Confessions of a Recent Monster Convert

I take my words back. (Not easy, given words are not simply bread and butter, but soul and flesh).

But then, Born this Way can do that to you. Force you almost, to look at the Lady behind the Gaga. To respect the artist screaming (in brilliantly-hit notes, with a voice to match), amidst all that hype. Self-generated, at first, because if you're aiming for the Madonna effect, you gotta invent your own conical-bras-burning-crucifixes shebang, which for this era and generation, could mean meat dresses, blood-and-semen perfumes, sure. Anything that takes your eyes off the Facebook page on your iPad, man! Janis Joplin wailed like a banshee, Jim Morrison used his sex-on-legs persona to the hilt, and Madonna is as Madonna performs; if you're looking to arena-rock, you gotta play by the (rockstar-image) gimmick rule-book, on some level.

But getting back to Born this Way. Not just the song (though what-a-song! And now the hatching out of a pod makes so much sense, 'cuz she really was reborn at the Grammies that night, in a way), but the entire album calls for re-evaluation, track by track. Am leaving the actual business of that in Trifeck's able hands (who has pretty much been living in Gagaville), for the next edition of First City. But I'll say this: Edge of Glory redefined razor sharp, tight pop for me, Hair served up sense of humour with 'I am my hair' (Who else can carry off that kind of vanity, seriously?), Judas had me envisioning her as Madonna's rightful heir, and You & I gave me goosebumps on Nebraska's behalf.

I bite my tongue, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Monster and Gaga forth. Please.

floatin'