my attention in only a few seconds of a TikTok also gave closure to Beliebers—allowed them to see that young idol again but also understand and accept who he is today, and that he’ll never be the same.
As the final notes of “Daisies” rang through the venue, we realized why that was important. Past Beliebers or even casual onlookers might have looked at this thirty-two-year-old ex-child star and wanted to pity him for the burdens he shouldered, both from the industry and self-induced. But when we saw him staring right at the screen, eyes sweeping fearlessly over the crowd, voice harmonizing with his teenage self, the change was clear: Justin Bieber was his own person, his child star days an irreplaceable part of him, but alongside his new legacy, healed and still healing for decades to come.