Without even so much as the usual "Are you ready to rock?" or "1-2-3-4!" preliminaries we get right to awesome power chords combined with state of the art 1980 effects. I'm not sure why they even bothered, because this journey into vision ends after a few seconds, but I guess it could be used at LSD fantasy camp or something. "This, campers, is the sort of visual hallucinations you might have if you were to actually go to this wonderful dreamworld that you must never experience because it's bad for society. Now let's all pretend this spoonful of sugar is The Ticket."
Everything is like, so significant.
The simulated acid test is quickly replaced by a better image of "Nantucket Nautilus." The name might call to mind limericks and sea shells, but the actual human resources of the group are unfortunately caught in the uncanny valley between the seventies and eighties. Half of them look like failed applicants for Poison and the other half resemble rejects from CCR. It's a little jarring, to say the least. The singer is bouncing around and clapping, the band is rocking and it looks like this will be little more than an embarrassing VHS tape labelled "My Band" that you might find in your Grandpa's basement.
All is not what it seems though, because after some obligatory shots of rocking out we abruptly cut to a shirtless man who is well south of six feet tall and jacked up beyond all belief. His demeanor is confused confidence, his facial hair is something out of classic "R Rated" movies and I'm forced to wonder what cosmic force led to this chocolate bar of thick, solid and also tight ending up in the peanut butter jar of righteous cock rock. Calling the sum greater than the total of its parts seems an almost criminal understatement. It's like we added 2+2 and somehow got 17,454,484,004.
I woke up in a strange place, hung over on too much creatine.
The five feet nothing of sculpted ivory actually flicks the hair on one of the band members, seemingly barely controlling his Napoleon Syndrome and Gear fueled aggression. It's like the room was booked for both the man who actually lifts and the not quite eighties rockers at the same time by accident and the guy was all, "Hey, you can still both do your thing, there's plenty of room." Seriously, Mr. Mentzer has the demeanor of someone who expected a private area to pose in, didn't get his way and is now protesting in the most passive aggressive ways possible in between trying to pretend he really is the only one there. It's not the sort of thing you see everyday, suffice it to say.
Doo, doo, doo, looking at his backdoor.
Meanwhile the poor man's AC/DC doesn't seem unduly bothered by the presence of a nearly naked man of below average height and far above average definition and striation. When he messes with the keyboard player, the guy barely seems phased. Then again, the Casio guy is the absolute dregs of the world of heavy rock and is probably used to being treated poorly by his own fellow musicians, let alone someone who keeps a detailed diary of his protein intake.
Speaking of AC/DC, is anyone else depressed by the news of guitarist Malcolm Young leaving due to dementia? I mean, I can remember the days when they were relatively young and rebellious and now they're getting Alzheimer's and probably falling in tubs or having cardiac incidents while sawing wood. It just doesn't seem right. Can we get back to talking about lifting super heavy, please?
The bodybuilder keeps messing with the singer's hair. Someone might claim there's something less than 100% hetero going on here, but not me. Besides, this cover version is awesome, complete with an added "Lord!" by the singer after the line about getting beat up, as if he can hardly believe that being in a band might get you physically assaulted.
Possibly by a roid-raging manlet. Just hypothetically speaking.
Maybe next time pair this guy with a Judas Priest tribute band.
The lyric "It's harder than it looks!" takes on new, unfortunate connotations with a shredded man in bikini briefs dominated the shot. We finally get the actual posing and the same part of me that wants to believe in pro wrestling and the promises made by our president also wants to believe that this guy wasn't regularly shoving foot-long syringes directly into the buttocks. Fortunately, these issues are swept away by some awesome soloing. Yeah, this combination just somehow works. If only they had a local shit band play "She's Got the Jack" after every Barry Bonds dinger he never would have been suspected.
I also like to pretend that keyboardists and bassists actually contribute to a band's sound.
While I experience the aural equivalent of the double jackpot my eyes are attacked by alternating shots of horrible feathered hair and gigantic traps, tris and delts. Overall, it evens out. For reasons unknown (STEROIDS!!!!) the muscleman takes the chauffeur's hat (I've got to go work my other job right after this gig!) of one of the band members and starts wearing it. There's probably deep symbolism here, but for an AC/DC audience that needs to have songs like "Sink the Pink" explained to them it's probably a lost cause to try something more subtle.
We finally get a good look at the drummer and let's just say steroids aren't the only needle drug being used around here.
More posing and more rocking! Someone needs to make a six hour loop of this, seriously. You'd think it would get old, but it doesn't. Suddenly, just when it looks like smooth sailing to the finish the singer gets sick of being touched by a man who keeps badly damaged issues of "Muscle and Fitness" under his bed and shoves him away! Faced with this shocking and unexpected defeat at the hands of someone who probably doesn't even know what a "fly" is, let alone regularly perform them, our diminutive hero decides the answer is to up the amount of
gay manly toughness by appropriating some sunglasses from another, less truculent musician.
The end result would not be out of place in the Village People.
The average person's mental image of "bodybuilder."
A guy who looks a lot like Meatloaf is just totally rocking out. This video is like the roof of the Sistine Chapel, both in being glorious divine art and in containing countless small details. And just like that, it ends. The song isn't finished, it just cuts off, as if recognizing that a critical mass has been reached and anything more might actually be too much to handle.
If we can send a man to the moon, we can figure out how to make a music video this awesome. OBJECTIVELY!
My gaydar just detonated, destroyed a 747, blew a hole in the ozone and took out a few planets for good measure. Damn.
He was high on mogadons.
the real TERMINATOR!
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