When most 23 year-olds claim to have had a good year, “good year” usually means a college graduation, a blooming engagement or gainful employment that doesn’t involve phrases like “sweater vest” ,”deep fryer”, and “temp agency”.  With epic record sales, roof-shattering concerts, and admiration from even Barbra Walters, saying Lady Gaga had a “good year” is like saying Bernie Madoff had a bad one.   This success was celebrated Saturday night at the 2010 Grammys, where she not only bagged two awards, but opened the show with a stunning signature production. 

For reasons unbeknownst to even myself, I’ve made it my personal mission to point out Lady Gaga’s true artistic merit at every possible turn.  This tends to shock, as I typically lean more towards Radiohead than radio-friendly. 

“She’s a classically trained pianist,” I remarked to my horrified friends as she staggered around the stage of Radio City Music Hall, blood gouging from her abdomen.  “She writes her own songs,” I told my parents, as Lady G. jumped into a flame-spitting incinerator to emerge with faux burn marks during Saturday’s performance.  “She’s a genius.”  I say the last statement on a regular basis to anyone who will listen.  Most people don’t.  I repeat it anyway. 

Her success has spurned as much criticism as controversy, but there’s a lot to like about Lady Gaga.  If her “colorful” and “unique” wardrobe doesn’t quite do it for you, consider her advocacy for gay rights, or her industry-snubbing determination to sing her live shows, well, live.  She’s an accomplished vocalist, song-writer, as well as musician, and her electro-pop-infused tracks are infectious enough to make even Fred Phelps tap his foot, and by tap his foot, I clearly mean condemn Lady Gaga and her legions of fans to hell.  In my book, pushing Fred Phelps closer to his inevitable fate as a victim of a rage-fueled spontaneous combustion episode automatically earns you a point in the “You’re pretty swell” category.   

After a re-worked rendition of “Poker Face” and smokin’ dance number (literally. there was fire.), Lady G. took the stage with Sir Elton John, the pair sitting down to dueling pianos.  Teacher to student, old school to new school.  Just a couple of bad-ass, ivory-tickling, glamour-loving poster children of pop music (and extravagant eye-wear). 

“What is she doing?” my mother asked the television, assuming Gaga had abruptly chucked bodily fluids or a hand grenade into the audience.  I shrugged, looking closer. What Lady had thrown was revealed not to be a vile of blood, a litter of kittens or pair of fuzzy handcuffs.  She had simply tossed aside her mask-like sunglasses (a signature wardrobe fixture) as she exchanged stanzas with Sir Elton. Eyes wide with child-like wonder, smile stretched across her face as she gazed at the rock n’ roll legend in front of her, one got the impression that Lady Gaga isn’t just a dolled up attention junkie, a glittering dance queen, or even a genius.  Lady Gaga is actually a human being. 

“Well, that was nice.” My mother conceded as Lady and Elton John took their respective bows. 

Lady Gaga the character, the cartoon, the goddess of all things holy and funkified.  She’s lightning.  She’s theatre.  And don’t let the glitter fool you – she knows exactly what she’s doing.  But I’m looking forward to the day Lady Gaga sets aside the sunglasses, the flames and ridiculously buff back-up dancers for a piano and an empty stage. After Saturday’s performance, I’m convinced that’s all she really needs.

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