The astonishing story of the creation of Rihanna: a saga spanning eight years (that long!), two countries, one pink cannon, and a really quick prayer. Starting at the end.
IN THE AUDIENCE AT THE NASSAU COLISEUM, LONG ISLAND, LATE JULY
She comes onto the stage in a cage. She wears a shiny blue raincoat, a jewel-encrusted bikini peeking out of it. Tall platform heels. Her curly red wig bounces as she skips out of the cage and intimately into our lives.
We are not even properly introduced, yet her hands are everywhere.
She grabs her own radiant ass — she handles it, offers it — like it's a rump roast. She squats and spreads her legs, settles a hand between them, where it stays. Caresses her breasts. She masturbates a dancer with the help of a cane. She pretends to go down on the keytarist.
Rihanna doesn't really dance. She exhibits "moves," sure. She dips. Marches. Stalks. Straddles the barrel of a giant pink cannon. Jogs occasionally. But it's not dancing. Altogether it amounts to choreographed oozing.
She picks a member of the audience to have simulated sex with. She guides the subject over to the platform in the middle of the stage. She commands the subject to lie back. She straddles the subject. She grinds. This part is not simulated.
Madonna once did a Vegas-revue version of this show, but Rihanna is the indisputable champion of carnal pop. At this moment, in this room, she is the essence of Fuck.
Also, she sings.
It's toward the end of the show — after "S&M," "Disturbia," "Only Girl (In the World)," "Run This Town," "Skin," and "Pon de Replay." After "Come on, rude boy / boy is you big enough?" and "Sex in the air / I don't care / I love the smell of it" and "I'll tell you all the secrets / that I'm keepin' / you can come inside" — after all that, she stops everything.
Hold up, hold up. I just want to say ...
It's a shout-out. Things get quiet.
My mom and grandma are in the house tonight.
By Ross McCammon /// Photographs + Video by Russell James //// Esquire Magazine
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