Many interpreted the track as a winking mea culpa for the sum of his wrongdoings-the capstone to his year of penance. In October, Bieber released the single “ Sorry,” in which he apologizes to an unnamed girl for the three catchiest minutes of your life. People were even beginning, experimentally, to enjoy Justin Bieber the person. As 2015 drew to a close, if you thought Justin Bieber’s music sucked, you were worse than snobbish-you were uninformed. “Grown men now love Justin Bieber’s music, too,” reported the Associated Press somberly. The album produced an unbroken string of hits. Collaborations with EDM maestros Skrillex and Diplo earned sterling reviews from music critics. Suddenly, everything was going mostly right. Purpose achieved for Justin what years of wearing saggy pants could not: It made people regard him as an adult artist capable of appealing to people old enough to rent a car. And then, last fall, Justin Bieber did the most prudent thing he could possibly have done to earn the world’s forgiveness: He released an album of face-melting bangers. I’m just here ’cause this is a real good opportunity for me.”) He smoldered on the cover of Seventeen alongside the statement “I Was Disappointed in Myself.” He bought dinner for cops. (Hannibal Buress: “I don’t like you at all, man. He sat down for a chat on Ellen (bearing flowers for her birthday) and then uploaded a poorly lit cell-phone video to Facebook saying he felt awkward during the interview and expressing remorse for his behavior over “the past year, year and a half.” He was the subject of a Comedy Central Roast organized by his management team, which, unlike the roasts of beloved comedians, filled the air with an acrid smell, as if a witch were being burned at the stake. One year ago, for all these sins-and presumably for many more that we will never know about-Bieber embarked on a whirlwind public-apology tour. When he arrived just a few minutes ago, he was escorted by a Def Jam executive for the five-second walk from the elevator to this cabana.
Everyone else by the pool is wearing clothes he is wearing fashion.
He is wearing what could be anywhere from two to 41 black sweatshirts of various lengths, layered, and distressed leather pants that retail for $2,590. His feet are snuggled into a pair of café au lait Yeezy Boosts. His hair, cropped close on the sides but long enough on top to be tied in a short bleached ponytail, is tucked under a gray Supreme beanie. (His skate ramp was removed.) He is slight, with rashes of tattoos spreading down both arms.
Bieber moved into this hotel almost two years ago, after he sold his six-bedroom Calabasas mansion to Khloé Kardashian, following numerous clashes with neighbors and police. It is an early-January afternoon, and Bieber and I are sitting in a private open-air cabana on the rooftop of the hotel in Beverly Hills where he now lives. Tenders are not even listed on the menu of this restaurant its offerings are confined to ideas like “parsnip purée,” “pomegranate gastrique,” and “dill.” The fingers have been conjured, unbidden, out of the invisible fabric of the universe for Justin Bieber, who is not eating them. The dish is so massive that in order to accommodate it, a metal urn filled with enough ice and soft drinks to sustain a pioneer family on a trek across Death Valley is moved to an adjacent table. The chicken-finger platter that has just been placed before Justin Bieber is like something out of a children’s book-an illustration from a story about a boy who becomes king, whose first and last royal decree is that it’s chicken-finger time.
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