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Paparazzi

She’s battling a giant octopus. The latest tour pits Lady Gaga against aquatic behemoth, its tentacles trying to devour the star. Gaga screams, “Take his picture monsters” and is promptly eaten. Before fans can cry out- WHERE IS GAGA- she erupts from the floor clad in pyrotechnic bra, and the thing from the deep retreats amidst the clicks of camera shutters. That’s “Paparazzi.”

She calls it “my first real pop song”, the favorite of the Fame album. Not surprising- “Paparazzi” packs the tune of Gwen Stefani and rhythmic one-two claps that keep the feet tapping. Perhaps it’s the subject: delectably dark, glamor meets obsession, and minor key evolves from poppy piano chords to eerie, howling synths. The chorus line sounds horribly innocent, but behind the “flashing lights” lies something much more sinister.

“Paparazzi” moves with its story. Cameraman arrives, lens in hand, hoping to claim the perfect snapshot, one which captures her everything. The color, the dance, and tears. Behind the backdoor, watching behind the shutter, he promises “I’ll be kind.” But he follows anyway.

Gaga reiterates her dealings with love- it irreparably fights with fame. “Paparazzi” snaps a shot of this engagement; do you want love, or do you want fame? She’s in love with fame, courting photographers that idle by and lurk for that fateful glimpse, and she’s infamous in affection, forsaking relationships for work. And we, the onlookers, the paparazzi, can only stand by, captivated. “I’m your biggest fan”- our eyes watching- the lyrics develop, tinged in a flicker of malice, “chase you down until you love me.” Society hunts for the next moment, the rising star, like predators surrounding their prey. Wrapped in Billboard circles and snagged by expectation, you’ll “be famous”, on the hearts and camera clicks of your endless crowd.

“Paparazzi” then illuminates popular culture. The music video, clad in shadow, spreads between intermittent corpses, the end products of fame, and Gaga’s endless pursuit for scandal and attention. So while she poisons her boyfriend in Minnie-Mouse getup, our eyes are bombarded with the physical manifestation of fame-whoring: dangling bodies mangled by art.

Social commentary, seemingly, argues on the pop life: this media attention ultimately proves negative. Celebrities dim and explode, music burgeons and fades, but nonetheless, we “still need that picture of you”, in tears, spotlight, success and self-destruction. Not for Gaga. While “The Fame Monster” encounters the beasts of notoriety, she’s as enamored with the paparazzi as we are enraptured by her. Lady Gaga calls the flashing lights inspiration, and “Paparazzi” mirrors the sentiment; is the song sung by us or the pop princess?

She watches us on the road and delivers emotional validation. “Dance in the Dark” and “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” support intrinsic beauty. “Bad Romance” preaches acceptance. “Paparazzi” catches our attention, because she confirms our innate existence. Esteem holds Gaga high, perhaps by dint of musical artistry or visual goodies, but her devotion to the Monster fanbase reminds anyone “you’ll be famous.”

We’re all famous. Whether as ostentatious as a fifteen-foot sea creature, or a simple musician whose edged her way through loss and rejection, life deserves to be watched. The “Paparazzi” consist of the ubiquitous shutterbug, but, more importantly, it’s the anthem for the individual style in each and every one of us all. “Garage glamorous” and “plastic”, we’re still fucking fantastic.

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