I tell you, this here rock video revolution is spreading by such leaps and bounds that even the most dedicated of us finger-on-thepulsebeat cultural observers have our digits full trying to keep up. Like the other night, as I'm watching Magnum and collecting data for my upcoming treatise, The Bittersweet Triumph Of Larry Manetti, what should show up between scenes but the sound and sights of Randy Newman's 'I Love L.A.' video. Well, hey, I says to myself, what are videos anyway but commercials for records, that's cool—except that after a while all these Nike running shoes posters start showing up on the screen instead of the gang from Laverne And Shirley, there's half of the Raiders football team screaming 'We love it!' All of this, mind you, interspersed with official song video footage. In other words, we've now gone way, way past the 'It's So Easy'/'Good Vibrations' standard practice appropriation of hit tunes to push consumer goods into a brand new realm of exploitation. I mean, talk about your new horizons! I can just visualize the bargaining session for the acquisition rights: Nike: 'Those fat guys playing instruments—what're they called, Tutu?—not the image Nike wants to project. Ditto for the guy driving the car.' Warner Bros: 'But that's Randy Newman! He wrote the song!' Nike: 'Well, alright—as long as the redhead is in every shot with him.'

Is nothing safe? About two days after I first saw the 'I Love L.A.''/Nike spot, I caught the tail end of a women's shoes ad sporting an old shiny red sedan out of which popped three luscious scantily-clad super-femmes out to aid a young girl trying to find something cool for her tootsies. I mean, really! Pretty soon Billy, Dusty and Frank are going to have to take out patents so's to protect the individual rights of their facial hair!

With that off our chest, we'd like' to declare a hard fought, flat-footed tie between Rod 'The Cod' Stewart and Laura 'Fly Me' Branigan for perpetrating the most ludicrous videos of the month. Ole Roosterhead's 'Fascination' would appear to have many great things going for it—from minor roles played by veteran celluloiders Mike Mazurki (here doing a spin-off of his oftimitated 'Where's Velma?' routine from Farewell, My Lovely) and Dick Miller (the crazed sculptor in Bucket Of Blood! The 'No, thanks, I'll eat 'em here' flower gourmet in Little Shop Of Horrors! The police chief in Rock 'N' Roll High School! In short— MY IDOL!) to more shots of Kay Lenz (admit it: you, too, have seen Breezy—that's the one where she's the 'free' hippie girl and William Holden is the executive old enough to be her you know what—as many times at five in the morning as the next yokel) in various stages of undress than any human of the male persuasion should be allowed to see without an ogling license. Jeff Beck even shows up for a few seconds. But then Rod keeps stickin' his puss in front of those pix of Ms. Lenz en brassiere, and then, lord help us, he has to sing, too? Yeccch.

As for La Branigan, I think this is at least the third straight video plot built around her bedroom—those sheets look darned familiar. The news here is that 'Self Control'' brings us the first music video 'everybody into the hot tub' sex orgy, presided over by a guy in a mask who looks like a minor porn escapee from Cafe Flesh. (Actually, everybody here looks like a minor porn escapee from Cafe Flesh. Hmm.) Anyway, since we like the song, and can't find fault with Laura's great display of acting ability—she afterglows real swell, don'cha think?—we'll lay blame for this travesty at the feet of director 'Wild' Bill Friedkin, who hasn't flashed subtlety like this since he spinned Linda Blair's head into those charming 360s in The Exorcist.

SNAP SHOTS:

I Wanna Hold My Hand: GoGo's, 'Turn To You'—We've heard of searching for kindred spirits, but the art of getting picked up by yourself should really be left to experts like Annie 'Five O'Clock Shadow' Lennox. Then again, sporting a jacket and tie, Belinda Carlisle may have finally found a look that's really, er, her...Speaking of outfits, our Dinah Shore Slept Here Department reports that no less than 11 alluring ensembles are modeled by fashion saucer David Lee Roth in Van Halen's 'Panama.' Question: Think he declares his outfits taxdeductible? If the answer's yes, and you're the I.R.S. auditor, would you want to have to investigate this man's pants?...Just Fission: Ultravox, 'Dancing With Tears In My Eyes'— Synth band gets wiped out during nuclear accident? Promise?...You Can Take The Martha: M & M, 'Black Stations White Stations'— Sources tell us that, in Canada, this brand of dancing is considered 'sexy'...Lip-Lock of the Month: UB40, 'Cherry Oh Baby' — Remember what Jack Warden said to Goldie Hawn when they were watching Warren Beatty and Julie Christie going at it by refrigerator light in Shampoo? That's just about how we feel about that makeout session here...And Infinite Number of Monkeys Sitting At An Infinite Number of Typerwriters Etc: Mama's Boys, 'Mama, Weer All Crazee Now' and Bronz, 'Send Down An Angel'—Two separate videos in which aging, hair-in-curlers, supporting-hosed mums bang away on offspring's bedroom door while band inside hits new db levels? Like, who do you think thought of that one first? Think there'll be a lawsuit?...Finally, the maintenance crew informs us that the Neil Diamond Mr. Humble Award is getting all waxed and polished and will be delivered to recipient Ric 'He Walks On Water' Ocasek, just as soon as we can drag him away from the mirror, or the rest of the Cars take him out to get stuffed, whichever comes first.

DRUNK AGAIN

NEW ORDER: Taras Shevenko (Fact 77)

JOY DIVISION: Here Are The Young Men (Fact 77)

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY: Pleasure Heads Must Burn (I/oF-1)_

The Diary

In retrospect, I should have seen it coming. We were not a party crowd, any of us, and our spirits were lower than they had been in several days.

It was ironic that the suggestion to watch the tapes should come from Raymond—what little initiative he had left had only showed itself at mealtime, when we opened the packets. There were very few of them left, and the four of us watched Raymond carefully as he quickly gulped his ration. The End had changed all of our personalities very subtly, and even in the best of times he had been extremely shrewd. Kathleen took me aside by the generator and mentioned her suspicion that Raymond had been hoarding the packets in his clothes, picking and choosing from the remaining supplies while we slept. We found out the truth, obviously, but by then no one cared.

'Shall we watch the tapes, then?' he asked, breaking the silence.

Michael smirked, glancing toward the four steel walls that contained us all. 'No. Let's go outside and play badminton.'

No one laughed. Alison—as always by the entry door, checking its thick lead lining for the cracks she was certain were there—strolled over to the console. She glowered at Michael and picked a videocassette from the box.

'New Order,' she noted. She looked up at us, sharing the irony..

We huddled in front of the monitor, finally resigned to watching the tapes we'd been saying. Since The End announced itself the week before, there were few activities left for the five of us. Watching the videotapes—for there were no actual broadcasts anymore—was all we had left.

The Trinitron glowed. 'Live at the Ukrainian National Home, New York City, November 18, 1981,' Alison read from the box.

It was gloomy. The quartet played along to electronic percussion, beeps and blips almost drowning out the lead singer, who looked quite pained to be there.. 'Hey, I heard this at a club once,' said Michael. No one replied. 'Except it doesn't sound as good here. I can't hear the guy's voice.'

Alison stared at the screen. 'It's funny,' she said. 'I always thought this kind of music would be impossible to play live. All those synthesizers and stuff. But that girl'—she pointed to a woman hunched over a keyboard—'she's only playing with two fingers!'

'They can do anything with a synthesizer once someone knows how to program it,' said Michael, smugly. Michael, as he had told us daily during the week, had been in a band before The End. He knew everything.

'I like this, though,' said Kathleen. 'It sort of puts you in a trance.'

'So what?' asked Michael.

'So I like being in a trance,' she said. She looked over at the thick metal door. '1 bet the people out there wouldn't mind being in a trance.'

We stared at the screen, fascinated. The tape ended. Alison got up to stretch and change tapes. '1 think maybe I would've liked these guys more if I hadn't seen this,' she said. She pulled out a new cassette, sheathed in black. 'Joy Division— 'Here Are The Young Men,'' she noted. 'Ever hear these guys?'

'Yeah,' said Michael, oblivious to our nods. 'That's the guys in New Order before their lead singer OD'ed or something.' Kathleen rolled her eyes, fixing them on the bare light fixture hanging from the low ceiling. 'He killed himself, Michael. With a rope. '

Michael looked surprised. 'Oh. You heard of these guys?' Kathleen remained silent.

The tape was poorly done, the camera noticably distant from the stage as the band performed. 'Shit, that guy moves around onstage just like Iggy Pop,' grinned Michael. Alison laughed, meekly. 'You know, you're right, almost. I can't believe it.'

Michael was suddenly enthused. 'These are the guys who did 'Love Will Tear Us Apart'! Can you believe how much that guy is moving around? 1 always thought he'd just stand around moaning about stuff. This is great!'

Michael was right. As bad as the photography might have been, there was an energy you could almost feel emanating from the screen. It was an odd moment, the closest any of us had felt to being normal in days. It surely wouldn't last.

The final moments of the tape brought a video clip of 'Love Will Tear Us Apart,' no doubt tacked on by the manufacturer as some sort of bonus. It reminded Alison of MTV, she said.

We sat and wondered what remained of MTV. Michael made a grisly joke about Martha Quinn.

'One left,' said Alison. As she got up, the six of us looked at each other glumly. 'One left,' repeated Raymond.

Inspirational. Utterly inspirational. Huddled around the screen we stared transfixed, as if primitive cavemen staring at fire for the first time. Raymond's mouth hung open. 'Jesus,' he said. The madman onstage walked back and forth, howling like an animal, while his band steadily screeched, white-hot, creating noises very few of us had heard before. 'This sort of sounds like Captain Beefheart,' Kathleen said, looking at me. 'At least the guitars do. But that guy sure doesn't.'

It was Nick Cave, Michael announced. He'd seen the Birthday Party once before, he said. In New York. 'It was real cool,' said he. 'Hardly anybody was there.'

Alison examined the cassette box. 'Listen to these titles: 'Dead Joe,' 'A Dead Song,' 'Release The Bats,' 'Big Jesus Trashcan'...this guy is nutsl'

On the screen the live performance abruptly halted and the title 'Nick The Stripper' flashed. What followed was unbelievable: a filmed performance of a song that might have been sung in hell. Cave ran about like a lunatic, shirtless, with words painted on his chest. Everything was red; people wore pigs' heads; someone was crucified. Cave, grinning idiotically, crouched underneath a goat, reaching for its udder with his mouth.

The music pounded relentlessly. 'Toby Dammit,' muttered Raymond.

'No,' said Kathleen. 'Weirder than Toby Dammit.'

Michael stared at them both, blankly.

Kathleen shook her head. 'Lots weirder than Toby Dammit. '

The tape ended, and still we glared at the screen. No one spoke.

The next morning, all the food packets were gone. Raymond, his neck broken, was hanging limply from the light fixture. We found Michael by the door, sobbing. His hands were bloody red.

'Open up!, ' came a muffled voice from behind the door. 'It's me! Nick! Open up!'

That was when we started dying. (These tapes and more available from: IKON oF, Factory New York Limited, 323 Spring Street, Room 233, New York, NY 10013. Have fun!)

Dave DiMartino