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On the one hand Gaga, I had geared myself up to sit you in the naughty corner. I was ready to put on my serious face, stand over you and, quite honestly, give you a good telling off. Hyping the new album up beyond belief? That lacklustre first single, which leans a little too much on Mother Madonna's shoulders? And don't get me started on the Radio 1 Big Weekend set. That was the final straw which really broke this camel's back. Diverting into free jazz? Throwing some of your biggest hits (Telephone, Poker Face, Alejandro) away in a medley that wasn't really a medley because you had breaks in-between each one (!), before undertaking a ridiculous cover of Orange Colored Sky in homage to Will and Kate? And for the love of Gaga, stop rhyming things with Gaga! I've already composed 'Gaga Black Sheep'. I'm onto you.
Of course, these bad moments were interspersed with instances of genius (incubating yourself in an egg being at the top), but generally there was a feeling of setting yourself up to fall. "You're going to sit here and think about what you've done," I would say sternly, whilst little Gaga would look up with wet eyes and a trembling lip.
But you see, there's a glitch in the plan... your new album is actually rather good. Certainly, it doesn't live up to the hype but then that was all a load of blah-blah anyway. When the album does shine however, it burns bright like a red-hot smoking pipe of pop porn. And it'll confuse you if I punish you for doing something right - right? Poor doll.
Granted, it could've gone a bit further. You could have taken a few more risks musically. Monsters who thought you were heading towards a harder, more 'industrial' sound will be left disappointed. It's pretty much par-for-the-course in terms of drum machines and catchy hooks, all wrapped in a bangin' electronic shimmer with a cherry cherry boom boom on top isn't it? But the quality throughout is top-notch, with several really beating their chests loudly. Government Hooker begins with an eerie operatic wailing before descending into a moody ditty about, as far as I can tell, politicians and their whores. "Put your hands on me, John F Kennedy," you drawl. Nice shout-out. Scheiße is a strutter's wet dream, screechy synths set over a dominating talk-rap in German. Hair is a shoe-in for a future Glee episode and Bad Kids is a simple, carefree ode to loving yourself no matter what. Outstanding.
So, no naughty step today but I'll be keeping a close eye on you. That saxophone seems to be creeping into far too many songs for my liking. Milk and cookies Gaga?
Download: Government Hooker, Hair, Scheiße, Bad Kids
I was lazily flicking through my autumn/winter 2010 copy of .Cent magazine last night and stumbled across this extract from Richard Milward, incidentally the guest editor for the issue. It's taken from the writer's second book Ten Storey Love Song and demonstrates something called 'automatic writing'. A continual flow of seemingly arbitrary words, it's completely natural rather than painstakingly put together to resemble a stream of consciousness piece like, say, Virginia Woolf did.
Anyway, I love it and am now off to order Milward's first two books immediately.
'One psychedelic afternoon in September Bobby the Artist accidentally swallows ten tabs of acid while sitting on the toilet. He starts mumbling to himself, gurgling, the shapes of sinks becoming white elephants with beady winking eyes, and the clownfishes on the bath curtain darting about chattering to each other. For a minute he thinks he's Salvador Dali, growing a curly moustache in the mirror. Hola! Salvador laughs - he can't even tell if his eyes are open or shut or not. Freaking out, Salvador put his head in his hands, serving another gust of Chanel into his sleeve. Watch out Sal, here comes the automatic writing! Holistic chicken made tea don't you hedgerow all oil trousers ink sprayed salmon on its chest possibly a frog leopard print snout man looking grumpy boulevard legs eleven prostitute hamsters won fifty pounds at a masquerade after leaving four cups of juicy lemon spiked a nut on the dame of Duke York post-natal dream dismay and a forehead keeps singing on the phone to conker forest of evil and wormy stretch ouch bastard gondolier tra la la Cornetto Tonga hand grenade hooray hippo snarling under grasp only showing no remorse for the budgie that sung sweetly so sweetly but died after having injection to the neck holy water tomato onion banana ketchup see-saw then Ellen Ellen Ellen. "Bobby, what are you doing?" Ellen asks, stepping into the bathroom and it's really her, not a mirage...'
AMAZING.
