The past two weeks Rocks Off has been driving around Houston with only one disc in his car to listen to. It makes us feel like a billion damned dollars without fail, and can make any banal drive home after the bar feel like even more of a sexy adventure than it already is.
It's not Motorhead, it's not Danzig. It's not Judas Priest, nor is it Slayer. It's motherfunking Lady Gaga.
We will fight for that weird little lady anytime anywhere now. She's our new cause celebre, if we are even allowed to have one. If it makes it any worse, it's an eight-track hits disc we made of our favorite songs culled from her two albums. Suck it, Ben Gibbard.
The other day, on the tenth spin of her "Poker Face" while we were on I-10, we starting feeling something bubble up, and it wasn't that last taco or the last cocktail saying hello. Something started moving inside that we haven't felt in years. We got the same surge out of "Poker Face" that we still get from any number of Misfits songs.
It's all kindergarten simple, and the lyrics are endlessly quotable, even when they remind us of drunken girls talking while in line for the bathroom. "Love Game" has some of the worst lyrics since Owl City's "Fireflies" but that doesn't stop from turning it up when we light up our cigarette off Waugh.
We Believe Local Journalism is Critical to the Life of a City
Support Our Journalism
"I'm a free bitch, baby"? We couldn't get down with that sentiment more if we tried and it's liberating to yell too at any point during the day. Isn't that what the Tea Party people cry about? We all wanna be free bitches, it's just that some of know how to convey with more aggression. Who was the last valid artist you remember who inspired costume contests and a whole scene of girls grabbing fashion by its throat. Jenny Lewis isn't doing it. M.I.A is the only other female artist we can thank of who can do it quite honestly.
We aren't even sure what brought this on. We aren't doing anything different intake wise, haven't taken up the pipe or the powder. We still like the women, and we aren't planning on changing the plumbing downstairs. You haven't lived until you have peeled out of your own driveway, or anywhere, until you have while the opening pounding drums of "Bad Romance" rumbles the rivets off your jeans.
We aren't alone either, seeing that plenty of the "people who should know better" in the Houston music scene agree. Gaga is what would happen if you poured a hot cup of Marilyn Manson from 1997 on Bjork at any point in her career except for the Dancer In The Dark era. At her worst she's just Peaches with a shit-ton of major label backing, but we are more than OK with both.
It's big and stupid, the way we like music served up sometimes. Sometimes music doesn't need to be good for your soul, or whatever the hell the elite want to tell you that will make them feel better about not smiling nonstop when they hear their favorite song. That's why there are six old empty bags of Jack In the Box in your backseat and not ten rotting apple cores. So rock in with your Sad Bastard Music selves and keep acting like you don't feel the heat coming off this garbage.