For anyone born in the late ’80s and early ’90s, Paris Hilton is a special kind of pop culture icon. We are old enough to remember a time before her DUI charges, drug scandals and stint in jail, when The Simple Life had just been released and she regularly graced the covers of Girlfriend and Dolly. Many of us were scraping together our pocket money to buy the teeny hip skirts and colourful singlets from Supré to recreate ourselves in her image. We were old enough to envy her pictures on the covers of New Idea, but too young to really comprehend phrases like “sex tape” and “firecrotch”.

This was a time before the Kardashians. It was before we became addicted to voyeuristically scrolling the pages of celebrities lives as chronicled on Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat; before smartphones and iCloud hacks. Both then and now, Paris Hilton’s life has a certain kind of mystique that you just don’t get with celebrities these days.

Who is Paris Hilton today? Not the ‘dumb blonde’ persona she adopted for The Simple Life. She is a businesswoman, who has reportedly sold $1.5 billion in perfumes alone. Her recent interviews also portray a woman media-trained to within an inch of her life, a coy smile affixed to her face as she coos answers in her signature baby voice — a far cry from the vintage paparazzi footage of her rowdily exiting nightclubs, one arm around Britney Spears.

Who is the real Paris Hilton? That curiosity is what compelled me to buy a ticket to her DJ set in Sydney last weekend.

–

In the Heart of the Hype

The club is the kind of place with bathroom attendants; a woman smiles and directs me to a cubicle. Plush leather seats are arranged around long tables set ready for bottle service. Vodkas are $12 and they don’t serve cider. I try not to let it bother me. I am just here to see Paris.

The crowd is surprisingly diverse. Sure, there are gay guys and typical club-going girls my own age and perhaps a bit younger, but there are lots of other guys too. And, I’m told, a few ex-reality TV contestants (my friend squeals and tries to surreptitiously Snapchat a woman at the bar who was on The Bachelor).

I buy a vodka and head to the smoking area, where I start chatting to a man wearing a crisp Burberry shirt and, I swear to God, sunglasses. “I turn over ten grand a week, easy,” he tells me. “Oh. Cool! I get like $750 a week.” I contribute. “But I moved here to work in radio, which has always been my dream, so…”

He fits roller doors and blinds. “You come work in admin for me, and you would be earning double,” he says before talking about all the blow he has lined up for the weekend. I offer for him to add me on Facebook and instead he grabs my phone and forces me to add his business Instagram page. I peer over. Photo after photo of roller doors and blinds. I politely end the conversation and head back inside.

My friend and I enter the dance floor as local DJ duo Feenixpawl come on — Paris’s warm-up act. I’m not gonna lie, I know nothing about them except they did a really nice house remix of Jetski Safari a few years back. Tonight they’re dropping predictable and moderate almost-bangaz. They’re shooting for crowd-pleasers but no one in the crowd looks too pleased. Everyone’s still standing around, staring into space or scrolling Instagram.

It creeps closer to 1am and more people join the dancefloor. A girl in front of me is messaging someone calling him a “fuckboy”. A guy standing in front of us is reaching his hands further and further towards the DJ booth. He looks like he is actually going to crack at the excitement of seeing Paris. We are down to about one sixth of the original space we had, but there’s just one row of people separating us from the DJ booth. I grab my friend’s hand. We find our feet, and an MC takes the mic.

“Are you ready to see Paris Hilton?” he asks us. Usually this question is needed a few times at gigs before the crowd is warmed up, but tonight’s crowds roar needs no further prompting. “Make some noise…” And suddenly the black backdrop splits open and I find myself face to face with Paris Hilton.

It must be so strange, to be the kind of person people would pay just to look at.

“Hello Sydney,” she says, or something like that. I am overwhelmed. People are pushing and shoving and ruining my view with arms and phone screens but I am rooted to the spot, transfixed by her image. She is so beautiful. She gives a huge smile and twirls around, and then she puts a song on for us. I couldn’t tell you which.

Paris is captivating. She’s giving us winks, poking her tongue out, slightly snarling. She has her gloved hands held up, nodding her head with the music as those iconic blonde waves bounce up behind her. Then she is reaching over, touching a few hands and laughing as the crowd squeals.

It must be so strange to be the kind of person people would pay just to look at, but she seems to be having a great time. And we are eating it up.

–

Early 2000s Values With 2016 Rent

As Paris entertains the crowd, a group of fancy-looking people sit directly behind her, facing us, looking bored. The music must be too loud to talk. They sip their drinks. They look through us. They’re not bothered by the commotion. They just pour another glass of premium vodka.

It’s hard not to feel like a pleb. These rich and privileged people are all tanned and toned and plucked, hair expensively set, squashed in luxurious designer garments with unlimited booze to watch the carnage perched just behind the main attraction. Paris is our entertainment, and we’re theirs — we’re crammed in like animals, just for the chance to catch a glimpse of this big time Hollywood socialite.

Epic time playing for you all at @MarqueeSydney! ? Our #MannequinChallenge was #LitAF ?

A video posted by Paris Hilton (@parishilton) on Nov 20, 2016 at 3:11pm PST

After 30 more minutes on the dancefloor, I head to the bar. From anywhere else in the club, it’s like listening to a heinous and uninspiring mix of generic party house songs. ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ is mixed clumsily into Steve Aoki and every now and then Paris coos “I love you Sydney.”

I go outside to debrief with one of the guys who was dancing with us. “She is so glamorous,” I say. “I mean, it’s like she’s from a whole different world.” Perfect white teeth, perfect blue eyes. Hair perfect. Skin perfect. Perfect.

His view is more stark, throwing cynical jibes about class and privilege. We talk about our lives; how fucked the housing and job markets are; how the system seems skewed to benefit the already-rich, while people like us find ourselves paying $26 a head for the privilege of standing in a club, sipping $12 vodkas.

In a way, we’ve been trained for this. I grew up on a steady diet of Ja Rule and 50 Cent music videos, reality TV stars, and magazines obsessed with wealth and luxury. The Instagram models of today are only following that same path pioneered by Paris Hilton, using a dazzling white smile, tanned bikini body and the aspiration of ‘perfection’ to sell protein powder or whatever product will pay them enough.

I head back inside to meet my friend and catch one final glimpse of Paris’s famous blonde tresses, barely poking out from the sea of reaching eyes and smartphones. She will DJ far into the evening, but it’s 3am and I’m ready to go home.

Love her or hate her, Paris seemed to be having the time of her life behind those DJ decks, basking in our adoring screams. While her musical talent may be questionable, she is the best in the world at one thing — being Paris Hilton. It’s all we asked of her. It’s what she delivered.

–

Images via Facebook.

–

Vicki Griffin is a current affairs junkie who can’t stop herself getting into arguments in the comments section of political Facebook posts, and searching for meaning in pop culture. She tweets at @vicki__g.