I Want to Make a Supersonic Woman of You--An Open Letter to Lady GaGa
Dear Lady GaGa,
Let me start by saying that I adore you. I love the costumes, I love your voice, I love that you are all talk and no scandal. There are sex tapes, no lovers with embarrassing stories and hungry wallets crawling out of the woodwork, no shooting your mouth off as a means of being edgy. There was that hermaphrodite rumor, but even you have to admit, that was kind of cool. You are living, breathing art.
That being said, I hate your music.
It’s not you, Lady GaGa. You are the new Cyndi Lauper, the lady David Bowie, you are something real in a world populated almost entirely by phonies. It’s the culture your glittery spaceship landed in, a culture that is content to crawl up the plexiglass box of sound without bothering to peer inside. If they could penetrate and peel back the layers of generic dance music, inside they would find a voice that is so pure and so rich that it might be more than their vapid, Ambien-numbed hearts could stand. You might open within them a chasm of raw emotion and what then? A mass exodus from the safety of sterilized plastic homes and into the streets, where days later the scavengers would find the burned-out husks of iPODS, cell phones, tiny laptops and big-screen TVs. We might be forced to destroy our own plastic cages, the boxes we hide ourselves in day after day. That is what beautiful voices do.
So they hide you, my dear. They bury you in a glass casket and dump dead layers of sound upon you while you pound on the lid, screaming to get out. I can hear that yearning, like a dog whistle, morse code, a signal buried deep within our own airwaves.
I urge you to break free. I know you can do it. Forget the dance clubs for a moment and just sing. You can even leave your hat on.
PS: Love the bit about being celebate. You're like Morrissey . . . with flaming tits.