But my interest in Federline goes beyond the music. He's an icon, a classic rogue--  Lord Byron meets Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, renowned above all for the vigor of his sperm. He seduced a young pop star, knocked her up, then knocked her up again, without fanfare or sentimentality or even a show of affection.

This is a high school dropout whose hero is Donald Trump, and whose only recorded charitable act was to join Richard Branson in a campaign to save the US penny (Branson's motivation was the promotion of Virgin Mobile's 1 cent texting. Federline's...?). He is a grifter among grifters, harnessing his own unabashed villainy and the hatred it incurs to propel an otherwise hopeless career.

 And so, to Webster Hall...

What struck me first was the marquee. The words, "Kevin Federline/ Bowery Presents," were unremarkable. But something was wrong. The letters were all askew and of different sizes, as though each one had been cut from a different source. It looked like a ransom note.

Had they run out of funds, cut a deal on remnant lettering? Had the K-man done the job himself? Were they going for that "real" look? As I wondered in vain, a skirmish broke out behind me. Two hipster photographers on the wrong side of the velours ropes were arguing with a security guard. They wanted their press passes back. The guard refused. Cops arrived- apparently an assault complaint had been lodged.

Tickets were $25. A red-bearded poet type in a vintage wool "Wisconsin" hat collected. He seemed distracted and irritable. The young woman behind me in a cropped duck-down vest was on the guest list. Her first name, unless I was already hallucinating, was Misery. Inside, no more than a hundred and fifty people. Mostly girls.

What was this crowd? What brought them here? Irony? Sympathy? (The only mention of the show in the press consisted of reports that it might be canceled due to lack of interest.) There were some young girls in sparkly tops giggling in groups. Fans?

The opening act was some guy on a turntable playing top 40 hip hop hits. He played Kanye West's "Gold Digger" with the smirk of a DJ hero riffing on an obscure classic.

K-Fed's entrance was gloriously underwhelming. He was wearing a big white sweatshirt over a big white t-shirt. A palpable absence of electricity descended upon the room.  I suddenly felt like I was at a house party. Maybe not at his house (that would be Britney's house, and that would be a whole nother scene);  maybe at the house of his sidekick, a smaller black dude in primary-color-camo hoodie.  The dancers emerged, two of them, wearing their best off-the-shoulder sweat tops and leggings. One of them looked kind of like Scarlett Johanssen. The other looked like Tonya Harding. They kind of canceled eachother out on the sex appeal front. K-Fed traipsed around the stage just like a man who doesn't give a damn that the world finds him utterly repugnant. It was almost impressive. At one point, he looked out lovingly at the crowd and said, "Yo, real recognize real, yo. Y'all some real motherfuckers New York." It was almost moving. Later, he made us repeat after him in a chant: "Fuck the media!"¹

The set was minimal. Two dancers, one costume change. A couple sidekicks. At one point, it looked like things might get interesting when the entourage came out with a table, two chairs, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a family size Pepsi. K and his camo-clad buddy sat down at the table for half a rap, then up again, and the entourage cleared it all away. Not one sip of Jack. Real?

The highlight of the evening was undoubtedly when one of the hype-men onstage stopped dancing around for a sec, pulled out his cell phone and sent (I swear) a text message. Real recognize real, yo

Wouldn't you know the t-shirts were all sold out by the time I got to the concession table.  I do love that rococo F. 

¹Kevin later moderated this statement, in an illuminating essay published in the New York Post, in which he said, "I honestly think the media is a give-and-take. It's not that I can say, Completely f - - k you. I could just only say, Halfway f - - k you."