The next day I’m knocking Brother Ali and The Fame sits unopened. I open it and play it, right after “Little Rodney.” I had to hear it. I can’t disparage or frown at something I’ve never heard, therefore all of my grousing demanded that I actually give her a shot. The results … (I’ll listen to Fame Monster later … you’ve gotta know where you’ve been before you go elsewhere), terrible for all the wrong reasons.
Why? She isn’t terrible because she can’t sing, though she can’t. Her range is terribly narrow. But T-Pain is no Luther Vandross, yet he’s not terrible. It’s not terrible because of the production. While it’s not my cup of tea (read, “May I have a synthesizer-combo, super-duper sized, please?”), it’s not inedible. She’s not terrible even because all of the songs are crap. They’re not. “Eh, Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say)” and “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” are both good songs. There are one or two others.
The reasons she is terrible is that her songs are empty, shallow, and are everything that is wrong with music today. She is brutally honest about what she wants. Don’t believe me. The defense calls it’s first witness, Mr. Song Titles.
“Mr. Song Titles, can you tell me some of the song titles that embody what GaGa is about?”
“Sure. The Fame. Starstruck. I Like it Rough. Beautiful, Dirty Rich.”
“I rest my case.”
Lady GaGa wants to be famous. Her album is built for mass consumption. It is shallow enough never to take a stand on anything, only reinforcing the status quo. Girls like guys with nice cars. Guys should be rich. Gilrs should play a love game. Money is the goal. Life is liquor, sex, and parties. This message is repeated 14 times. This is the formula for a platinum album. Rock out to easily consumable beats and recite Hoyle’s Guide to Constructing an Empty Soul, Vol. I.
Lady GaGa is the ugly. Her music is the ugly because it’s goal is fame. Her music is the ugly because it’s end product is a hollow soul. Her music is the ugly because there is no substance. The product of Lady GaGa is the ugly because it is the triumph of style over substance and the victory of spectacle over music. It's the Hills. It's Real Housewives of Wherever. It's fame at any price, even if it means whoring your soul. And fuck it ... I hate it. It's everything I stand against.