“You wanna hit this?” The pre-teen girl next to me said this without a trace of irony in her voice. My first thought was to ask if she was a cop, and but only a silent ellipsis spilled out of my mouth. “It has *sparkles*,” she said waving around a tube of lip gloss. I politely declined and tried to mask my horror with a weak smile and I realized going to a Lady GaGa show isn’t going to a show at all. It is going to another planet.
The giggly crowd of little monsters of all genders and ages were dressed to the hilt. Fishnets, face paint, fake blood, five-inch heels, neon leotards and wigs-and that was just on one person! This crowd wasn’t coming to see a show; they were here to worship at the altar of GaGa.
But the crowd was thrown a curveball with opener Semi Precious Weapons. GaGa is MTV-approved and couture and frenzy-ready. What most people don’t realize is she’s been doing this for a long time. She started in dirty clubs in NYC opening for god-knows-who, testing various personas and honing what is now a media icon. And I give her props for picking SPW, because they are exactly at that newborn level of self-exploration. Only they get to cut their teeth in arenas. With a back drop of four champagne bottles (each with one of the members’ faces), these guys took glam, rolled it in coke, gave it a spanking and swigged it down with swagger. If anything, the space was too big for them. From the opening line “I can’t pay my rent but I’m fucking gorgeous,” this is a band that should be seen in a hot sweaty club where the crowd gets rowdy and the band rowdier.
Frontman Justin Tranter stomped around the stage, called us all bitches, reminded us that they were from "mother-fucking New York City" and extend the well-wish of "We hope you all get laid.” Which the crowd….observed. Pretty safe to say they didn’t see SPW coming, and as they likely didn’t spend time in blood-stained clubs and bathrooms smelling of vomit, their raw beauty was a little lost. Bassist Cole Whittle looked like Adrian from No Doubt except even more feral. With tinges of Hedwig, Justin stripped down as the set went on, eventually throwing a few shirts, cds, and the very necklace he was wearing to the crowd. The best response they got was when they embraced the crowd to share a "We say Lady, you say GaGa" chant.
But who else would open for her? As the evening went on, it was clear that we were in her world, from the time they scanned the tickets until fans were repeatedly ushered out by security long after the house lights went up. GaGa’s show was like a Vegas act on steroids, a GaGa in Wonderland-type adventure that happened to have her songs, dancing and chatter along the way. The Monster Ball tour is the story of Lady GaGa and her friends attempting to find the Monster Ball and their tribulations along the way. Sure, every line, step and costume was planned to a tee, but as a theory of show, it was fun to just watch it unfold. With multiple set changes (and twice as many costume changes), she kept the hits coming, along with the spectacles. Wearing a headdress that expanded and retracted of its own accord, she was lifted on a platform and evoked some form of good witch/ice princess. Later, as her posse was lost in the woods, she was torn apart and bloodied but danced her way up to the eternal fountain and doused herself in the blood it was pouring out. It was a nightmare-ishly great moment when she finally confronted the Fame Monster (a gigantic fish-headed tentacle beast with glowing eyes and teeth) while singing “Paparazzi.” I did wonder if some of the kids in the audience would be scarred for life by their idol being eaten alive, but by that point they’d already been called "fucking bitches," heard about GaGa’s "drunk asshole" of a father and been educated to the fact that GaGa had heard "Portland has great cocks." But Portland has a secret cult of drunk Santas, so these kids were probably fine. They did get a lot of pep talks from GaGa:about being yourself, embracing your own freak bitch, and never compromising and taking crap from ignorant people. If Martin Luther King, Jr. ever put on a strip show during a speech, it would evoke a similar mix of emotions.
The curtain closed with the monster apparently enjoying a GaGa-flavored treat, and the crowd went wild. The final song, “Bad Romance,” brought GaGa back to life, dressed in silver, and in the center of revolving concentric circles she announced that we had all finally made it to the Monster Ball.
It felt a little bizarre, to have the Monster Ball only show at the final five minutes of the show. But GaGa lives in the moment, and a two hour set at the Ball wouldn’t have allowed us to take the journey with her. This way, we got to see her confused, vulnerable, strong, feisty, scared and crass and finally, the icon.