Album Review, “The Fame Monster (Deluxe Edition)” by Lady Gaga
It’s not okay. While listening to the music my mind is going in different circles and there’s less room for error. But, what’s to expect of a “monster”? The album speaks in modes of procrastination that young people may find attractive; from hearing a tune, you’re pulled into a chaotic world of fashion for rehearsing and perhaps singing to. Voices can be hard to make out. Perpetuity gets involved, concerning her greatness in exaggeration even during really noticeable popularity. She’s very much in isolation to her own terms- somehow, it’s believed by her that meaning and feeling become connection factors in talk and dispute although we’re sure to give an ear on some bursting thuds of sound. Also, it does get irritating when we have to constantly get “new” earphones! Quality is so bad on some electronics that they were never exactly new out of the box. Listeners may have to “test” their equipment: electricity, wires, and questionable devices. Doesn’t it seem like Lady Gaga’s best music only comes up at the end of a song? It just feels like it to me occasionally. Dancing to her music is possible for a lunatic because, for normal guys like me (and the rest of my family) we’re not going to twitch and prance over lyrics covering nudity and porn. Often I find myself paralyzed as she begins to be speechless in expression; in fact, she might not even believe in herself so much- “nobody’s perfect”. (Can we include Gaga with that cliche?) My personal tastes vary. Too many girls wonder so much about “boys” in my estimation at focus for concern. The album’s photograph is easier on the head due to the objective material in photography. With a photo, we’re just given the object and not all of that racket from looking at the mysterious gaze. Cards can be drawn over her conduct in terms of shadows, shades, and faces. Gearing up for the album takes some getting used to and, even then, I’m usually perking in ears towards the gothic music like a stranger interested in female clowns. Obstacles in the way prove the source- by listening to the music, we’re engaged under imbalanced modes of relaxation until the sense of rocking can’t flow within easy grasp. (Try typing all the lyrics by memory while dancing at the same time.) There’s bright points of reference to the maniac’s work. Perhaps, with enough guts, we can take it all in on the same burning passion she has against herself, and, from referring to ourselves, quit the scene and forget the past.
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