Get over your Gaga it’s really just faux glam…


"Oh Bloody Gaga!"

“because she has a P-P-P-Poker face!!!I is what I was told when I wondered via FaceBook what the allure of Lady Gaga was.  Having heard her ‘name’ creeping into the English language almost as an adjective on a few different occasions, I began to wonder just how big do you have to be to have the suffix ‘-esque’ attached to your name? Well apparently the feathered, lobstered and gaffer’s taped one has just stepped into that syntax called the ‘common English vernacular.’  She may even be well past ‘Urban Dictionary status but don’t quote me on that.   I quickly hit up itunes to listen to a snippet of songs deemed “gagaesque”  oh and some real Lady Gaga penned slaggy ditties to boot.  Can we talk sugary, blippy, syncopated hooks?  I see the allure, if you like late nineties Madonna during her time with William Orbit and the next year when she channeled Che Guevara. I get the seventh grade allure,  but not the her lyrics.

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah
Roma, Roma-ma
GaGa, ooh la la
Want your bad romance

I want your ugly, I want your disease
I want your everything as long as it’s free
I want your love, love, love, love
I want your love

I want your drama, the touch of your hand
I want your leather studded kiss in the scene
I want your love, love, love, love
I want your love
(Love, love, love, I want your love)

You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want a bad, bad romance

I can only think that quite possibly the heavy use of onomonpaeia speaks to the post- natal Pre-K period in one’s life and recalls those first days of speech.   Nevertheless, assessing the possible reasons for “The Lady Gaga Allure” did not further propel me down the road of knowing why SOME people might be Gaga over Gaga…

When I google-imaged “gaga”  I found her unsmiling, Sugical taped “X’s” taped to her teats and face encrusted in white sticks arranged not unlike the Eagle’s nest that we gawked at when we visited the Santa Ana Zoo.  Trying desperately to make some sort of connection in efforts to ‘understand’ the hoopla surrounding this astounding vision of faux-glam.

It seems to me that ‘glam’ and ‘shock’ were brought to new levels of interest and even ‘artfulness’ in more creative, non-forced and very ‘natural’ ways if you can even say that about the genre, in the 70’s and 80’s.  Madonna bringing up the rear and into the nineties with her Gaultier phase.   Bowie comes to mind as the crown prince of Glam, David Johanssen, and of course Elton John.  And there were even really great stabs at it after that.  The seventies invented it, the eighties played with it.   The genre was believable enough, though some results were half-hearted…think Cyndi Lauper, whom made a good run of it,  but ultimately fell visually  transparent.  Lucky for Cyndi and for us, once she opened her mouth, she  became high art and we  all  fell in love with her.  Why did it work?  These folks really rocked it, they believed it.  Most important we saw their PERSONALITY through the art that adorned them and we were enthralled.  Whether it was Wendy-O-Williams  of Plasmatics fame with her mohawk, glaring absence of clothing save for black electrical tape…YOU’VE SEEN THE CAR…NOW SEE THE BUS!!!  Wendy-O rankled our nerves, made us laugh, gawk and dared us to let go of all our inhibitions.

How long can one really TRY  hard to shock, to entertain by taking great lengths to garner gawking and then hide?  The real reason Gaga fails, is that her persona is forced and thus she will not ultimately be able to propel hersfelf into glam uber-status.  This is why Madonna scoffs, she must know this. To say that Madonna considers Gaga a ‘copy-cat’ is to sell Madonna short.  Madonna is and was much more of a artful performer.  In costume, music and complexity.  She was relevant always.  Relevancy and personality.  That is what Gaga is missing.  Gaga is Mark Kostabi to Madonna’s DeCherico.

For example on Larry King recently, I was encouraged to see that Gaga landed a gig with “The suspendered one” and that “haus of Gaga ‘ ideated the prospect of her going on dressed just like Larry!  (a negative version of his outfit anyway…black shirt, white suspenders and dark glasses). What a joy!  How Dada!  I was eager to see how she goofed on him but hoped it would also be in a nice way)…But what did Ms. Stephanie Germanotta do with this great situation?  NOTHING.  She intentionally  slowly and uneasily answered Larry  King’s questions, causing Larry to seem aloof, to feel that the interview was not working, and generally made the interview no fun to watch.   I have to admit, wearing a “Larry outfit” and goofing on Larry  would have been pretty cool, which recalls the John Lydon with Tom Snyder interview in ’77, this was an amazing example of punk rock journalism, but I’m sure Gaga has no idea…

She had the chance to make everyone laugh, to show us that she ‘gets’ this.  That all of this has a point and that she’s really been goofing on us! or herself, or best yet, on “the fame machine.”   If she is goofing on fame and glamour,  then this whole thing is hilarious and I sincerely mean that.  But she hasn’t let us in on the joke and we’re standing by waiting.  I just don’t see the half-hearted propensity of it all.

-Chrissylong

Better style for Gaga - Go back 2 your roots! Overdrive 80's meets a more glam runaways.

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1975 – Cornflakes and Classics in Chavez Ravine


Picture 21975.  The scent of hashish in the air, I look over at my mother who didn’t seem to mind at all. I wonder whether I will get a contact high just sitting there in my seat at Dodger Stadium.  I smile at my brother who smiles back and takes a deep breath.  It is 1976 and the sun is going down.  On my right is a long haired guy with big round glasses and a “Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only The Piano Player” decal T-shirt.  I secretly wish I had that shirt and wasn’t instead sporting one that said, “Come Caca”  (In Spanish, it means, “EAT SHIT”).  Funny at the time, but later quite embarssing, as it looks as if I am proudly calling out the shit from whence it hides.  I swoosh the strands of  long brown obvioulsy un-attended hair from my forehead and crane my neck to get a glimpse of the stage. We had been waiting for an hour,  breathing deep and quietly trading visual forecasts of what Elton would wear and whether “Bernie” would come out on stage or not.  Suddenly the soft murmer of laughter, talking, cat calls and the valiant croons of late-comers to their  their “seat-saving parties” or vice versa.   The crowd is strangely silent, collectively expectant.   With a flash of the million-watt stadium lights a Glittery trim Elton bounds across the stage and takes a bow.  HELL …LOW…LOS ANGELES!!!!!   Elton takes his seat at the piano, the lights flash again and Elton is a blaze of movement. Pounding the piano, … outfitted in spectacle of home team adoration,  or at least an admiration of Steve Garvey,  a sequined Elton begins to sing.  His mouth over the microphone,  body seemingly detached from his mouth, Elton’s back rises and falls as he moves from the orchestral opening of the song to the first incredible lines.   His head cocked eyes looking sideways and by now singing wildly, the crowd begins to move.  I mean really move!   We are all singing “Why’s there never light on my lawn?..Why does it rain and never say good-day to the newborn?.”  We revel in “Grey Seal” from “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and it has never been so real to me.    WE ARE ECSTATIC!  WE ARE HERE! WE  ARE WITH ELTON!  THIS IS MIIDA!!  AND WE ARE TOGETHER!  and we know we will never have this time again. People are struggling to climb onto the chairs someone uses my back to boost themselves up behind me.  I don’t care.  I put my hand on some else’s shoulder as I am pushed forward.  I don’t mind.   I look tentatively at the young man I just made aware of my existence,  he smiles  as if he knows me,  and that we were ALL friends.  Sharing something so amazing, so special that nothing else at this point in time matters.  We are all helping eachother to be a part of Elton’s show, taking it all in.  The air is sweet and musty the sun is going down over Los Angeles and everyone is smiling. We are all moving as one.  Our mother is laughing, she has forgotten about selling insurance and making the rent.  We hug her and we know that we will never have another time like this, together,  our entire lives.    I notice someone’s younger sister, clearly one of “The babysat,” still clutching a Tigerbeat featuring a zitty Leif Garrett or maybe it was Shaun Cassidy.   No more Tigerbeat for me, I think to myself… I am the brio twelve year old lass proudly holding her  copy of “Rock of the Westies.” I resign myself to the fact that I won’t get it signed and quietly tuck the album under my seat.  I take my place between my brother and mother and resume singing,” And tell me grey seal How does it feel to be so wise?…To see through eyes That only see what’s real…Tell ell  meeeee greyyy  seeeeee  ul.

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