Moving Pictures June 2010

The Last Pop Star

Lady Gaga is simultaneously embodying and eviscerating Pop.
Sean McCabe

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At the heart of Pop, real Pop, is a white-hot blank. It sizzles into materiality in the form of this body or that body, this voice or that voice; it drapes itself in allusions, symbols, trinkets, scraps of dazzlement. It can enter the world in triumph, with a bang, in a flash of beauty; or sordidly and crappily, filtering from the ceiling speakers of a Taco Bell or glimpsed on a screen through somebody’s lonely apartment window, a dismal flickering. It seeps into conversations, your everyday chitchat—“Did you hear …?” “Have you seen …?”—and you talk about it as if under a compulsion, like a sleepwalker, the syllables strange on your tongue. Plenty to say about Pop (although it repels intelligent commentary)—about its shapes and styles and so on. But always, always, at the core, an ecstatic and superheated Nothing.

Kurt Cobain got close to it with “A mulatto / An albino / A mosquito / My libido / Yeah!” Marc Bolan, one of the most perfect Pop stars of the last century, lived in it, which is why at the height of his power, riding waves of electrified delirium with his band T. Rex, he sang things like “I drive a Rolls-Royce / ’cause it’s good for my voice” and “Rockin’ in the nude / I’m feelin’ such a dude / It’s a rip-off!”

Video: James Parker studies Lady Gaga’s mystique and finds her exact antithesis in the celebrity kingdom

Have you heard of Lady Gaga? Type L into Google. She is the multiplatinum alpha and omega of Pop, and she’s burning out its circuits. She adores Bolan. Glam rock, the strutting, sequined, sexually equivocal noise of which he was the avatar, is one of her reference points. (So is Cobain, but we’ll come to that later.) She adores Bowie; she adores Queen. Her name, in fact, derives from a Queen song. Born Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta, in New York City, she was baptized Gaga by her former songwriting partner Rob Fusari. “We were working one day in the studio,” he told an interviewer, “and Queen’s ‘Radio Ga Ga’ came on, and I was like, ‘You are so Radio Ga Ga.’ So Gaga became her nickname.” “Radio Ga Ga,” released in 1984 (two years before Germanotta’s birth), was a reactionary lament at the dawn of the video age: “We watch the shows, we watch the stars / On videos for hours and hours / We hardly need to use our ears / How music changes through the years.” Oh dear! Pop being Pop, though, the only thing anyone remembers is the futuristically inane chorus: “All we hear is Radio ga ga / Radio goo goo / Radio ga ga / All we hear is Radio ga ga / Radio blah blah …” Lady Blah Blah would have been pretty good, but ga ga, gaga, gaga: a monstrous orality, a tyranny of infantile desire, with the added suggestion of surfeit, overkill, something being gagged on. Perfect.

Her assault on the culture has been meticulous. Pre-Gaga, she wrote songs for Britney Spears and New Kids on the Block, a line of work she pursued while immersing herself in burlesque, performance art, and all-round club madness. As Lady Gaga she has made two albums, of which more than 12 million copies have been sold. Her music is top-quality revenge-of-the-machines dance-stomp with beefy, unforgettable choruses: “Can’t read my, can’t read my / No he can’t read my POKER FACE!” “I want your love and I want your revenge / You and me could write a BAD ROMANCE!” (“I usually write the choruses first,” she has said, “because without a good chorus, who really gives a fuck?”) It’s Pop music, but Gaga-dom is the thing: a persona, something like the incarnation of Pop stardom itself, that she has foisted upon the world. In wigs and avant-garde getups she appears, strange-eyed, her large, high-bridged nose giving a hieroglyphic otherness to her face. On red carpets the presence manifests, where Gaga, like a dome of many-colored glass, refracts the white radiance of Pop.

Remember Debbie Allen in her leotard, haranguing the kids from Fame? “You got big dreams. You want fame. Well, fame costs. And right here’s where you start payin’!” Not Lady Gaga. For Gaga and her tribe, fame—or more precisely “the fame”—is gratuitous, ubiquitous, a sort of cultural precipitation that can be snatched or skimmed out of the air by anyone with the balls to do it. “The music is intended to inspire people to feel a certain way about themselves,” she told MTV, “so they’ll be able to encompass, in their own lives, a sense of inner fame that they can project to the world.” Or to put it another way: “All we care about is pornographic girls / On film and body plastic / Give me something I wanna see / Television and hot blondes in odd positions / FAME! Doin’ it for the FAME!”

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James Parker is an Atlantic contributing editor.

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