Following some less than complementary statements made against Lady Gaga during our interview with Siobhan Fahey, mostly concerning the grave, awful possible truth that Gaga is essentially a fantastically presented version of a terrifically turgid song, it seems apt that Telephone (Feat. Beyonce) could well be an immense example of this fact.
But don’t believe the hip anti-hype.
I mean, Paparazzi was pretty awesome (mostly because we like all the support we can get, musical or otherwise, for stalking the objects of our affections) and Lovegame too was a filthy little treat (anything you can crotch-grab along to is A-Okay in our books)...oh, who are we kidding, maybe she is bloody awful but this is true love. Unconditional. Gaga could cover a turd in shoulder pads, mickey mouse sunglasses and record it passing through a sewer for 4 minutes, and we’d still find a guilty pleasured way to dance to the end mix.
Telephone, in that respect, is quite the deliciously polished turd. In fact, it’s such a deliciously polished turd that it’s practically gourmet. They’d probably sell it in Harrods with a price tag only Mohamed Al Fayed himself could afford.
The song is essentially an elongated drunken text message set to one helluva conflated post-mix of fabulous aural tack. It’s also totally irrelevant. The song could be preaching the genocide of kittens, and we still would have attentively watched the video 5 times in a row.
Christ - the cigarette wrap around shades? Diet-coke can curlers? Police tape lingerie? I mean, it’s a cartoonish exaggeration of a Sunday morning down at Liverpool 1, sure, but I sure as fuck don’t look forward to wearing any normal clothes ever again after seeing that fine array of beautiful absurdity.
Richard Branson too must be bloody glad-happy that his mobile phones are allowed to be smuggled imperviously into prisons these days, eh? I mean once inmates the Western hemisphere over check out the kip of that LG being practically stink-fingered out of Gagas crotch, they’ll all bloody want one! Nice work Branson. I can see why you’re so rich.
But have you even listened to the song, Dickie? Bitch can’t get no signal! Doesn’t sound like your phones are providing the service they should be. But even if she could get above a one bar, she certainly wouldn’t fucking answer you - you lout - she’s too busaay cabbage-patching to Xanadu or Loose Joints or Christ knows what else by now. Unlucky.
In short: Pussy Wagon - we love you. Tarantino pastiche - we love you. Psycho jittering editing - you’re unecessary, but we love you. Gaga vagina shot - we applaud you. Death by honey? Sandwich making?! Tank Girl style cartoonery!!? Meer cat dance routines?!! The costumes! The dialogue! The make-up! Oh my!
Perhaps the prison guards sum it up best when, having copped a flash of Gaga’s Vay-gaga, they say:
“See, I told you she didn’t have a dick...”
“Too bad...”
Too bad indeed. We’d be all over that shit if she did.
Gaga. Beyonce. We salute you.
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