Spring Break
Lady GaGa releases hot tracks, shallow content
John Holmes
Issue date: 11/13/08 Section: Entertainment
11/13/08 - One thing that makes music so compelling is just how damn personal it is.
Many artists are famous because they channel their rage, depression and pain into their craft. Certain artists use artistic expression to vent their emotions because it is the only safe avenue through which to deal with them - they literally bleed music.
Lady GaGa is absolutely, 100 percent, not one of these artists. The Fame, the debut album from the 22-year-old pop-singer, is a trashy, bratty, meaningless bit of party fluff. And it is exactly for that reason that it's so great.
"Just Dance," the album's opener, could easily become the anthem of every URI girl waking up somewhere unfamiliar, asking the same eternal questions "Where are my keys? / I lost my phone," and later, "How'd I turn my shirt inside out?"
While the lyrics are for the morning after, the music is clearly for the night of. It's a sure-fire dance track guaranteed to get any party started.
This party continues through the next couple tracks with "LoveGame" delivering the "did she really just say that?!" line, "Let's have some fun, this beat is sick / I wanna take a ride on your disco stick," while "Paparazzi" is a shameless celebration of celebrity obsession.
"Poker Face" is another winner, delivering silly, cheeky lyrics like "Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun / and baby, when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun" over a shimmering backdrop of glorious synth.
The strongest track here is "Boys, Boys, Boys," where GaGa tells the object of her attention that he "taste[s] like glitter mixed with rock n' roll" and suggests that they "go see The Killers and make out in the bleachers," before launching into one of the catchiest pop hooks I've heard this year, the kind you'll be able to sing along with no matter how many shots you've knocked back.
Is it all great? No. Some of the lyrics venture from the accessibly weird to totally incomprehensible. Take "Paper Gangsta" where she questions, "got something really shiny to start / want me to sign there on your Ranger Rover heart?" and declares, "yeah, the dinners were nice / 'til your diamond words melted into some ice." If you can tell me what those lyrics mean, let me know so I can have the proper authorities get you the help you require.
Also, there is "Brown Eyes" a plodding heartbreak ballad that has no place on such a shallow, materialistic album, where GaGa even goes as far to fake getting choked up halfway through in a half-hearted attempt to shoehorn emotion into the track.
And this emotion is ultimately unnecessary. Nobody who buys this album is looking for deep artistic statements or something emotionally stimulating.
This album delivers on deliriously hedonistic dance beats and bratty, catty fun. As Lady GaGa declares on the album's title track, without any hint of derision or irony, "all we care about is runway models / Cadillacs and liquor bottles."
This album is not a classic by any means, but it will be a party mainstay for at least a month, which is all you can really ask of it.
Many artists are famous because they channel their rage, depression and pain into their craft. Certain artists use artistic expression to vent their emotions because it is the only safe avenue through which to deal with them - they literally bleed music.
Lady GaGa is absolutely, 100 percent, not one of these artists. The Fame, the debut album from the 22-year-old pop-singer, is a trashy, bratty, meaningless bit of party fluff. And it is exactly for that reason that it's so great.
"Just Dance," the album's opener, could easily become the anthem of every URI girl waking up somewhere unfamiliar, asking the same eternal questions "Where are my keys? / I lost my phone," and later, "How'd I turn my shirt inside out?"
While the lyrics are for the morning after, the music is clearly for the night of. It's a sure-fire dance track guaranteed to get any party started.
This party continues through the next couple tracks with "LoveGame" delivering the "did she really just say that?!" line, "Let's have some fun, this beat is sick / I wanna take a ride on your disco stick," while "Paparazzi" is a shameless celebration of celebrity obsession.
"Poker Face" is another winner, delivering silly, cheeky lyrics like "Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun / and baby, when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun" over a shimmering backdrop of glorious synth.
The strongest track here is "Boys, Boys, Boys," where GaGa tells the object of her attention that he "taste[s] like glitter mixed with rock n' roll" and suggests that they "go see The Killers and make out in the bleachers," before launching into one of the catchiest pop hooks I've heard this year, the kind you'll be able to sing along with no matter how many shots you've knocked back.
Is it all great? No. Some of the lyrics venture from the accessibly weird to totally incomprehensible. Take "Paper Gangsta" where she questions, "got something really shiny to start / want me to sign there on your Ranger Rover heart?" and declares, "yeah, the dinners were nice / 'til your diamond words melted into some ice." If you can tell me what those lyrics mean, let me know so I can have the proper authorities get you the help you require.
Also, there is "Brown Eyes" a plodding heartbreak ballad that has no place on such a shallow, materialistic album, where GaGa even goes as far to fake getting choked up halfway through in a half-hearted attempt to shoehorn emotion into the track.
And this emotion is ultimately unnecessary. Nobody who buys this album is looking for deep artistic statements or something emotionally stimulating.
This album delivers on deliriously hedonistic dance beats and bratty, catty fun. As Lady GaGa declares on the album's title track, without any hint of derision or irony, "all we care about is runway models / Cadillacs and liquor bottles."
This album is not a classic by any means, but it will be a party mainstay for at least a month, which is all you can really ask of it.
