GAGA EFFECT: REDEMPTION, ACCEPTANCE

Gaga Effect?

I remember friends from junior high who seemed on a different path than the rest of us.

They showed up for a year or two, made best friends with everyone, and held hands with a boy who looked perfect with them.

Then they left. Something happened and they packed up and headed out of town. Parents transferred to the next job in the next town on their way to the top; they moved to improve their health; a single parent got married, or married person got single.

I remember them because there isn’t a lot to remember. No high school dances, no graduation marches, no going away party. Just gone. So why do their memories remain?

I think I know: It’s the Lady Gaga Effect, or the Gagaffect. Still working on the name. Any help?

The Gaga Effect goes like this:

Junior High or Middle School is the right time because everyone was growing bigger and stronger and the smart kids were beginning to separate from the rest of us.

It’s a common time frame to reference how life is turning out so far.

The Gaga Effect kicks in when I remember saying good bye to friends I knew I’d never see again. We looked at each other as junior high students, but there was some redemption going on.

New friends broke the idea that everyone would grow up just like their mom and dad, just like big brother, and it was their job to whip younger kids into shape.

Saying good bye the first time formed a bond. Whether we were lab partners, or teammates, or neighbors, I remember feeling I needed to up my game if I wanted to represent properly. In case we did meet again, I wanted them to be proud of knowing me.

The same redemption and acceptance of saying good bye to a best friend in junior high showed on Lada Gaga’s face last night at the Oscars.

The Great Gaga started Shallow standing while Bradley Cooper channeled his inner Kris Kristofferson.

They’ve practiced this song, rehearsed it to death and brought it to life each time. Gaga uses it in her Vegas encore. She’s facing Cooper like a music teacher watching her pupil’s recital. Imagine the nerves of getting reviewed in that setting.

Cooper bumps a little on his high end and Gaga gives a nod that says, ‘This is why I do my best work alone.’ Then she puts a hand on her tummy in a Bad Romance claw before sliding to the piano bench for the second verse.

I stopped the video where the camera shoots behind Cooper’s right shoulder aiming at Gaga glowing in the piano’s reflection. Where I stopped her expression could say, ‘We’ve practiced this a million times boy, but don’t worry I’ll save us again, Bradley.’

She sang the second verse with a, ‘this is how we do it in Gaga Land,’ warm up before releasing her super power that seemed to surge before eruption.

The voice I hear from Gaga when she unleashes it all is one mocking memory.

Her upper range says, ‘Oh, you want remember me? Don’t worry, you will.’

She hit her notes, gave a hop, a chop, maybe a salute to Little Richard and Elton and Jerry Lee pounding the piano while singing with the power of the ages.

When I hear her full throated howl I wonder how she doesn’t explode. And she never does.

The Gaga Effect is contagious. It’s a hopeful good bye, a faithful memory for the future, and the drive to turn sadness into something special.

The Gaga Effect made me think of Kathy Goldsmith and Beth Moody.