In today’s Sunday Times Magazine, social critic Camille Paglia pulls out Lady Caca’s tuck in a piece titled: “Lady Gaga and the death of sex.” If you thought I had some serious feelings on Caca, then warm your eyeballs on the fire coming out of Camille’s finger tips. Here’s a few choice quotes:
She constantly touts her symbiotic bond with her fans, the “little monsters”, who she inspires to “love themselves” as if they are damaged goods in need of her therapeutic repair. “You’re a superstar, no matter who you are!” She earnestly tells them from the stage, while their cash ends up in her pockets. She told a magazine with messianic fervour: “I love my fans more than any artist who has ever lived.” She claims to have changed the lives of the disabled, thrilled by her jewelled parody crutches in the Paparazzi video.
Furthermore, despite showing acres of pallid flesh in the fetish-bondage garb of urban prostitution, Gaga isn’t sexy at all – she’s like a gangly marionette or plasticised android. How could a figure so calculated and artificial, so clinical and strangely antiseptic, so stripped of genuine eroticism have become the icon of her generation? Can it be that Gaga represents the exhausted end of the sexual revolution? In Gaga’s manic miming of persona after persona, over-conceptualised and claustrophobic, we may have reached the limit of an era…
The other day, I was waiting for the subway and a little girl pointed at an ad with a blonde chick on it and shouted, “Mom! Is that Lady Gaga?! Is that Lady Gaga? I love her!” Well, if Camille was there she would’ve asked me to hold her purse so she could slap the Gaganess out of that child. It’s like DAMN!!!
The first part of Camille’s Cacahaters manifesto is here and you can pay a pound to read the whole thing online. I’m saving my coins until I need a touching bedtime story to read later on.