So when Gaga says, with warm good manners, “This tea is for you,” gesturing to a bone-china cup handpainted with violets, I can’t help myself from replying, uncouthly: “I know you’re tiny and must get knackered – but why do you keep collapsing?” This is some surprise, give the aforementioned presumption that she’s cracking up.
“What a terrible day you’re having! Thank you so much for coming!” Holding her for a moment, she feels – through the taffeta atmosphere of billowing McQueen – borderline Kylie-tiny, but warm, and robust. “So glad you finally made it!” she says, giving a huge, warm hug. Both literally and figuratively what’s under the veil and the cloak is a diminutive, well brought up, New York Catholic girl from a wealthy middle-class family, with twinkly brown eyes and a minxy sense of humour. The second thing you notice is that she is being lovely. The effect is one of having been ushered into the presence of a very powerful fairytale queen: possibly one who has recently killed Aslan, on the Stone Table. In a breast-length, silver-grey wig, she has a black lace veil wound around her face, and sits, framed, in an immense, custom-made, one-off Alexander McQueen cloak. First, that she really isn’t dressed casually. Two things strike you about her immediately. And at the head of the tea table, among the flowers: Gaga. There is a table, laid with beautiful china. But while scented candles burn churchishly, a gorgeous vintage record player on the floor – surrounded by piles of vinyl – and works of art hung on the wall give it a cheerful air. With the walls and ceiling draped in black, it resembles a pop-Gothic seraglio. “Hi!” Gaga’s dressing room, backstage at the O2 World Arena in Berlin.
From her dressing room to a sex club, an exclusive interview in which the singer discusses fame, the paparazzi – and those health rumours
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