Biorhythmic: The Fame Monster [Work Tape]

Pretense: I never really got around to developing this one (thus the “[Work Tape]”), but for the sake of the record… the embryonic riff


Off the heels of her spectacular 2008 debut, The Fame, Lady GaGa released 2009’s sophomore shadow, The Fame Monster. Whereas The Fame reflected an artist in the midst of a self-made world, The Fame Monster was the result of an artist facing the mirror of their own self – world dropped.

Welcomed with not simply “acoustic” or “electric,” but, rather, elemental sounds, we descend into an atmosphere; and for all of the assumed character ambiguity of the narrator, we are greeted with an emotional familiarity through sound and story.

I want your ugly, I want your disease… I want your everything as long as it’s free – I want your love.

Amidst strong synth, resonating, reverberating, escalating, and descending she strips it all away to acoustics; in so doing, she reveals her own voice, depicting desires and sorrows with a vulnerability hearkening to a bittersweet nostalgia… lamenting dreams faded, heroes fallen, and memories of a fonder time far gone.

As vain as she allows, lips glossed, eyes done and when she breaks and The Fame falls out of place she recoils, patiently waits with the monster, channels and revisits her deepest self before the rebirth and her return.

Silicone, saline, poison: inject me baby; I’m a free, b*tch. I’m a free, b*tch.

Silicone, saline, poison, she invites these injections, these uniforms of convention, but it’s because she has accepted these distorted foreign influences, that she can say she’s a free b*tch. Only through adopting the burden can she admonish it and emerge said free b*tch.

She looks good, but her boyfriend says she’s a mess,

and so are the distorted influences of the opposite sex.

It is in the stillest hour of the night, that her vampiric grin shines brightest in the moonlight. She faces him; void of the feminine veneer, vain in nothing but her monstrosity. In the presence of the purest human essence, he brandishes her nothing more than a tramp – and because of that, the vamp commences her nocturnal dance.

Marilyn, Judy, Sylvia, Jon Benet resurrected iconographies of that certain ill-fated aspect – distanced by public perception, but here they are fragmented no more. Here, they arrive posthumously purified of past conceptions and purged of their demons, baptized in black-light and liberated in the inaudible, inarticulate lyric.

Here, we are given a testament: a monster preaching from a molehill and shifting a mountain. We are given a lone voice shattering the deafening silence of a muted world. Far beneath the scene we are given a soul.

I’m not your babe, Fernando

Garibay, leaving the present;

don’t want to kiss, don’t want to touch, Roberto

Fusari, leaving the past;

don’t call my name, Alejandro

McQueen, leaving death and design – and in this she becomes immortal in her solitary sublime.

From the peak summer scorch of “Telephone,” and swelter of “So Happy I Could Die,” we meet the immediate descent to winter and Hadean Hibernation, returning to the Underworld with “Teeth:”

terrestrial, raw, animalistic, primal, soulful, naked, stark, aware. Lucifer’s fall from dominion because he showed his truth.

“So Happy I Could Die,” as we finally see our reflection in the wineglass, world bent, it is the last face we see before the fall and shattered glass.

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