Review Summary: I've got a hundred million reasons to walk away.
I’ve never been able to wrap my head around the central conceit of Lady Gaga; that is, flamboyancy for the sake of justifying otherness, or, the virtues of accepting everyone because everyone’s a little weird and quirky. For
The Fame, the argument was a distraction, if not completely unfair, as Gaga sought to deliver synthpop in a near-gothic display of glitziness (think, Depeche Mode's
Violator, or Madonna's
True Blue). For
Born this Way– and by extension, the actively embarrassing
Artpop– it was a defence that nevertheless proved difficult to swallow, as pop songs soon became exercises in excruciating, overreaching, underdone, patchwork silliness. By today’s standards, she’s hardly a going concern, and judging by the deservedly middling performance of
Joanne’s lead single, “Perfect Illusion,” she’s not one to outmanoeuvre the narrative that she’s just a bit too peculiar for good taste. Instead, she’s confident to flounder in an obscure mess of shouting, stomping, and country-warbling that, predictably, isn’t fun nor liberating; it’s just embarrassing.
For the well adjusted amongst us,
Joanne is just about the worst album released this year. For those seeking some daringness in being an outsider, it’s an oddity, unable to match “Just Dance “ (or “Applause,” or “Poker Face,” or “Alejandro,” etc.) for sheer embrace of bizarre glamor. Instead, she’s hewing closer to Dolly Parton’s sort of country music, though without any of the allure or likability of Dolly Parton’s country music. She’s still belting like a superstar, but her song’s aren’t really deserving; take “Come to Mama,” or “John Wayne,” or “Hey Girl,” or, effectively, every song on the album, and what you’ll hear is dissonant caterwauling over spare, unmemorable, heartland jams. She’s capitalized on the presence of super-produced Mark Ronson by letting him recede into the background, barely rising above a whisper to suggest that maybe a hi-hat here or a floor-tom there might provide a tune approaching adequate. When he is present- as in “Perfect Illusion”- it’s bad. His passion for glam, soul, and disco is completely blinded by the unnecessary shoutiness of Gaga. Not that others are much better; Josh Homme and Kevin Parker, whose importance is in name only, do absolutely nothing for the track. Elsewhere, there’s “A-Yo,” an electro-hoedown of embarrassingly poor taste, and other party songs that sound closer to Avicii than is absolutely necessary.
Yes, Lady Gaga has made a bad album (again), and done little to articulate the freedom that comes in self-realization and performance. She’s attracted weirdos to the scene and probably sated their desire for music that feels untethered in its welcomeness to be unlikable. If she’s channelling anyone, it’s John Waters, whose movies pushed the limits of cinema, attracted a cult audience, and weren’t at all watchable or decent. Much like Gaga, he was bad, but underneath those objective failures hid his comments about acceptance and heteronormativity that weren’t especially clear to the casual viewer. That is to say, there’s probably something in
Joanne’s 40-minutes of blundered awkwardness, just don’t expect to get it without studiously watching a transvestite eat her own sh
it.
