Dear Gaga. I know you read your reviews because you sure paid out on that "asshole" who wrote that you lip-synced. I would never say that. You gave your all up there last night. That's some showgirl's foghorn you've got.
And dance? Only all the time! Any girl who'll sprint fifty metres of plexiglass catwalk in those ice-pick heels, throw herself down a set of steps and still make her hydraulic trapdoor cue without creasing her rubber octopus suit is already more than I paid for.
Seriously, monsters and detractors. From the first confetti-cannon ejaculations of ARTPOP, the Germanotta girl from NYC left no doubt she has the Broadway chops to make her grand designs sweat, and big enough balls – inflatable ones, silly, tossed about by her toned and glistening person-slaves – to slam the whole colour-and-movement thing into overdrive.
An Event, of course, is the least Gaga can get away with. The Phenomenon, from a purely bums-in-fishnets perspective, has clearly waned since she played twice as many Australian arenas two years ago.
But her resolve to play mostly her underrated ARTPOP material, and the sheer frenzied pitch of visual ideas that made it all seem so exciting, proved that she, for one, has only future glories in mind.
Of course she did a few old chestnuts from '08, too. The roaring rock of Just Dance was respite from the prevailing machine texture of this year's soundtrack. And she really played that giant seahorse keytar, in case any asshole wants to say otherwise.
She played the piano, too, quite beautifully in the little crystal palace at the far south end of what was surely the most elaborate network of transparent catwalks that ever engulfed an arena floor.
Unfortunately, next to the dazzling dance-pop of G.U.Y. and Donatella, Dope and Born This Way were mawkish and boring stripped down to their power-ballad underwear despite the very touching and tearful audience participation stunt that made quite clear that this lady, whatever you say about her meat dress and lobster hat, changes lives.
Less devoted spectators may have found the self-help stream of her craft a little squirmy – especially the part where she read aloud the love letters some lucky monsters had thrown at her feet, outed them on the big screen and summoned them each to her post-show sanctum.
Her own messages, about drugs and money and paparazzi and exactly who in the room was a star, were kind of mixed, as always. Sitting cross-legged on a throne while lackeys zipped and unzipped her stupendous cossies, her rather fierce lecture on Being An Artist could hardly have been less inclusive if she were stroking a fluffy white cat.
But the little monsters upon whom she so frankly and open-heartedly depends understand. The wow factor is Gaga's core promise, and as long as she keeps it pumping at this pitch in a gold lame Mothra outfit with teddy cannons firing, we'll stand up and give her all the Applause that she and her army of invisible backing singers deserve. Oh crap. Do you think she's still reading?
Lady Gaga will perform at Rod Laver Arena tonight, Sunday, August 24, before heading to Brisbane (August 26) and Sydney (August 30, 31).
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