Going Ga Ga (The Fame Monster)

Verdict: 4.5 out of 5

Ga Ga struck me as little more than a passing curiosity when "Just Dance" crashed onto the radio early in 2009, setting up an incredible run that probably no one at the time would have believed was to come. Then the song perched at number one — a rare achievement for unapologetic dance music — piquing my curiosity as to whether she could parlay that success into something more. At first glance, "Poker Face" just sounded like a retread of the previous hit, and it took a while for it to win me over. I found those menacing male voices — "mwah mwah mwah mwah" — an odd reminder of the Eurodance styles of Ace of Base and Real McCoy. Around the time "Poker Face" was topping the Hot 100, Amazon was pimping the The Fame CD for five bucks, and I thought, "What the hey."

Turns out The Fame is a magnificent piece of work, bottomless with potential hits, and I enjoyed getting to know it while Ga Ga emerged as one of the more creative and engaging forces in pop in quite some time. Songs like "Paparazzi," "Summerboy" and "Poker Face" display an impressive knack for pop songcraft, and I can overlook the occasional uncanny similarity in sound (particularly on "Summerboy") to Gwen Stefani. Around the time I got the album, the stunningly good Pet Shop Boys remix of ballad "Eh Eh (Nothing Else I Can Say)" appeared, and I was hooked. Another pivotal moment was the SNL appearance with its intimate piano performance that clearly demonstrated the spark and gravitas of something more than a manufactured pop star.

I think it's premature to declare Ga Ga the new Madonna, but the early appearance of a strong second album when probably a couple of more hits could have been milked from its predecessor does nothing to counter that notion. She gets bonus points, as well, for making The Fame Monster a proper album rather than making it one of those lame re-releases with a couple of calculated singles tacked on.

Lead single "Bad Romance" encapsulates everything that clicked so well for her first string of hits while setting the stage for another impressive run of singles, and it's tough to predict which those will be, given that it's all radio-ready.

Seventies-tinged balled "Speechless" would be an adventurous single choice that could bolster her credibility among those eager to dismiss her as a disposable dance pop diva. It's hard to imagine the unshakable "He ate my heart" chant of "Monster" not making it to radio, and "Dance in the Dark" is emerging as the irresistible "Paparazzi" of The Fame Monster. Word is she'll release a third album late in 2010, and I can't wait to see where her Abba-esque knack for melody and Madonna-esque knack for style and production will take this superstar in the making.

Survivor: Samoa's wtf conclusion

Never before has the vote for a Survivor winner — let alone any other moment on Survivor — left me as conflicted as that of Survivor: Samoa.

And not just conflicted but speechless, flummoxed and furious, plus a dozen other adjectives.

Like many others, I couldn't believe that evil mastermind Russell Hantz, who often in aside interviews referred to his fellow contestants as dumba**es and made this one of the great Survivor seasons, had not won the game.

If he didn't win in this three-way final vote, it appeared that genial physician Mick would be the obvious winner. Certainly not aw-shucks Natalie White of Arkansas, the ultimate coattail rider.

Wrong. She easily collected the million bucks and title of sole survivor, and even Survivor host Jeff Probst has expressed dismay with the vote on his blog.

The irony of my fury at this result is that I immediately loathed Russell, who seemed like a classic jackass as he emptied canteens and burned socks around camp and displayed utter contempt for anyone or anything other than his advancement in the game. But the truth is his unscrupulous schemes became a joy to watch as he made shady deals with almost every player and pulled off amazing feats such as finding hidden immunity idols before it had even been disclosed that they were in play. My feelings for him evolved from loathe to love to hate to pulling for him in a Dexter or Hannibal Lecter antihero kind of way.

And it became easier to pull for him as many of the other personalities emerged — the selection of likable people has not been a strong suit of Survivor casting of late. The cast was also so huge that we never really got to know a number of them. Brett, who became a key figure, got minimal screen time before beginning his immunity run.

Further irony is that I really, really love it when the underdogs — Natalie being a prime example — pull off an in-your-face coup over the often cocky and arrogant alpha males who are accustomed to dominating the game. I love to see them taken down a peg, because the weak are often targeted as useless and unworthy.

That's the brilliance of Survivor — the way it's a simmering little microcosm of all the human prejudices and foibles exposed for the world to witness in all their naked glory. I love those exit interviews of ousted contestants in which they essentially say, "Well, I was obviously so great that they were afraid of me, and they had to get rid of me. They're all going to die of hunger now and lose all the challenges."

Right. Whatever gets you through the night.

Survivor is very much a social game, and Russell failed to balance the drive to control the game with the necessity of maintaining goodwill. Probst is right that a bitter jury robbed Russell of the million, but it's also critical to remember that a vehemently bitter jury in season one rewarded Richard Hatch, a similarly diabolical figure, with the million because they could admit that they had been outplayed. Samoa's jury, on the other hand, failed to set aside its ego. It's an incredibly tough sell to say that Natalie outplayed Russell, and that's why the gut feeling that this result was simply wrong won't go away. The producers better hope that angry fans don't go away, as well.

Review: Paranormal Activity

• It's the Blair Witch of the 2000s, and almost as good.

Stars: Katie Featherston, Micah Sloat
Director: Oren Peli
Rating (out of 5): &&&1/2
Run time: 1 hr 39 mins

Paranormal Activity, the shoestring-budget movie riding a crest of Blair Witch-sized buzz, is getting a bit overrated, but it's still a movie that every horror fan should make a beeline to see. In a time when empty horror films come and go at the multiplex just about every weekend, this movie proves there is an appetite among audiences for something more than f/x and torture porn, and it's nice to see a fright flick with a brain get some attention. It's been reported that DreamWorks bought the movie with every intention of doing a big-budget version but decided that the lo-fi version was too effective to discard. The movie's rudimentary production style is certainly reminiscent of that of The Blair Witch Project, which, in my opinion, remains the superior of these two movies.

By now, you probably know the basics of the plot — a young couple early in their relationship are having unusual experiences in their home, and the male half (Micah Sloat) decides to set up a camera and audio recorder in the bedroom in an attempt to capture whatever may be happening while they sleep. Early on, we learn that the happenings are attached to the female half (Katie Featherston) and that the noises they both hear and the whispers she hears are the work of a sinister presence. Micah's interest in playing with the electronics is deeper than his conviction that something is really going on until he begins to catch things on tape and the occurrences begin to escalate. Wanting to defend his woman, he also becomes provocative toward the force as the movie goes on, breaking one of the cardinal rules of dealing with the paranormal. It is here that the movie uses one of the staples of the haunted house tale — tension between a couple breeding negative energy that serves to escalate the activity. For all this movie does to cleanse the palate of so many bad horror movies in the 10 years or so since The Sixth Sense and The Ring, it still turns to some familiar devices such as a Ouija board, things that go bump in the night and a snowy television screen. I even found its occasional use of a jolting noise reminiscent of the classic The Haunting, the quintessential horror movie in which the unseen is powerfully frightening — a technique that has been sadly forgotten by too many movie makers.

The best horror movies are those that play on dread and anticipation in unique ways, and Paranormal Activity achieves this in presenting everything from the point of view of Micah's video footage, focusing primarily on a wide view of their bedroom and the hallway. In the beginning, the viewer gets nothing more than a little tease in the overnight footage, which is often time lapsed, but the payoffs gradually increase. By the time the camera captures shadows and footprints creeping into the room, viewers are squirming at the edge of their seats, and the final payoff is truly creepy — almost enough to forgive the grating bullheadedness of Micah's character.

I love the '80s … 1880s!

Simpy the most hilarious thing I have seen in a while:

Give them a marketing award STAT. The CD is currently on offer for free — yes, FREE — at Amazon MP3.

Don't know much about Erik Hassle …

… but I know that he has big hair and I really, really dig his synthy song "Don't Bring Flowers," which sounds very 1986 but also very now, which works for me in a way that Nickelback and Taylor Swift would never understand. Even better, I nicked the song as a free download off Popjustice. While it has the retro thing going, the song also has smart lyrics. The refrain of "Don't bring flowers after I'm dead / Save your givings for the living instead" has burrowed with sinister fashion into my brain. In the press materials, Hassle (only 20 years old!) says the song deals with a person who didn't make much of an impression in life, yet everyone is at his funeral. “And that’s like regular life," he says, "where you’re treated like sh*t then people worry about it afterwards. You can’t just stand by not caring: who are you to mourn, don’t touch me when I’m in my coffin.”

Indeed.

The Swede's album is called "Hassle."

A night out with the (Pet Shop) boys

It was a fantastic show Saturday night at the Chastain Park Amphitheater in Atlanta … really happy that we weren't left "wondering why we traveled so far."

We got to meet them in the pre-show meet and greet. As we approached and the previous group was getting their last few seconds, Chris seemed to be saying that The Weather Channel is the greatest thing on American television — "It's nothing but the weather all day long!"

When our turn came, Chris, apropos of nothing, welcomed us with a hyper, "Are you from Nashville!?!?" I told them we're from Mississippi, near Tupelo, ("Such pretty names these places have," Neil observed) and told them we'd love to see them play Memphis sometime. They were sure that they've never played Memphis because they would have gone to Graceland. "We've been in Mississippi," Neil said, and proceeded to describe some geography to Chris.

I asked if they would be doing any more television while on the U.S. tour, and Neil said that there is a possibility they might be on the new Jay Leno show (yuck — they should go on Craig Ferguson's show again). "I don't think it's going to happen, though," he said. Chris commented that American TV doesn't seem to be very interested in them and said that Late Night with Jimmy Fallon didn't want to provide them video screens for last week's performance, so they ended up purchasing televisions for the performance.

I also told Neil how much I love the "Love Etc." video with its video game influences.

And that's that. Never thought I'd meet them nor have my favorite CD signed. Amazing.

I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing

I've never been a big concertgoer — not many good shows come within easy reach of me here in the relative boonies — but I've managed to see a few interesting ones. In September, though, I will add what for me is the ultimate live performance to the list: The Pet Shop Boys Pandemonium tour at the Chastain Park Amphitheater in Atlanta.

Like me, the PSBs aren't getting any younger, and these opportunities won't come around forever. I've wistfully watched their U.S. tour dates come and go since Nightlife, thinking each time that I ought to go, but never acting on it. So, come Sept. 12, I and the two friends I have who wouldn't give me a strange look for going to a PSB concert — who implicitly understand why I need to have this experience — will make the five-plus hours drive to the big city.

The previous shows I've seen are a wildly mixed bag:

• Tori Amos at The Orpheum in Memphis in 1998.
This was around the time the excellent From the Choirgirl Hotel, with the stomping "Raspberry Swirl," was released, and I remember that song being the highlight of the show. Tori has lost me in recent years; the magnificent To Venus and Back is her last disc that gets any spins in my playlist.

• Amy Grant in Tupelo.
Don't remember the year, but I went with the parents because they had a spare ticket. I was a casual fan of her pop hits, particularly "I Will Remember You." She should've made an electronic album.

• The Eagles in Tupelo.
Don't remember the year, but it was early 2000s. Thought my ears were going to bleed before it was over. The highlight for me was the performance of Don Henley's synthy solo hit "Sunset Grill" — always loved that one.

• Elton John at Tupelo.
This was a great experience, shared with my mother and a friend who has since drifted out of my life. Elton gave 200 percent for several hours, and the real treat for me was that he opened with one of my favorites, "Simple Life," a minor hit from The One. Wouldn't have bet on that in a million years.

Now, more than 20 years after my fandom began, the PSBs will join this list. It's costing me an obscene amount of money (yes, three "VIP" seats), and my mind is filled with all the things that could go wrong: What if it rains? With my luck, a hurricane will come ashore and sit over Atlanta. What if there's car trouble on the long drive? Can't just take a taxi to Atlanta. What if a seven-foot-tall drag queen sits in front of me? What if the sound quality is hideous? The possibilities seem endless.

But some experiences in life are worth throwing caution to the wind. With Very and all the others in my heart, I'll make the journey and hope to be rewarded with a red-letter day.