In late 2014, I picked up Jody Rosen’s article, “In Defense of Schlock Music,” where the critic sums up the often underappreciated value of schlock. “Schlock, at its finest, is where bad taste becomes great art. Schlock is music that subjugates all other values to brute emotional impact; it aims to overwhelm, to body-slam the senses, to deliver catharsis like a linebacker delivers a clothesline tackle.” When I read this sentence, I immediately thought of Born This Way and decided to return with fresh ears.

Listening to the album outside of the arc of GaGa’s rise and fall, free from deadly expectations—and thanks to Rosen, from the burden of good taste—revealed many of BTW’s assets. It’s not always a pretty record to be sure, but it’s certainly a fascinating one, more than you can say for most modern pop music. More than that, my return to Born This Way unveiled one of the most compelling and enigmatic mainstream pop records ever produced because of its blundering gluttony. Maybe it’s a schlock pop masterpiece, I thought, more Waters than Perry. Aha!

“Marry The Night,” for example, initially presents itself as an organ ballad before a growling synthesizer rings out in the background and slamming, tactless drum programming appear to hijack the whole affair. There’s two bridges, a funk breakdown, passionate claims at being a “warrior queen,” references to gay cruising, a hook that slyly plays on Lopez’s “Waiting for Tonight,” and finally an extended, wailing outro. And that’s just the first song! These are riotous, indulgent creative choices that make “Poker Face” seem like a bastion of elegance, unity and prudence.

I found myself trying to get inside GaGa’s head: Maybe the lyrics are infantile on purpose, a reflection of pop culture’s desire for un-nuanced simplicity? Perhaps the abrasive sound is a commentary on the ugliness of a world that doesn’t accept gay kids? Or maybe it’s the aural manifestation of the clashing inner turmoil of a closeted teen? Are its flamboyantly dated production elements a referendum on our karaoke popular culture that trivially fetishes, among other things, 80s aesthetics?

Or maybe none of this was on purpose. Maybe this is just what GaGa thinks is beautiful. It ultimately doesn’t matter. Looking back, like most camp, BTW’s utterly confounding nature—its sheer awkwardness—is a huge part of it’s intrigue. This is high complexity masquerading as confounding baseness.

And somehow in spite of itself, the album still manages to land on pop nirvana a couple of times: “Edge of Glory,” “Judas” and “You and I” hold up as some of her best material. Sometimes, great schlock and great pop are one in the same. It was also a little a more forward-thinking than I initially gave it credit it for. Listen to the guttural screams that precede “Bloody Mary’s” bridge and tell me you don’t hear a little Yeezus, an album that was still two years in the future.

Listening back, I also realized what a coup Born This Way was in the context of the modern pop culture industrial complex. Genuine oddness, the freedom to be an ugly mess, is something that is almost absent in the highly streamlined, big bucks world of Dr. Luke-defined 21st Century pop radio. On Born This Way, GaGa pulled off her drag queen-eating-dog-shit moment backed by the the biggest record label on earth. It was pop cultural subversion at the highest level, certainly GaGa’s most profound achievement.

What registered most, though, and what keeps the titanic chaos of Born This Way in check is GaGa herself. In Rob Sheffield’s review of Born This Way in Rolling Stone, he rightly concluded, “The more excessive GaGa gets, the more honest she sounds.” Indeed, her formidable pipes and most crucially, her abundant open-heartedness throughout the album is what tethers this beautifully deranged, tacky record. She sells every heinous platitude and bathes heartily in every cheesy synthesizer. She believes in this schlock and she makes you believe. She “delivers catharsis like a linebacker,” as Rosen says. I even started to feel like Lady GaGa genuinely cared about me. What more could you ask for from a mainstream pop record?