Britney Spears aligned the final night of her Las Vegas residency with a simulcast feed of the show into Ryan Seacrest’s Rockin’ New Years Eve. It was a time to remember that massively contrived musical productions and hordes of slithering gay dancers in mesh tops is music since Stevie Ray Vaughan crashed. There are no music students anywhere working on breaking down “Toxic” to build their artistic skills.
Spears now fades back into her life of suburban motherhood and dating questionable men her handlers convince her are refreshingly nice guys during their nightly upload into the chip implanted in her forebrain. Give it a month before the court ordered conservatorship, also known as her dad living off her earnings, finds a new course of monetization requiring nipple slips and flying harnesses. Not merely for Britney. There are lithesome men with eight packs needing work. Los Angeles and Vegas have only so many topless male cocktail server jobs available. A ton, but only so many.
Las Vegas will reload with Lady Gaga coming to town. Chinese tourists and profoundly finger tattooed cutters will have their fill. But Britney will never be forgotten. From the busted seams wardrobe malfunctions to the way her voice kept filling the arena even when she was too winded to sing, Britney left it all out there. Though she may move on to other desperately kitschy variety outlets, she will always be Vegas.