"...Rodeo, Schmodeo....This Ain't Our First Gaga, You Know...."

Elvis, arguably, was the first.

The Beatles pulled it off nicely from time to time.

Madonna had a fair run at it.

But Gaga seems to have taken it to a whole new level.

Playing the game.

The game, in this instance, being defined as mastering the skill of flouting convention without being denied mainstream acceptance and/or success.

Fifty years ago, the elders were aghast, aghast I tell you, at the lip curling, pelvic gyrating antics of that morally corrupting boy from Memphis, Tennessee.

But he sold millions of albums, sold out hundreds of shows and had an across the age groups fan base numbering in the tens of millions that was unwavering in its loyalty right up to the day he died.

And still.

Forty years ago, the elders were aghast, aghast I tell you, at the long haired,chain smoking,foreign born foursome who had their tween daughters screaming themselves hoarse with the devil's own patented brand of backbeat before evolving into spokesmen for a generation that didn't want to be coerced into fighting a war they didn't believe in or be told there was anything wrong with wanting to enjoy tangerine trees and marmalade skies.

But they sold tens of millions of albums, sold out hundreds of shows and had an across age groups fan base numbering in the tens of millions that was unwavering in its loyalty right up to the day they broke up.

And still.

Thirty years ago, the elders were aghast, aghast I tell you, at the smarmy, borderline slutty antics of the girl from Detroit who had not only the gall to preach to her young followers about papas not preaching and enjoying the joy of new love as if it were virginity taken but compounded the offense by actually being named after one of religions more sacred charter members.

But she sold tens of millions of albums, sold out hundreds of shows and had an across the age groups fan base numbering in the tens of millions that was unwavering in its loyalty right up to the day she went from being like a virgin to being like a wife and mom.

And then there's Gaga.

The elders, right on cue and time, are aghast, aghast I tell you, at the over the top antics of this bizarrely cosmetically enhanced, sexually suggestive strutter who bleats of bad romance with a poker face while all the while berating those who belittle those who were born that way.

While selling tens of millions of albums, selling out hundreds of shows with an across the age groups fan base numbering in the tens of millions who are unwavering in their loyalty as they take her to the edge of glory.

Pop music, at least in the form of rock and roll, has always, at its heart, been about, in some measure, about shaking, rattling and rolling the foundation while not completely knocking down the pillars of society.

And, naysayers saying nay notwithstanding, so far, so good.

But each of the aforementioned pop pantheons share another, less discussed, talent.

The ability to inject the mainstream with a jolt of adrenalin without damaging its heart, creating chaos in the culture without crumbling its walls and doing all of it, not with the reckless abandon of raving revolutionaries, but the studied skill and panache of a plastic surgeon, putting the scalpel to the skin in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to simultaneously change the look, refresh the presentation and make everything old new again while never cutting so deep as to maim or mutilate.

Put simply, each of these cage rattlers knew, or know, exactly what they're doing.

Talented writers, singers, dancers?

Obviously.

But the hidden genius is in their ability to write, sing and/or dance all the while winking at the audience that shares the secret with them.

That it's all just a game.

And we all play it together.

And the best part?

You don't have to be all that hip to play.

Even Hillary gets it.

"...I Tend To Prefer A Different Flavor Of English Tea...Imagine That..."

First, a disclaimer.

If you are under the age of, say, forty, this piece is going to have very little relevance to your life.

Even less if you are under the age of twenty.

So, if you are pressed for time and have no particular interest in ploughing through what will very likely read to you as an arcane, bordering on anachronistic, assessment of a events that took place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, please know that no offense will be taken if you opt to jump off the page and move along with your day at the conclusion of the very next, and very short, paragraph.

Thanks for stopping by.

Tomorrow, John Lennon would have celebrated his seventy first birthday.

And like most birthdays, this one has the dual effect of reminding us there is cause for commemoration and/or celebration as well as reminding us that yet another year has rolled over on the meters of our own personal life taxis.

Made out of newspaper and appearing on the shore.

And, then, there's that whole "oh, Lord, here comes another twenty four hours, give or take, of not being able to swing a dead cat without hitting a TV or radio that is, has been, or is about to be, playing some or all of "Imagine".

Or, better or worse depending on your personal pop palate, "Birthday".

Yes, we're goin' to a party, party.

In 1963, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis poetically lamented, following the assassination of her husband, John F.,"...so now he is a legend, when he would have preferred to be a man...".

Loath as I am to put words in anybody's mouth, I can't help but think that John Lennon would feel the same way.

Lennon himself alluded to the concept, years ago, when he summed up, in one of the myriad of interviews he and his fellow fabs gave along the way, how he perceived his particular place in the sun.

"...we were just a good pop band that got very, very famous...".

And, given his rebel with a cause approach to most things, I imagine (sorry, the word does inevitably show up as a verb now and then), that he would have experienced a considerable disdain at becoming the fodder of tribute shows, coffee mugs and weekend music marathons.

Especially given the way he sardonically, if not too subtly, mocked the way his much loved/loathed kindred spirit/sibling ran willingly into the limelight of mainstream adoration and acceptance.

And what's wrong with that? / I'd like to know.

Personally, I remained musically loyal to John and his work pretty much right up to the end.

Truth be told, though, I lost interest somewhere shortly after the first solo album.

Actually, even midway through it.

Because my affection for the work was rooted in the love of the taste of the entire recipe.

I never much cared for coleslaw by itself.

But I totally relished it as long as the three pieces of extra crispy, mashed potatoes and gravy were along side to make it all come together (right now..over me).

So, to each his own noted and notwithstanding, I'll be taking a pass on any media musings on the life and times of the "leader Beatle" today or tomorrow and, in the process, will hopefully avoid having to do any weekend wondering about how easy it would be if I try.

And if I should meander into a mood that demands a little looking back, I'll pull a couple of tunes that say more to me about the diversity and depth and talent, as both singer and/or songwriter, of the guy than any dozen imaginings.

Happy birthday, Johnny. You're the toppermost of the poppermost.