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That’s it;
that’s the entire concept. The director and the band follow through
on it like Griffey, Jr. following through on his swing; the air-guitar has
seldom been played with such magnificent dexterity, and the air-drumkit
has certainly never been approached with such cinematic savoir-faire.
Like all truly great visual art, it simply must be seen to be believed --
I’ve been watching it for two days and can’t get enough of it.
The song, as I’ve said, is as destructive as a tidal wave crashing
into a seaside village whose houses are all made of very thin crystal, and
Kidman’s lead-man performance defines rock and roll as surely and expertly
as the opening riff from Johnny B. Goode. Like a physical manifestation
of Wile E. Coyote’s long-incubated rage, he leaps into the air again
and again, shaking his head right and left, sneering snottily into his ball-point
pen’s cap, leaning toward the camera as though he were teetering at
the lip of a stage teasing the audience. He is a consummate showman. The
other members are equally game; they project their various roles camera-ward
with the studied, effortless expertise of seasoned actors. The drummer’s
face alone makes the video memorable, but the cumulative effect -- one long-haired
Swede in a Buffalo Sabres jersey and another in a N.Y. Rangers jersey, not
just any N.Y. Rangers jersey but the seldom-seen third jersey; hair flying
everywhere contrasted with Kidman’s clean-shaven dome; the tightwire
walk Meshuggah makes of looking very serious and conveying that they know
their joke is a funny one; the occasional views of the freeway through the
window -- is utterly stunning.
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