[19] Lady GaGa featuring Colby O’Donis, ‘Just Dance’

I suppose it’s Lady GaGa’s year. Not that I’ve been completely suckered, but there’s something refreshing about how her slavishly marketed, focus-grouped quirks buck the system and… Oh, I see. Still, in the current climate she looks like a one-off and she’s not conventionally attractive, nor does she seems to give much of a hoot what she says – so if this is the new breed of major label diva, make mine a small one with a flaming bra.

Sorry, the music. For songs that have been battered to death every day for the full 365, GaGa’s singles hold up admirably (must be the flaming bra), but original breakthrough “Just Dance” is the one. It has flow and – what shall we call them? – STENTORIAN synths. Junior prefers ‘Paparazzi’, but is delighted we’re playing GaGa at all. “I LOVE Lady GaGa,” she gasps, and gazes adoringly at her blank, sunglassed visage.

Just day-ance:

Lady GaGa, ‘Paparazzi’

Lady GaGa

In some cold sense, Lady GaGa is a fantastic pop star – all glitz and Vegas glamour, ever-changing, seemingly personality-free – yet it’s those very things that make her one big nothing. In my shady day job as editor of a horrifyingly mainstream music site, GaGa is a godsend. She’s full of juicy quotes, decked out in a new flesh-flashing doily every day, selling phenomenal amounts of records and it’s all so… so… boring.

On the other hand, she put on a sterling if robotic show at Glastonbury and ‘Just Dance’, ‘Poker Face’ and ‘Paparazzi’ are the sort of ear-worms that The Saturdays, say, would kill for. I’ve gone with the third single here because – hey! – it’s recent and we’re nothing if not bleeding-edge. ‘Paparazzi’ is a huge great clunking metaphor for slavish empty adoration; just the kind GaGa needs for these 15 minutes.

Is Junior her biggest fan? She shuffles in her seat as she takes the standard eon to eat her cornflakes, but in the end the song merits a shrug. I try to fire some debate: “Do you know what ‘Paparazzi’ means?” “Morris has got one.” Her friend Morris calls his dad “Papa”, you see. Maybe he’s seen him sneak off into the night with his Canon, in hot pursuit of a mini-Madonna in a bubble dress. It’s a living.

Snap snap to that shit on the radio: