There’s only one person in the world who could tweet a link about Lady Gaga…and I’d follow the link.
That person, for the record, is @jonnodotcom, formerly of the usually-not-worth-linking-to-since-he-left website Fleshbot.
Suffice it to say, Jonno’s link-fu is very strong.
Now, about Lady Gaga. My distance from popular music is so vast, I literally didn’t know who she was until the boys (and men, most of them are indeed old enough to know better) in my internet spaceship game started buzzing about the rumor that somebody called Lady Gaga supposedly had a penis. I was two parts “obvious dumb internet rumor”, two parts “you give a shit why, exactly?” and one part “Who da fuck is Lady Gaga? What did she do, eat Queen’s radio?” (That last turns out to have been the closest thing to a smart question I have ever asked about popular music. Even a stopped, sarcastic clock is right twice a day, eh?)
“Perhaps uniquely among all journalists in the world, I can now factually confirm that Lady Gaga does not have a penis.”
Being something of a nerd on the question of evolving media forms, this struck me as interesting for one reason, and one reason only. Was Jonno really saying that a dumb internet rumor got demolished by that fucked-and-vanishing breed, the old-school journalist? This, I had to see.
And lo, he was indeed saying that. This is the sort of journalism for which combat medals used to be awarded:
A minute later, Gaga springs up, and beckons for me to follow her. Weaving her way down a series of corridors, we eventually end in – the VIP toilet.
“You’re wearing a jumpsuit,” Gaga says, with feminine solidarity. “You can’t get out of one of those in the normal toilets.”
As I start to arduously unzip, Gaga sits on the toilet with a cheerful, “I’m just going to pee through my fishnets!”, and offloads some of those whiskies.
For the first year of her career, massive internet rumours claimed that Gaga was, in fact, a man – a rumour so strong that Oprah had to question her about it, when Gaga appeared on her show.
Perhaps uniquely among all the journalists in the world, I can now factually confirm that Lady Gaga does not have a penis. That rumour can, conclusively, die.
To be honest, though, I was far more amused by the helpful “it’s for fucking” explanations of an unnamed German member of LG’s entourage:
“It’s, like, a sex party,” Gaga explains. “You know – like in Eyes Wide Shut? All I can say is, I am not responsible for what happens next. And wear a condom.”
As we take the alleyway to the sex club, security men appear and close it off with giant, blacked-out gates.
The club – the Lab.Oratory – is an industrial, maze-like building. To get to the dancefloor, you have to pass a series of tiny, cell-like booths, decked out with a selection of beds, bathtubs, hoists and chains.
“For f***ing,” a German member of our entourage explains – both helpfully, and somewhat unnecessarily.
Despite the undoubted and extreme novelty of such a venue, Adrian – Gaga’s British press officer – and I give away our nationalities instantly when we comment, excitedly, “Oh my God! You can SMOKE in here.” It seems a far more thrilling prospect than… some bumming.
It’s a small entourage – Gaga, me, Adrian, her make-up artist, her security guy, and maybe two others. We walk on to the small dancefloor, in a club filled with drag queens, lesbians dressed as sailors, boys in tight T-shirts, girls in black leather. The music is pounding. There is a gigantic harness hanging over the bar. “For f***ing,” the same German says again, helpfully.
“I really love a dingy, pissy bar,” Gaga says. “I’m really old-school that way.”
We go into an alcove with a wipe-clean banquette – “For the f***ing!” the German says, again – and set up camp.