Lady Gaga is the first major star of the digital age. Since her rise, she has remained almost continually on tour. Hence, she is a moving target who has escaped serious scrutiny. She is often pictured tottering down the street in some outlandish get-up and fright wig. Most of what she has said about herself has not been independently corroborated… “Music is a lie”, “Art is a lie”, “Gaga is a lie”, and “I profusely lie” have been among Gaga’s pronouncements, but her fans swallow her line whole…

She constantly touts her symbiotic bond with her fans, the “little monsters”, who she inspires to “love themselves” as if they are damaged goods in need of her therapeutic repair. “You’re a superstar, no matter who you are!” She earnestly tells them from the stage, while their cash ends up in her pockets. She told a magazine with messianic fervour: “I love my fans more than any artist who has ever lived.” She claims to have changed the lives of the disabled, thrilled by her jewelled parody crutches in the Paparazzi video.

Although she presents herself as the clarion voice of all the freaks and misfits of life, there is little evidence that she ever was one. Her upbringing was comfortable and eventually affluent, and she attended the same upscale Manhattan private school as Paris and Nicky Hilton. There is a monumental disconnect between Gaga’s melodramatic self-portrayal as a lonely, rebellious, marginalised artist and the powerful corporate apparatus that bankrolled her makeover and has steamrollered her songs into heavy rotation on radio stations everywhere.

For two years, I have spent an irritating amount of time trying to avoid Gaga’s catchy but depthless hits Lady Gaga is a manufactured personality, and a recent one at that. Photos of Stefani Germanotta just a few years ago show a bubbly brunette with a glowing complexion. The Gaga of world fame, however, with her heavy wigs and giant sunglasses (rudely worn during interviews) looks either simperingly doll-like or ghoulish, without a trace of spontaneity. Every public appearance, even absurdly at airports where most celebrities want to pass incognito, has been lavishly scripted in advance with a flamboyant outfit and bizarre hairdo assembled by an invisible company of elves.

Furthermore, despite showing acres of pallid flesh in the fetish-bondage garb of urban prostitution, Gaga isn’t sexy at all – she’s like a gangly marionette or plasticised android. How could a figure so calculated and artificial, so clinical and strangely antiseptic, so stripped of genuine eroticism have become the icon of her generation? Can it be that Gaga represents the exhausted end of the sexual revolution? In Gaga’s manic miming of persona after persona, over-conceptualised and claustrophobic, we may have reached the limit of an era…

Gaga has borrowed so heavily from Madonna (as in her latest video-Alejandro) that it must be asked, at what point does homage become theft? However, the main point is that the young Madonna was on fire. She was indeed the imperious Marlene Dietrich’s true heir. For Gaga, sex is mainly decor and surface; she’s like a laminated piece of ersatz rococo furniture. Alarmingly, Generation Gaga can’t tell the difference. Is it the death of sex? Perhaps the symbolic status that sex had for a century has gone kaput; that blazing trajectory is over…

Gaga seems comet-like, a stimulating burst of novelty, even though she is a ruthless recycler of other people’s work. She is the diva of déjà vu. Gaga has glibly appropriated from performers like Cher, Jane Fonda as Barbarella, Gwen Stefani and Pink, as well as from fashion muses like Isabella Blow and Daphne Guinness. Drag queens, whom Gaga professes to admire, are usually far sexier in many of her over-the-top outfits than she is.

Peeping dourly through all that tat is Gaga’s limited range of facial expressions. Her videos repeatedly thrust that blank, lugubrious face at the camera and us; it’s creepy and coercive. Marlene and Madonna gave the impression, true or false, of being pansexual. Gaga, for all her writhing and posturing, is asexual. Going off to the gym in broad daylight, as Gaga recently did, dressed in a black bustier, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels isn’t sexy – it’s sexually dysfunctional.

Compare Gaga’s insipid songs, with their nursery-rhyme nonsense syllables, to the title and hypnotic refrain of the first Madonna song and video to bring her attention on MTV, Burning Up, with its elemental fire imagery and its then-shocking offer of fellatio. In place of Madonna’s valiant life force, what we find in Gaga is a disturbing trend towards mutilation and death…

Gaga is in way over her head with her avant-garde pretensions… She wants to have it both ways – to be hip and avant-garde and yet popular and universal, a practitioner of gung-ho “show biz”. Most of her worshippers seem to have had little or no contact with such powerful performers as Tina Turner or Janis Joplin, with their huge personalities and deep wells of passion.

Generation Gaga doesn’t identify with powerful vocal styles because their own voices have atrophied: they communicate mutely via a constant stream of atomised, telegraphic text messages. Gaga’s flat affect doesn’t bother them because they’re not attuned to facial expressions.

Gaga's fans are marooned in a global technocracy of fancy gadgets but emotional poverty. Borderlines have been blurred between public and private: reality TV shows multiply, cell phone conversations blare everywhere; secrets are heedlessly blabbed on Facebook and Twitter. Hence, Gaga gratuitously natters on about her vagina…

 “Male homosexuality, pushing outward into risky, alien territory, is progressive and – overall - intellectually stimulating.”

Camille Paglia - Italianamerican pagan and cultural iconoclast strongly identifies with gay men. To the extent that she is often attracted to them - from the perspective of a gay male.  Professor Paglia has been  upturning conventional thinking in academe since her collegiate youth in Upstate New York while writing Sexual Personae - her fearless, illuminating expedition into Western culture.  She’s also a huge fan of Madonna. Her office at the University of Arts at Philadelphia is distinguished by two features: a Babylonian erection of books and a colour photograph of La Ciccione in a bustier that could compete with America's nuclear deterrent.

The nemesis of white, upper-middle class feminists and Suzanne Vega aficionados alike, Paglia rejects French Theory  - Foucault knew fuck-all - that constituted the lit bateau of 1970s feminism, instead embracing Nietzsche's postmodernisn and divorcing herself from what she perceived to be that school’s increasingly anti-male ideology. She was instantly unfashionable.  Banished to the Siberia of the academic, it took her twenty years to return.

Believing that feminism has led men into becoming contemporary eunuchs, Paglia wants to reclaim masculinity to reinform the political correction we have arrived at today:

“We want a hard penis. We want masculine vigour. To men I say: ‘Get It On!’ To women I say, ‘Deal With It!’

Well, one doesn't want to be strapped into a time machine and shot backwards to an age of archaic, Sicilian machismo  but neither does one wish to see men in American Tan tights all the time. She expresses a desire to "restore the penis back to its former position of centre-stage." I know a few people who would gladly put in free overtime to help Ms Paglia with the hydraulic crane. They are all female.

She was universally upbraided in the furore surrounding her comments on date rape:
“The uncontrollable aspect of male sexuality is part of what makes sex interesting. And yes, sometimes it can lead to rape in some situations.”

I think what alarmed people was the declaration that men's penises somehow possess an unrestrainable autonomy that operates independently from the will. In some cases, it does. Moreover, there was a widespread misapprehension that she was condoning rape. In truth, she was defending the quintessential freedom of women (or men, for that matter) to wear a micro-skirt, to get drunk and to hitch a ride in Ted Bundy’s Volkswagen Beetle - providing they acknowledge the risk and accept the onus of personal responsibility in doing so.

If contemporary liberalism has been untruthful to women about the world -  and about men - Paglia volubly reminds us of that fact.  She examines gender, sexuality and feminism through the prism of art and cultural history, as set forth in one of her best books, Sex, Art, And American Culture. On popular music she notes that even Greek Tragedy never gave full expression to the Dionysian impulse - the uninhibited, irrational and orgiastic self - until rock’n’roll squeezed into its first box-fresh leather catsuit. That’s something you’d rarely hear within Viognier-sipping intellectual circles. Further, here is a woman who unselfconsciously namechecks Hitchcock’s The Birds and Proust in the same breath.

Sound bite queen, 'outlaw' polemicist, some of her best work is while extemporising over the telephone - possibly going into raptures over Keith Richard. The fraternity and the media is undecided as to whether La Paglia is an inspired tour guide or one of the great intellectuals of the late 20th century. What is certain is that she is one hell of a Motormouth Maybelline.