这篇雅思阅读材料讲述了关于Justin Bieber的相关信息。Justin Bieber在这周举行的全英音乐奖颁奖典礼上面获得了全球最突出艺人奖，对此，很多英国评论家提出了质疑。虽然Justin Bieber已经成为了互联网上影响力最大的人，但是他真的就是实至名归吗?

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　　He’s the YouTube sensation who turns 17 next month, making him the youngest singer to top the American Billboard Charts since Stevie Wonder in 1963. He has already earned nearly �100 million, and analysts claim he’s the most influential person on the internet, ahead of Barack Obama. But unless you’re an eight-year-old girl (or living in close proximity to one), you’re likely to be a bit vague on the whole Justin Bieber phenomenon.

　　Just who is this Canadian cutie pie with the spray-on mop top and the cartoon grin? Did he deserve the Brit award (for best international breakthrough artist) we gave him earlier this week? And what’s the secret of his appeal to the hordes of hopelessly devoted “Beliebers” who’ll be screaming and swooning their way through his new 3D movie, Never Say Never, when it opens in British cinemas tomorrow, and packing concert venues when he tours here next month?

　　Like most child stars, Bieber inherited his ambition. His mother’s dreams of an acting career were derailed when she became pregnant with him at 18. Although she kept in contact with his father, Pattie Mallette raised her boy alone, working in a series of low-paid office jobs in Stratford, Ontario.

　　Little Bieber discovered a passion for music early. In the movie, fans will coo over home video of him, aged about five, staring out from beneath a floppy blond fringe and announcing, “Mummy, this is how I drum!”, bore banging out a tight, enthusiastic rhythm on a cheap kitchen chair. He taught himself to play the piano, guitar, drums and trumpet, came second in a talent contest at 12 and began uploading videos of himself to YouTube. That summer, he set down his guitar case in front of a theatre and made almost $3,000 busking covers of songs by his R&B heroes, Usher and Ne-Yo. In a rather adorable, role-reversing moment, he used the money to take his mum on holiday to Disneyland.

　　Meanwhile, those homemade YouTube videos had been spotted by aspiring music executive Scooter Braun. Mallette, a devout Christian, was hesitant because Braun is Jewish. “God, I gave him to you,” she is reported to have said. “You could send me a Christian man, a Christian label!” But after praying with church elders, she decided to hand Braun the reins of her son’s career. And Braun had a strategy ready to roll. “I wanted to build him up more on YouTube first,” he has said. “We supplied more content. I said: &aposJustin, sing like there’s no one in the room. But let’s not use expensive cameras.’ We’ll give it to kids, let them do the work, so they feel like it’s theirs.”

　　And they did. Braun knew that you make a teenage heart-throb by polishing up the boy next door and getting him to sing sweetly of love, at an age when the real boys next door are only lying around grunting. This was how David Cassidy’s name ended up being scrawled inside little hearts on thousands of pencil cases in the 1970s. As part of the fictional Partridge Family, David Cassidy lived in suburbia and practised pop songs in a garage. The same thing happened again in the 1980s with Jason Donovan: one minute he was hanging out on Ramsay Street in Neighbours, and the next he was bopping about on Top of the Pops to a tween-friendly Stock Aitken Waterman beat.

　　These tween crushes give girls a safe way of dealing with their emotions when they’re laying down their teddy bears but not quite ready for real boys. They “study” the objects of their affection – as though getting an “A” in fandom will win them the hearts of their posterboys. In recent interviews about her girlhood crush on David Cassidy, the novelist and Telegraph columnist Allison Pearson admits to the hours she spent poring over fanzines. She wore only brown for months because she’d read that that was his favourite colour. And 21st-century girls in stadium crowds today yell out the name of Bieber’s dog, Sam, in the hope that their dedication to the trivia of his life will earn them a glance.

　　I’ve heard so many mums shake their heads over the Bieber obsession. They peer, bemused, at the posters on their children’s bedroom walls. “He’s just not that good looking, is he? Look at those eyebrows! He’s not that sexy.” Which – along with his much vaunted Christianity – is what makes him so safe. He’s short and cuddly with an endearingly gawky vulnerability to him.

　　New York magazine noted his resemblance to “a woodland creature”, while a commentator in the Atlantic amusingly described him as “Galahad in puffy sneakers, brandishing his virginity like a lightsabre”. I think he looks like a computer avatar, with that smooth helmet of hair, upturned little nose and range of bright purple and turquoise hoodies. He has such big eyelashes that chatroom gossips insist he’s a girl. Because his voice has not yet broken, he does still sing a bit like one.

　　Tom Payne, author of Fame: From the Bronze Age to Britney, points out that the lust for asexual individuals has many historical precedents. “You can go back in history to castrato singers like Farinelli, who caused bosoms to heave back in the 18th century,” he says. “One titled lady became so overwhelmed during one of his London performances that she screamed from her box: &aposOne God, one Farinelli!’, and found her fandom immortalised in a detail from Plate II of William Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress.”

　　But the forces of fame work like those of physics. For every gush of puppy love, there is an equal and opposite antipathy. Which explains the surge of Bieber bile you’ll find spilled on the internet. “Haters” have attempted to spread rumours that he has syphilis, that he has joined a cult, that his mother is posing topless for Playboy or that he has been killed in a car accident. Much of this stuff appears to originate from teens and tweens who resent Bieber appearing as the butter-wouldn’t-melt spokesman for their generation. My friend’s 11-year-old daughter, Dora, has banned Bieber CDs from her upcoming party.

　　The next few years are going to be a challenge for Bieber and his fans. Although he has miraculously avoided acne and girlfriends (or boyfriends) up until now, his voice must break soon. He has built his success on just one album containing only 12 songs (of which only a few are recognisable). And his fans are growing up. They may want to put away their childish crush. Although if Bieber can keep coming up with the material to sate them, I suspect the Beliebers will not lose faith, though they may hide it for a bit.

　　Over the past few years I’ve seen women in their sixties fanning themselves at a Barry Manilow concert, and women in their thirties weeping outside Take That venues. I have a theory that women make a commitment when they fall in love – even with a teen idol. And they like to grow old with the objects of their affection, loyally handing over the cash for concert tickets whenever their ageing boys come to town.

　　By releasing this film now, Bieber’s management have played a clever move. They started out making the fans feel that this boy-next-door was their own discovery. Now, instead of acknowledging that he has been swallowed up by the cold machinery of superstardom, they’re opening the doors and inviting the fans into the “family next door” that is Bieber’s entourage. All of whom – from manager to “swagger coach” – describe their relationship with him as either fraternal or paternal.

　　Scooter Braun still demands that his little star gets eight hours’ sleep a night and achieves good grades for his schoolwork. In exchange, Bieber gets �30 a day in pocket money (his earnings are in a trust fund which he can’t access until he’s 18). And his fans get the chance to reach out and imagine they’re holding his cute little 3D hand at the weekend.

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