![]()
The highlights.Day 1: Mexico City, We Barely Made It!Rihanna's been on board for less than 15 minutes, and already everything is out of wack. She's inspected the plane, walking from nose to tail between cameras of all shapes and sizes, laughing, calling the experience some "presidential shit." Immediately after, she commandeers the PA system and insists everyone get "muthafuckin' crunk."
At the moment, Rihanna is walking from seat to seat, pouring Ace of Spades champagne. It doesn't take long for her to find me, by which point she's already missing the cups altogether, creating and adding to a puddle between seats 39C and D. "There ya go!" she says, smiling.
...
It's a crazy thing to try and explain. Over the course of seven days, Rihanna (and, really, some hard-working Def Jam handlers) will shuttle a plane filled with 200 writers, fans and hangers-on through seven countries, where she'll play seven shows. (It's the 7-7-7 tour; we and Rihanna are all sharing a Boeing 777.) It is a trip bursting with pampered hyperbole – MTV Cribs set in the sky, the likes of which most never see: five-star hotels, VIP passes, the dignity of keeping your belt on at airport security. There are supposedly 70 bottles of champagne on board.
...
When in Mexico, Rihanna did as the Mexicans do. Getting ready for "Fresh Off the Runway," the intro track to her upcoming LP, she looked offstage. "Jennifer," she said, "I need my hat, boo." She held a beat before continuing, ". . . por favor." The crowd went nuts, just as they did with every mention of Mexico City (of which there seemed to be 777). They also particularly enjoyed the Soca interpolation that her backing band threw into the middle of "What's My Name," far more than the "Rack City"-type instrumental they'd included moments earlier, maybe because some West Indians made their way across the water and into the crowd.
Rihanna, live and in concert, doesn't sing much. Her hits are so big she doesn't really need to, but – tellingly – she often puts the microphone by her crotch. (She relies heavily on her two slithering backup singers, who sometimes come in to push songs over the finish line. To her credit, she does do the brunt of the work on less-demanding songs: she belts "Wait Is Over" and giggles her way through "Take a Bow.") During "Cake," she pats her thighs, as if slapping cheese on them. Dressed in a Rock-n-Jock-style leather baseball jersey, micro-bra and biker shorts, Rihanna winds and wiggles;
she'll stick her ass out and look around the backside, as if posing for a Coppertone ad. Somehow, she makes the Stanky Legg seem appealing, as she does during "Where Have You Been." An entire swath of the audience – several rows of people, every single one of them with cameras held high – moves as one while watching her, as if being swept away by water. It looks dangerous, even violent, though strangely beautiful: a mosh-pit in which all parties move in the same direction. I've never seen anything like it.
Day 2: Psycho in Toronto![]()
...
Being awake for what feels like forever and following a schedule that is largely the same feels a lot like Groundhog Day. But with so many people from so many different countries all thrown together, we're constantly meeting new people, having new conversations. I mean, there's obviously opportunity for important cultural exchange when we're all just hanging out on the bus. To wit: while driving past downtown Toronto, some Canadians explain Tim Horton's to the Americans; the Americans explain Subway to the Brits. (A girl from Los Angeles says, "Subway is like a diet food here. You can lose weight eating that, if you eat it enough." Sure, why not.)
A bunch of writer-friends and I walk into the venue and head up to the balcony, where we have a perfect view of the diehard Rihanna fans below. They're all standing still, as if they just heard a noise.
DJ Congorock's opening set – progressive EDM thrown into a washing machine – appears to have zero effect on them. Following them, DJ Reflex gets much the same reaction: Meek Mill? No. House remix of Florence and the Machine? Nope. Even "N---as in Paris," the undeniable chin-nodder, only sees movement in three pockets of the audience. I look away, confused. Finally, people are screaming, excited about something: it's a 20-year-old Fatman Scoop song, the one that goes "If my train goes off the track, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up." The same reaction comes up intermittently for Cee-Lo's "Forget You," Damian Marley's "Welcome to Jamrock" and DJ Scream's "Let Me Clear My Throat," from 1996. I have no idea what the psychological profile is of a serial killer, but I imagine it's something like that of a Torontonian. (
this section brought to you by my refusal to cut out canadian content.)
The concert starts at 9:17, which is stunningly close to being on time for us. The lights come down; the crowd chants "Rih Rih! Rih Rih! Rih Rih!"– it's seemingly friendly and supportive, though it does conjure visions of Psycho. Rihanna, dressed in pants that bow and wave, high-steps her way out in nude heels.
She seems so much more alive than last night; it's almost as if she's channeling Obama's second debate. (Was it the plane's altitude that caused her to be so tired? Or maybe it was the long hours waiting around? Did she drink too much of the champagne? Or maybe not enough?)
Her voice climbs the scales up and then down during "Talk That Talk;" she performs something resembling a rain dance for "Unfaithful."
But then she gets tired as "S&M" comes on – one wonders how someone who claims to last all night can only go for 20 minutes. But, hark: she downs a shot onstage, and much like Popeye, she immediately gets her strength back, and puts on a fairly solid set.
Day 3: Tending Bar in Stockholm![]()
It’s been three days; I’ve seen Rihanna’s live show three times. It’s largely the same every night, though every so often, she’ll make a slight change in the lineup (add "Stay" in Stockholm, drop "Disturbia" for Toronto).
Her banter remains the same, and I’ve started mouthing the words along with her as she introduces songs. (For example, when going into "What’s My Name," she recites the following: "Did someone say my name? It’s not na-na. It’s Rih-anna!") So one notices the little things: How she channels Michael Jackson’s "HEE-hee" ad-lib; how she claps her hands like she’s a flamenco dancer using a Shake Weight; how she dresses like a combination of Aaliyah and Lil’ Kim from 1996.![]()
While many went to bed,
Rihanna stayed out until six in the morning, slinging drinks for her after-party guests from behind the bar. Some ticket-winning fans made it in and found Rihanna to be sweet: "I told her my life story," said one. (
She also shared with Rih’s manager a growing frustration among the fans riding with the 777 Tour, that they feel unappreciated and underwhelmed by the experience.) Sweden’s pushiest came to rub shoulders and throw elbows, a good-looking but horrible-acting group of malcontents. Apparently, as I learned from a local girl I met, alcohol in Sweden is incredibly expensive so everyone goes full-throttle-drinking on Friday nights. Last night was Friday night. It was either being fed up by aggressive patrons, or the fact that the rare Stockholm sun was coming up, that led Rihanna to throw her bartending towel down. With a huge smile on her face, she screamed, "I quit!"
Day 4: Hysteria in Paris![]()
The weekend before the 777 Tour began, while at Rihanna's listening party at New York's 40/40 Club, I had a conversation with an industry heavyweight who asked if I was excited for the trip – a quick tour of seven countries alongside one of the biggest pop stars in the world. I responded with a tempered yes – we agreed that it could go either way:
"It'll be either the best or the worst." In a somewhat cruel twist of fate, this trip has been both of those things.Rihanna's performances have been solid, and – aside from her show in Paris, which weathered through tech problems – they've gotten steadily better as these nights have gone by. That first plane ride to Mexico City (when she walked around, sloshing champagne and cognac, cooing into the microphone about getting crunk) was for many a rare bit of access to a celebrity, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, a story to go home with. The hotels have all been incredible: Le Meridien in Paris, just steps from the Champs-Elysées; Stockholm's futuristic Radisson Blu the night before. We've been plied with gifts and bags of Rihanna-related products: bottles of her perfumes, an R-branded Moleskine, a Q-Tip sized conflict-free diamond, a pair of socks with Rihanna's face on them. Def Jam's ever-present staff has done its best to meet the needs of a too-large operation. The amount of money spent on this whole thing could sink a boat.
Or, in this case, a Delta.
It feels stupid to complain: we're being flown all around the world to see Rihanna perform in concert seven times, and given free tickets with balcony access. That probably sounds pretty good! But it's too much. Every concert is a re-run episode that we're forced to watch, each with diminishing returns. The only real difference is found within one of her most popular applause lines: "What up, Mexico City?""What up, Toronto?""What up, Stockholm?" The buses are new in each city, which is important since we don't do much outside of them. We got to see Stockholm and Paris for an hour before we had to go to the venue; we never saw any of Toronto or Mexico City. There's no time to see the sights when you're sitting in parking lots, waiting for hours. As it is, the only proof we have of going to these cities are the adhesive strips wrapped around our luggage.
A documentary crew has been wandering the aisles for many of our plane rides, but there's simply nothing to capture on camera. Their most popular shot? People sleeping.![]()
We haven't seen Rihanna offstage since the first day, unless you count her popping up at baggage claim for a few moments on the morning of the second; she also had after-parties in Stockholm and Paris, both times showing up mere hours before wake-up call. As for last night's mega-party at Paris' VIP Room, where she was joined by Diddy, Cassie, Pharrell, Akon, Omarion and Craig David, the Twitter account for MSN's Canadian website said, "Putting off sleeping and editing to try and get a word with Rihanna, Diddy or Akon who are 2 feet away but blocked by security." (It was originally going to be just us, those who were flying with the tour. Def Jam was surprised to see it turn into a zoo.
There was a hubbub among the radio winners this morning, after one of the Swedes got elbowed in the face by Diddy's bodyguard, according to several eye-witnesses.)
The hotels are beautiful, but we're only sleeping two or three hours in them – four, tops. From journalists to fans to label reps to airline staff, the general feeling is one of mild depression-cum-hysteria.It was a cunning idea to invite 200 journalists to cover this event, because – if it goes well – that's seven straight days of wall-to-wall positive coverage by 150 outlets.
But when it doesn't work, it's a big risk. After four and a half days, it's somewhere between a wasted opportunity and living in Rihanna jail. If this whole thing is Rihanna's idea, as she so claims, then you'd think she'd put in the effort to make it work: she could get on the microphone, or do something to make us feel like she's on the same plane as us, to differentiate one day from another.The saying says, "Go big or go home." At this point in the trip, it's not really a close call.
Day 5: Escape From Berlin![]()
Much has been made of the conditions on the Rihanna plane, which have been as grim as we say, our coping tactics way funnier than the lazy jokes people make at our expense. (No, we didn't expect to hang out with Rihanna and gossip about Drake. We simply felt there should be a reason for us being on this plane with her and seeing these seven shows, and there apparently is none. Also, shouts to those who think their experience would be at all different from that of the 200-plus people who are voicing their frustration. You're wrong, but shouts to you.) The fact is, as this whole thing has spun out of control, many of us – the journalists looking for something or anything to do, the fans who skipped out on their jobs for a week because they were promised something they never got, the label reps doing their damnedest to just get us to the next city – have put a bright face on a bad situation. This has been our Vietnam – when this is over, we'll never talk about it again. (
lol, I can't.)
What happened last night (
Note: the "mutiny" and streaking on the plane. didn't come out of nowhere. We've all been awake for nearly a week, taking disco naps (voluntarily and not) when gravity becomes too much. In a grand tradition stretching back five days, we stepped off the bus to Berlin hours later than expected, though far earlier than Rihanna.
We haven't seen the sun since leaving Los Angeles last Tuesday. So, of course it was dark. Of course it was cold, and of course a giant balloon outside of the venue said – in 20-foot lettering – "DIE," a poor omen if there ever were one. Rihanna walked out onstage around 11:30 p.m (
4 hours later that appointed time; two hours later than her standard lateness.).; the Berliners, who packed themselves into this sweatbox for hours just for the chance to see her, booed.
She forgot most of the lyrics to the first verse of "Don't Stop the Music,"again. I decided to stop taking notes because I already saw this exact show in another city.It all started when one of the flight attendants stayed in the front of the cabin too long before take-off, sprinting the entire length of the plane as the ground left us, a blur of blue and red. She made it safely to her seat, slamming into the back wall. The fans started clapping; then everyone else joined in. Then the four guys that make up the team from FuseTV began chanting "B-Roll! B-Roll! B-Roll!", a semi-inside joke about the camera crews constantly walking up and down the aisles and filming people looking into space. The plane still hadn't leveled off when an Australian shock-jock radio host ran through the entire plane naked, covering up his front end while he loop-de-looped each section. We all stood up like we were doing the Wave. More chants: "Rih Rih! Rih Rih!" turned into "Save our jobs! Save our jobs!" which evolved into "Interview!" and then "Just one quote!" because of a lack of bargaining power. People sang songs; the Australian guy thankfully didn't break out his harmonica or his bum-n-balls again. Def Jam execs initally emerged from the very front of the plane, eyes as wide as their mouths, with one of them mouthing, "What the fuck?" No one had any clue, but it felt great: some of us had forgotten what genuine smiles felt like. (Even Steve Bartels, the president of Island Def Jam, seemed to be having a good time, chatting and pouring up cognac while sitting on an armrest. This was his first 777 experience.)
All of the tension that had built up seemed to dissipate; I now can't wait to see this documentary that I'd been dreading. Last night wasn't a mutiny so much as a much-needed visit to the chiropractor; we were all drunk on laughter (and empty bottles of wine) at 5 a.m.
Word swept through that Rihanna was going to say something, to address everyone and thank us all for braving this cruel social experiment. Of course she didn't, which only fed the very-loud and never-ending rumors that she's not on this plane at all. In fact, she was, but she probably never will be again. And that's fine: we seem to be having more fun without her.Day 6: In-Flight Surprises After London![]()
This morning was another long one. We left our London hotel at 3 a.m., getting to the airport an hour later. As these things go, we finally took off a little before 11. For those eight hours, with darkened eyes and pallid faces,
we smiled. We re-enacted Rihanna's dance moves: an MTV cameraman doing the best rendition of her jelly-leg routine from "Cockiness (Love It)," Def Jam's Gabe Tesoriero surprising us all with his version of her, uh, lap-patting "Birthday Cake."We recited her onstage banter word for word, tightening her script until it broke: the introduction to "What's My Name?" goes, as Rihanna said in just about every city, "My name isn't oh-na-na. It's Rihanna!" Someone started a rumor that one of the passengers was a child actor from Jurassic Park. Since we hadn't seen her on the plane in days, an on-air personality from Canada's MuchMusic printed up a missing poster that depicted Rihanna, looking for answers while walking up and down the aisle. A writer fell asleep while typing, his entire screen filled with a series of j's and k's. Twenty people surrounded him and laughed.
A day earlier, the entirety of the plane had risen up as one, journalists starting jokey chants of "Save our jobs!" and "Just one quote!" (
Fans, kept to the back section of the plane, joined in with a spoofed-up version of one of her songs: "Where have you been?/ Cause I never see you out/ Are you hiding from me/ On our flight?") It was all an effort to lure Rihanna out of her private quarters, to be able to write about something other than the fact that we all had nothing to write about. She never came out, and the bad press continued. (She ended her London show by screaming, "Haters are liars!" It's something she's said often, but never before on this trip. It seemed directed at the journalists that she herself had invited.)
Today, an hour before landing in Newark, we were alerted to "get our cameras ready" for "a special performance." The world waited in wonder. Soon after, Nuno Bettencourt (her guitarist, one of the members of the Eighties band Extreme) came out. Would Rihanna join him? No. Instead,
we listened with jaws slack as he, Rihanna's bassist and DJ Reflex sang hits of yesteryear: Lenny Kravitz's "Fly Away," a song by Journey, another by Bon Jovi. It was a lovely gesture – these guys did nothing wrong, except pretend to know the lyrics – but why wouldn't Rihanna at least show her face, to acknowledge our presence (or even hers)?The landing gear descended.
Everyone was told to return to their seat; I had never left mine. And then a strange figure darkened the door of first class. She walked out with shades on, making her way down the aisle. There was less enthusiasm from her, less from us; we weren't the same people we were six days ago, when we first boarded the plane. No champagne showers; many of us were hungry and tired, a huddled and disinterested mass.
It was almost like Rihanna didn't (or doesn't) know of anything beyond her seat: with a smile that curled up and out, she said, "I would fuckin' do this again!" She continued on this too-little-too-late tour, noting that if she hadn't had to take care of her voice, she would have acted differently with us. "Usually I go, go and go. And this time I had to sleep," she continued. "Usually I would be back here partying my balls off for ya'll but I really had to pay attention and take care of my health because I'm on the plane all the time."She'd been out all night in at least three cities, buying lingerie in Paris, hanging out with Brooklyn Decker in Toronto. But she never had three minutes to see us.The pilot once again asked everyone to sit; instead, a gaggle of photographers and writers and fans smothered her with bodies and questions. "What surprises are you bringing to your show tonight?""What was your favorite city of the tour?""When are you next playing Ireland?" (
Her first answer was, "Oh man, tonight is gonna be the shit." While I didn't hear the answer to the others, I'm sure they were equally illuminating.) A writer wondered if we would all die, what with the entire mass of passengers rushing up to the front of the plane, and an annoyed flight attendant said that – while the plane was too big for that to happen – people needed to sit down or else we'd need to divert landing. We had three minutes to land, and
people were still standing on seats for some reason. Rihanna finally went back to her section, saying that people were "acting bad." With just moments to spare, the last of the reckless had sat down, sparing us all a grand jury hearing.
With just moments to spare, people sat down in their seats.
It made me realize why no one would ever get access to her: because many of these supposed professionals weren't mature enough to treat her like a person, and she most certainly wasn't interested in treating any of us like people either.As we deplaned, the fresh air of Newark's airport filling our faces, a flight attendant said, "You're free!" Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty, we are free at last.
Source 123456And the saga, at last, is over. I cannot wait to see all the stories people write for their various magazines, frankly-- happy first #1 album, Rihanna!
FYI, this is the tl;dr version at mod request-- but the full blog entries are well worth reading! FYI what's included makes this look less like a rush to get to trashing her, because most of what I cut was the positive/boring stuff.
