Monday, 26 April 2010
The Lady is a Tramp
Another day goes by and I see yet another image of Lady Gaga’s crotch. The woman is astonishing. She will whip it out anytime, any place. She might be capable of what is loosely-termed “poise” when wearing seven-inch Alexander McQueen heels, but let’s get one thing straight: she may be called Lady Gaga, but she is no lady.
I was reminded of the good ol’ days this weekend when I, for the first time, went swing dancing. I wore a dress that made me look a bit like Doris Day. I drank substantially less than usual. I was dipped on the dance floor by a man. I have never felt like more of a lady in my life. There were no crotches in sight (with the exception of one gentleman in skinny jeans) and there was a distinct and palpable, but by no means regrettable, absence of lace face ornamentation or hairstyles that make the offending wearer’s head look like a piñata. The evening if not the world was better for it. For a brief evening, there was no such thing as “less is more” and being dressed to the nines was sexy as hell.
I thought of Grace Kelly that night. It doesn’t take much to make me think of Grace Kelly. She is everything I want to be: poised, graceful, elegant and covered up. Subtlety and mystique are a lady’s best friends but are lamentably in short supply. Looking at Lady Gaga now, I can’t help but picture her in 30 years, a latter day Madonna still parading her aging wotsits in front of a slightly uncomfortable world. And where will Grace Kelly be? Still in those black and white photos, baring enough flesh to say “Come hither” with a look in her eyes that says “You can’t touch this”. She’d say no a hundred times before you stood a chance.
In my imagined nostalgia for an era thirty years before my time, I bought a ukulele this week purely because Marilyn Monroe plays one in Some Like It Hot. Jack Lemmon in drag watches Monroe in awe, commenting that she walks “like Jell-o in springs.” I observe Gaga with confusion. She walks like a giraffe on heat. But is Lady Gaga like Marilyn Monroe? If we are talking about sex here, Marilyn was more controversial than The Gaga; she started her career as a nude model and her life was littered with failed marriages and sexual scandal. She was certainly not averse to removing articles of clothing as part of her job. Is Gaga any different? The difference between Grace Kelly and Lady Gaga is the difference between a princess and a prostitute. The difference between Gaga and Monroe, then, is perhaps the difference between The Lizard and The Old Course Ballroom; equally fun, but maybe one appears to be just a little bit classier than the other.
This is not a debate about selling sex. It’s about selling the self for attention, admiration and shock value. Baring One’s Soul vs. Baring One’s Arse: The Lady’s Dilemma is apparent in the media and I’d take Melody Gardot’s words over Gaga’s lyrics any day. “I would colour all the mountains, make the sky forever blue so the world would be a painting and I’d live inside with you” has all the subtlety and mystique that is missing from “Let’s have some fun this beat is sick I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”
At the risk of undermining everything I’ve just said and everything I believe a woman should be, of course I love Lady Gaga. She does what I don’t dare to do. I just think that there is a time and a place to bare one's arse. All day, everyday in front of the entire world is definitely not it. I'm still waiting for her soul. It's under all the lace and hairspray, somewhere.
I was reminded of the good ol’ days this weekend when I, for the first time, went swing dancing. I wore a dress that made me look a bit like Doris Day. I drank substantially less than usual. I was dipped on the dance floor by a man. I have never felt like more of a lady in my life. There were no crotches in sight (with the exception of one gentleman in skinny jeans) and there was a distinct and palpable, but by no means regrettable, absence of lace face ornamentation or hairstyles that make the offending wearer’s head look like a piñata. The evening if not the world was better for it. For a brief evening, there was no such thing as “less is more” and being dressed to the nines was sexy as hell.
I thought of Grace Kelly that night. It doesn’t take much to make me think of Grace Kelly. She is everything I want to be: poised, graceful, elegant and covered up. Subtlety and mystique are a lady’s best friends but are lamentably in short supply. Looking at Lady Gaga now, I can’t help but picture her in 30 years, a latter day Madonna still parading her aging wotsits in front of a slightly uncomfortable world. And where will Grace Kelly be? Still in those black and white photos, baring enough flesh to say “Come hither” with a look in her eyes that says “You can’t touch this”. She’d say no a hundred times before you stood a chance.
In my imagined nostalgia for an era thirty years before my time, I bought a ukulele this week purely because Marilyn Monroe plays one in Some Like It Hot. Jack Lemmon in drag watches Monroe in awe, commenting that she walks “like Jell-o in springs.” I observe Gaga with confusion. She walks like a giraffe on heat. But is Lady Gaga like Marilyn Monroe? If we are talking about sex here, Marilyn was more controversial than The Gaga; she started her career as a nude model and her life was littered with failed marriages and sexual scandal. She was certainly not averse to removing articles of clothing as part of her job. Is Gaga any different? The difference between Grace Kelly and Lady Gaga is the difference between a princess and a prostitute. The difference between Gaga and Monroe, then, is perhaps the difference between The Lizard and The Old Course Ballroom; equally fun, but maybe one appears to be just a little bit classier than the other.
This is not a debate about selling sex. It’s about selling the self for attention, admiration and shock value. Baring One’s Soul vs. Baring One’s Arse: The Lady’s Dilemma is apparent in the media and I’d take Melody Gardot’s words over Gaga’s lyrics any day. “I would colour all the mountains, make the sky forever blue so the world would be a painting and I’d live inside with you” has all the subtlety and mystique that is missing from “Let’s have some fun this beat is sick I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”
At the risk of undermining everything I’ve just said and everything I believe a woman should be, of course I love Lady Gaga. She does what I don’t dare to do. I just think that there is a time and a place to bare one's arse. All day, everyday in front of the entire world is definitely not it. I'm still waiting for her soul. It's under all the lace and hairspray, somewhere.
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