Allez Alejandro

And so the blessed event finally occurred and yesterday and the world stopped to view the christening of Lady Gaga's spectular monstrosity that is the video for "Alejandro". It's no secret that I unabashedly adore Gag's latest single. The track shamelessly rides on the same melody of Ace of Base's "Don't Turn Around" to terrific effect for an air of nostalgia that feels contradictorily fresh. The hook swells to such ecstatic heights of superficial passion and operatic desire that the sounds seem to blow across the dance floor like a Latin wind.

Which is perhaps what makes the collaboration of Gaga and Steven Klein so bizarre. The amorous disco-pop "Alejandro" recalls sweaty dancing and beaches, maybe some cliffs near the ocean, exotic fruits perhaps. But no where do I conjure notions of an industrial leather daddy gestapo squad ravage me with blasphemous Magdalenic symbolism abounding. This isn't to say that the "Alejandro" video isn't fantastic, just not what we were all probably expecting. The video feels like a strange marriage of Madonna's early '90s industrial glamour combined with the unaffected fascism and emotional depravity of Liliana Cavani's 1974 film, "Il Portiere de Notte." But when Gaga is involved, if we're honest with ourselves, what can really be expected? I felt underwhelmed for probably the first four minutes or so of the video until she finally emerged from the breakdown in an almost professional looking outfit that screams of Madonna's video for "Vogue," and the music swells and there are machine guns on her tits. Never underestimate the strength of superior firepower.

In short, this...



plus this...




equals this.