The Night Britney Premiered “Toxic” In Vegas

At the stroke of midnight, 2004 is catcalled in by fourteen-foot jets of fire and a cascade of artificial rain. A disco ball shatters. The crowd whoops. The speakers growl; the whistle shrieks. The clubgoers yell in response . . . Aww skeet skeet skeet skeet skeet!

Lil Jon bounces out to scream all the ad-libs for “Get Low.” Too $hort emerges to perform “Shake That Monkey.” Oliver and I pound tequila sunrises and absorb the syncopated chaos. Britney furiously kisses the frat boy with the popped collar. Of all the Patrón joints in all the neon towns of the world, I had to walk into hers.

Britney might not even be the most famous name in the building. In another water box, Kobe Bryant and his wife, Vanessa, survey the realm. In the next, Sacramento Kings superstar Chris Webber rehabilitates a microfracture of the knee with liquid cures. For the first hour, I bob my head as Britney bounces, being adored by both the boy toy and a Salma Hayek doppelgänger.

Refills are summoned with a swirl of the arm. Part-time models stare because we have a table at Rain on NYE. No matter how humble you think you are, it’s easy to slip into a pretense of superiority. Live long enough like a king and you start to lie to yourself that you are one.

Britney and her crew file out of their box. When I stand to follow, the molly wallops me. A series of flashes and levitations. Arteries flooded by Jacuzzi jets. Day-Glo color lighting up edges of my mind. I’m sweating diamonds. Oh my god, are they playing “Stand Up”?

The dance floor is a strobe-lit acre. Ludacris and Shawnna duet—When I move you move—and thousands freak in sleazy harmony. Never before or since has the phrase “feels like a midget is hanging from my necklace” carried such purpose.

“We’re about to have a legendary moment at Club Rain!! ARE . . . YOU . . . READY?!!!” The DJ suddenly shouts. “MISS BRITNEY SPEARS IS IN THE BUILDING! And this is her NEW SINGLE!!!”

Britney’s troop parts the crowd. The DJ flips a switch. A river circling the dance floor turns green, yellow, and red. Flames shoot and smoke leaks from the walls. When the mist clears, four dancers encircle Britney. “Toxic” bangs from the loudspeakers, a comet of erotic Alpha Centauri funk. This is the second single, slated to drop next week, but already destined to ring off in every club until the last days of revelation.

The strings bleed like they were stabbed by a synthesized pickax. Britney’s eyes are flammable. Whipping her blonde mane, she rubs her hands across her flat bare stomach, almost inducing mass fainting. Her hips swivel and vibrate. She caresses her face, laminated eyes rolling back in ecstasy. From the VIP rafters, Kobe and Vanessa gawk. In tune with a song about fatal lust, the dancers weave like furies, bobbing within centimeters of her body, the cold fog becoming a steam bath. “With a taste of a poison paradise . . . I’m addicted to you…”