Lady Gaga’s “Hair”: Be Yourself — Wait, No! Try to Impress Your Friends!

Here we go with another Lady Gaga song geared toward her young teenage fans. Written, apparently, from the perspective of her teenage self, upset about her parents’ refusal to allow her to style her hair in the way that she wants or something, “Hair” serves as the one and only promotional single from the seemingly leak-proof “Born This Way” album (“Edge of Glory” is now the third single after “Judas”).

RedOne’s production is sparkling, and the melody to the chorus is truly good and could have served as the keystone to a fantastic song with a liberating feel.

When I first heard the song, Gaga’s mediocre diction made it difficult to understand the theme of the song. What initially stuck out were the typical lowest-common-denominator injunctions to “be yourself,” cherish your identity — whatever that means — and so forth. But by the third listen, I was struck by how much of the song was actually about wanting to impress others. In both the first and second verse, Gaga sings that she specifically wanted to style her hair so that she could look cool in front of her friends; in the bridge, she yearns to be invited to the hottest parties.

I can’t imagine anyone over the age of 16 feeling like they relate to this song. The chorus nearly rescues it, but the lyrics, as with “Born This Way,” render it sterile and frustrating. I suppose that Gaga is telling the truth when she says that she writes (the bulk of) her own lyrics: almost every song from this era has contained its share of mind-numbingly bad lyrics.

I didn’t expect to enjoy this song, however; I was pleasantly surprised at how melodic it ended up being and can at least enjoy it on that level. RedOne seldom disappoints on that count (and if anyone thinks that Gaga is the one responsible for the sweeping melodies, just check out RedOne’s work with other artists to put that deluded notion to rest). It’s a shame that there’s only one RedOne track left to hear from the album. The rest come to us almost entirely from Fernando Garibay and DJ White Shadow, who aren’t quite as good.

We’ll have the whole album in two days, when it’s streamed for the UK’s Metro. It’s been an astounding, mind-boggling coup for Interscope to keep this album under lock and key. The team responsible for that should be commended. It’s less than two days until the authorized release of the audio and there isn’t a trace of a leak. Unbelievable.

Overall grade for Hair: B-

Grade for the chorus to Hair: A-

Grade for Interscope’s professionalism: A

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14 Comments

  1. Drew
    Posted May 16, 2011 at 5:24 pm | Permalink | Reply

    Please get a life! The fact that someone would develop a lengthy website full of false facts because they are a pressed Britney stan who lives their whole life pretending there is a “stan war” is PATHETIC, to say the least.

    • Posted May 16, 2011 at 5:26 pm | Permalink | Reply

      U mad?

      • Little Monster Regina
        Posted May 16, 2011 at 8:04 pm | Permalink | Reply

        He is mad. Ignore him, Alex. He is jealous of your beautiful Hair. Silly Non-Monsters! Gun ’em down.

  2. Jules
    Posted May 16, 2011 at 5:50 pm | Permalink | Reply

    THERE IS A STAN WAR!!! RIHANNA NAVY, WHERE ARE YOU?!!! Lol jk.

    • Little Monster Regina
      Posted May 16, 2011 at 8:10 pm | Permalink | Reply

      Jules, my dear,
      Get Out.
      Ghttp://i53.tinypic.com/1zgcgb5.gif

  3. CCCC
    Posted May 16, 2011 at 6:34 pm | Permalink | Reply

    “I just want to be free, I just want to be me
    And I want lots of friends that invite me to their parties

    I don’t wanna change,
    And I don’t wanna be ashamed”

    all i can say is that the song is rather confusing. she says she wants to have cool hair so she can be invited to parties, but then says she doesn’t want to be ashamed. to me, changing yourself to be cool on other’s standards = being ashamed of who you are.
    and I don’t really care what anyone says, the lyrics are shit. “I’m my hair, I am my hair
    It’s all the glory that I bare” really??? I remember a while back she said she was one of the best lyrcist right now. what? her stuff reads very awkward, forced, and dull. i mean the lyrics are just..no..no.

    • Little Monster Regina
      Posted May 16, 2011 at 7:54 pm | Permalink | Reply

      I bet you wear a weave, you heathenful non-Monster.
      – Flips little Monster Hair –
      Don’t be sad just ’cause you’re bald.

    • Miguel
      Posted February 26, 2012 at 11:49 am | Permalink | Reply

      She’s the most hypocrite person ever. She says “I don’t wanna change”, but she created this eccentric look to impress the media, cos when she was being herself with no make up and brunette hair she wasn’t getting any attention. So she had to create this character to be famous. If that’s not changing and betraying who you are then I don’t know what it is. Her hair, her clothes, her make up, is just an act, cos I don’t think she was “born that way”. She so false.

  4. Little Monster Regina
    Posted May 16, 2011 at 6:44 pm | Permalink | Reply

    Kudos to Interscope for keeping Mother Monster’s album under sealed wraps

    IN YO FACE, HOPEFUL-FOR-BORN-THIS-WAY-LEAKING-AND-LOW-SALES-BRITNEY-FANS

  5. Little Monster Regina
    Posted May 16, 2011 at 8:06 pm | Permalink | Reply

    I had to smack a Non-Monster’s face off yesterday for being rude about Mother Monster’s suggestive crotch.

  6. LadyBritBrit
    Posted May 17, 2011 at 2:28 am | Permalink | Reply

    LOL
    songs called Hair never have the best lyrics!

  7. LadyBritBrit
    Posted May 17, 2011 at 3:26 am | Permalink | Reply

    I like the guitar thing she wasn’t lying about that, Judas is the best thing out of this era for me though…and I’d cut two parts of the song out (Jude-ass, Offenced)

  8. Chokablok
    Posted May 17, 2011 at 10:32 am | Permalink | Reply

    It’s an upbeat song, and I really love the little bouncy tune before the second chorus line.

  9. Celebcrashfic
    Posted May 17, 2011 at 7:22 pm | Permalink | Reply

    Fic Name: The Memorials
    Summary: Nicki Minaj is beautiful, unscrupulous, and has a large wardrobe of pink designer suits. With the help of Newspaper announcements pages she gatecrashes the funerals and memorial services of the wealthy, preying on rich, vulnerable celebrities. She charms her way into their lives and onto their Gold credit cards, takes what she can, and then moves swiftly on.
    When Britney Spears, a famous but traumatized Music Artist, meets Nicki at one of her ex-Husbands’ memorial service, she’s bowled over. Gradually Nicki works her spell on Britney’s family and friends – transforming their lives while she moves in on their assets. She finds herself lingering longer than she meant to, becoming involved in their careers and problems – but as Nicki rifles through Britney’s files, it becomes clear she is not the only one after her Money.

    ONE

    Nicki Minaj wrinkled her nose. She bit her lip, and put her head on one side, and gazed at her reflection silently for a few sections. Then she gave a gurgle of laughter.
    “I still can’t decide,” she exclaimed. “They’re all gorgeous.”
    The saleswoman from Take Hat! exchanged weary glances with the nervous young hairdresser sitting on a gilt stool in the corner. The hairdresser had arrived at Nicki’s hotel suite half an hour ago and had been waiting to start ever since. The saleswoman was meanwhile beginning to wonder if she was wasting her time completely.
    “I love this one with the veil,” said Nicki suddenly, reaching for a tiny creation of black satin and wispy netting. “Isn’t it elegant?”
    “Very elegant,” said the saleswoman. She hurried forward just in time to catch a black silk topper which Nicki was discarding to the floor.
    “Very,” echoed the hairdresser in the corner. He glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be back in the salon in forty minutes. Trevor wouldn’t be pleased. Perhaps he should phone down to explain the situation. Perhaps…
    “All right!” said Nicki. “I’ve decided.” She pushed up the veil and beamed around the room. “I’m going to wear this one today.”
    “A very wise choice, Madam,” said the saleswoman in relieved tones. “It’s a lovely Hat.”
    “Lovely,” whispered the Hairdresser.
    “So if you could just pack the other five into boxes for me…” Nicki smiled mysteriously at her reflection and pulled the hot pink silk gauze down over her face again. The saleswoman gaped at her.
    “You’re going to buy them all?”
    “Of course! I can’t choose between them. They’re all too perfect.” Nicki turned to the Hairdresser. “Now, my hunk. Can you come up with something special for my hair which will go under this hat?”
    The man stared back at her and felt a dark pink colour begin to rise up his neck.
    “Oh. Yes, I should think so. I mean…”
    But Nicki had already turned away.
    “If you could just put it all on my Hotel bill,” she was saying to the saleswoman. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
    “Perfectly all right, Madam,” said the saleswoman eagerly. “As a guest of the Hotel, you’re entitled to a fifteen percent concession on all our prices.”
    “Whatever,” said Nicki. She gave a little yawn. “As long as it can all go on the bill.”
    “I’ll go and sort it out for you straight away.”
    “Good,” said Nicki. As the saleswoman hurried out of the room, she turned and gave the Hairdresser a ravishing smile. “I’m all yours.”
    Her voice was deep and melodious and almost accentless. To the Hairdresser’s ears it was now also faintly mocking, and he flushes as he came over to where Nicki was sitting. He stood behind her, gathered together the ends of her hair in one hand and let them fall down in a heavy, deep black movement.
    “Your hair’s in very good condition,” he said awkwardly.
    “Isn’t it just lovely?” said Nicki complacently. “I’ve always had good hair. And good skin too, of course.” She titled her head, pushed her hotel robe aside slightly, and rubbed her cheek tenderly against the dark, rich skin of her shoulder. “How old would you say I was?” she added abruptly.
    “I don’t….I wouldn’t…” the young man began to flounder.
    “I’m twenty-six,” she said lazily. She closed her eyes. “Twenty-six,” she repeated, as though meditating.
    “You don’t really look…” stuttered the Hairdresser. Nicki opened one glinting, dark brown eye.
    “I don’t look twenty-six? How old do I look, then?”
    The hairdresser stared back at her uncomfortably. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. The truth was, he thought, that this woman didn’t look any age. She seemed ageless, classless, indefinable. As he met her eyes he felt a dart run through him, as if this moment was somehow significant. His hands trembling slightly, he reached for her hair and let it run through his fingers like slippery black flames.
    “You look as old as you look,” he whispered huskily. “Numbers don’t come into it.”
    “Sweet,” said Nicki dissmissively. “Now, my pet, before you get started on my hair, how about ordering me a nice glass of champagne?”
    The hairdresser’s fingers drooped in slight dissapointment, and he went obediently over to the phone. As he dialled, the door opened and the Take Hat! saleswoman came back in, carrying a pile of Hat boxes. “He we are,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “If you could just sign here…”
    “A glass of champagne, please,” the hairdresser was saying. “Room 301.”
    “I was wondering,” began the saleswoman cautiously to Nicki. “You’re quite sure that you want all six hats in pink? We do have some other super colours this season.” She tapped her teeth thoughtfully. “There’s a lovely emerald green hat that would look stunning with your hair…”
    “Pink,” said Nicki decisively. “I’m only interested in pink.”

    An hour later, Nicki looked at herself in the mirror, smiled and nodded. She was dressed in a simple pink suit which had been cut to fit her figure precisely. Her legs shimmered in pale pink stockings; her feet were unobtrusive in discreet pink heels. Her hair had been smoothed into exemplary waves, on which the little pink hat sat to perfection.
    The only hint of darkness about her figure was a glimpse of steel-grey underneath her jacket. It was Nicki’s rule always to wear some dark no matter how bright the outfit or the occasion. With the rest of her body draped in obtrusive pink, a tiny splash of grey or black would draw eyes towards her even more than just her out-of-place clothing. People would notice her but wouldn’t be quite sure why. Which was just as she liked it.
    Still watching her reflection, Nicki pulled the gauzy veil down over her face. The smug expression dissapeared from her face, to be replaced by one of grave, inscrutable sadness. For a few moments she stared silently at herself. She picked up her pink leather bag and held it soberly by her side. She nodded slowly a few times, noticing how the veil cast hazy, mysterious shadows over her face.
    Then suddenly, the phone rang and she sprang back into life.
    “Hello?”
    “Nicki, where have you been? I have tried to call you,” the heavy Israeli accent was unmistakable. A frown of irritation creased Nicki’s face.
    “Avi! Sweetheart, I’m in a bit of a hurry…”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Nowhere. Just shopping.”
    “Why do you need to shop? I bought you clothes in Paris.”
    “I know you did, darling. But I wanted to surprise you with something new for this evening.” Her voice rippled with coniving affection down the phone. “Something crazy, sexy…” As she spoke, she had sudden inspiration. “And you know, Avi,” she added carefully. “I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be a good idea to pay in cash, so that I get a good price. I can draw money out from the Hotel, can’t I? On your account?”
    “A certain amount. Up to ten thousand pounds, I think.”
    “I won’t need nearly that much!” Nicki’s voice bubbled over with amusement. “I only want one outfit. Five hundred maximum.”
    “And when you have bought it, you will return straight to the hotel.”
    “Of course, sweetheart.”
    “There is no of course. This time, Nicki, you must not be late. Do you understand? You-must-not-be-late.” The words were barked out like a military order and Nicki flinched silently in annoyance. “It is quite clear. Leon will pick you up at three o’ clock. Our guests will arrive at seven o’ clock. You must be ready to greet them. I do not want you to be late like last time. It was…it was unseemly. Are you listening? Nicki?”
    “Of course I’m listening!” said Nicki. “But there’s someone knocking at the door. I’ll just go and see who it is…” she waited a couple of seconds, then firmly replaced the receiver. A moment later, she picked it up again.
    “Hello? Could you send someone up for my luggage, please?”
    Downstairs, the hotel lobby was calm and tranquil. The saleswoman from Take Hat! saw Nicki walking past the boutique, and gave a little wave, but Nicki ignored her.
    “I’d like to check out,” she said, as soon as she got to the reception desk. “And to make a withdrawal of money. The account is in the name of Avi Arad.”
    “Ah, yes,” the blonde receptionist tapped briefly at her computer, then looked up and smiled at her. “How much money would you like?”
    Nicki beamed back at her.
    “Ten thousand pounds. And could you order me two taxis?” The receptionist looked up in surprise.
    “Two?”
    “One for me, one for my luggage. My luggage is going to Chelsea.” Nicki lowered her eyes beneath her veil. “I’m going to a memorial serive.”
    “Oh dear, I am sorry,” said the receptionist, handing Nicki several pages of hotel bill. “Someone close to you?”
    “Not yet,” sighed Nicki, signing to bill without bothering to check it. She watched as the cashier counted thick wads of money into two envelopes, then tenderly took them both, placed them in her leather bag and snapped it shut. “But you never know.”

    Britney Spears sat in the front pew of St Anslem’s Church with her eyes closed, listening to the sounds of people filling the church – muted whisperings and shufflings, the tapping of heels on the tiled floor, and “Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring” being played softly on the Organ.
    She had always hated “Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring”; it had been the suggestion of the Organist at their meeting three weeks previously, after it had become apparent that Britney could not name a single piece of organ Music of which Kevin had been particularly fond. There had been a slightly embarassed silence as Britney vainly racked her brains, then the organist had tactfully murmured, “”Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring” is always very popular…” and Britney had agreed in hasty relief.
    Now she gave a frown. Surely she could have thought of something more personal than that turgid, over-popular tune? Kevin had certainly been a Music lover while Britney was with him, always going to concerts and recitals when his health allowed it. All those years ago, had he never once turned to Britney and said “I love this piece, don’t you?”
    She screwed up her eyes and tried to remember. But the only vision that came to her was Kevin lying in bed, slow and drifting away, but still uncomplaining. Despite the stress that came from her marriage to Kevin, a spasm of guilty regret ran through Britney. Why had she never asked him what his favourite piece of Music was? In those two years, she had never asked him. It wasn’t like he passed on straight afterwards. All those leftover years after the breakup, she could have popped round and asked. And now it was too late. And now she would never ever know.
    She rubbed her forhead wearily, and looked down at the engraved order of service on her lap. The words stared back up at her. “Service of Memorial and Thanksgiving for the Life of Kevin Earl Federline”. Simple black lettering, plain white card. Would Kevin have liked that? She hoped he would have.
    It had taken Britney only one month of Marrigage to Kevin realize that she didn’t know him very well, and just one year for her to realize that she never would. At the beginning, his almost serene bad-boyness had been part of his appeal, along with his large, bearish face and the bulky figure which he kept almost as resolutely hidden as he did his innermost thoughts. The more he had kept himself hidden, the more tantalized Britney had become; she had approached their wedding day with a longing bordering on desperation. At last, she thought, she and Kevin would be able to reveal their secret selves to eachother. She had yearned to explore not only his body but his mind; his person, to discover his most intimate fears and dreams; to become his lifelong soulmate.
    Britney closed her eyes and remembered what happened after their wedding. She remembered those first, tingling seconds as the door shut and she was truly alone with her Husband for the first time in their posh Hotel suite. She’d gazed at him as he blinked a few times in the mirror, sponging some wine ofi his coat. The moment seemed to last forever. Britney was sure that Kevin was teasing her – that it was a game, and any minute now he would let her rush into his arms and it would be a fairytale romance. But he didn’t. He ignored her.
    As the Marriage went on, Britney constantly tried to break the barriers, to spark a more powerful reaction. The first time she attempted it, she’d been met by comprehension, then, as she grew more strident, by an almost frightened resistance.
    Eventually she’d given up trying. And gradually, almost without her realizing, her own love for him had begun to change character. Over the months, her emotions had stopped pounding at the surface of her soul like a hot, wet tidal wave and had receeded and solidified into something blank and dry and sensible. And Britney, too, had become blank and dry and sensible. She’d learnt to keep her own counsel, to gather her thoughts disspassionately and say only half of what she was really thinking. She’d learnt to smile when she wanted to beam, to click her tongue when she wanted to scream in frustration; to restrain herself and her foolish thoughts as much as possible.
    Now, waiting for his memorial serive to begin, she blessed Kevin for those lessons in self-restraint. Because if it hadn’t been for her ability to keep herself in check, the hot, guilty tears which bubbled at the back of her eyes would have now been coursing uncontrollably down her cheeks, and the slim hands which calmly held her order of service would have been clasped over her contorted face, and she would have been swept away by a desperate immoderate grief.

    To be continued…

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