(4) joan jett, “crimson and clover”
outran
(8) PLACEBO, “RUNNING UP THAT HILL”
287-217
and will play in the elite 8

Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the aggregate of the poll below and the @marchxness twitter poll. Polls closed @ 9am Pacific time on 3/18/22.

david turkel on Joan Jett’s “Crimson and Clover”

“Joanie Jett! She’s got the greatest voice I’ve ever seen!” —DuBeat-e-o, 1984

I’ve named the play “Crimson and Clover” because I don’t know what it’s about. I want people to make up their own meaning, the way they do when they hear that song. I want them all to think about something different that’s true for each of them.
It’s 1998 and I bartend in a place called Hell and Joan Jett’s version is on our jukebox. Or “little Joanie Jett,” as we call her—an homage to Alan Sacks’ trash film, DuBeat-e-o.
When I ask customers what they think the song means, they tell me a dozen different things, as if the title itself were a sort of Rorschach. One says the song is about a girl losing her virginity. Another says that it’s clearly about shooting heroin, the blood mixing with the “honey” in a syringe. Still another informs me that Tommy James—the writer of the song—was a born-again Christian and that the crimson represents Christ’s blood and the three-leafed clover, the Holy Trinity.
The lead actor in my play, Tom, was of draft age in December 1968 when the Tommy James and the Shondells’ version raced up the charts. He tells me the song has always been about Vietnam for him: “blood and land, over and over again.”
My play is about none of these things. Though it’s written in three acts, which could represent the Trinity, I suppose. And it has some sex and violence in it. Also heroin. And camel spiders. And St. Francis and surfing and the C.I.A. Mostly it’s about a billionaire named Arson (played by Tom) who wants to become the first man in history to cross the United States, coast to coast, entirely underground.
It’s my first play and I’ve been in therapy since I started it. I ask my therapist—a Jungian—if he wants to know anything about what I’ve written. He doesn’t. “Isn’t it like a dream?” I suggest. “Couldn’t that be useful?” But he doesn’t seem to think so.

Tommy James claims to have simply woken up with the words “crimson and clover”—a combination of his favorite color and favorite flower—stuck in his head. But that story was disputed by Shondell drummer Peter Lucia Jr., who co-wrote the song. For Lucia, the title sprang from the name of a prominent high school football rivalry in Morristown, New Jersey (where he grew up) between the red-uniformed Colonials and the green-Hopatcong Chiefs.
And so, oddly, even at the ground-zero of the song’s creation, there’s dispute over what the words signify. Almost as if they were birthed twining a spell of some sort—weaving mystery and confusion into the air.
On the Songfacts message board devoted to “Crimson and Clover,” contributor after contributor offers what each insists is its sole, incontrovertible meaning. Kayla from Dallas writes, “The song is actually about a beautiful girl with red hair and green eyes, get it?” Rex from the ‘Heart of America’ begins his post, “It really surprises me that so few people have this right” before launching into the most painfully halting description of coitus, like a squeamish father tasked with the birds-and-bees speech.
However the title came about, the story of the song itself is well-established, if no less magical. As Shondell keyboardist Kenny Laguna tells it, the band had just lost their chief songwriter and the guys were pushing Tommy James to find somebody new, convinced he didn’t have the chops to write a radio hit himself. Five hours later, James and Lucia walked out of the studio with the recording of “Crimson and Clover”—James having played every instrument except drums on the track.
He then took the rough mix to WLS in Chicago, where he spun it for the head of programming as well as a top DJ to get their impressions. At some point during the visit someone at the station pirated a copy, and by the time Tommy James had returned to his car the single was on the airwaves in its raw, unmastered form, being hailed by the DJ as a “world exclusive.” Before Morris Levy, the infamous mobster who ran the Shondells’ label, could intervene, “Crimson and Clover” was already a hit and on its way to its ultimate destination at number one on the charts. Many who heard it that holiday season in 1968, thought James was singing “Christmas is over” on repeat.

At a Christmas party in 1998, an inebriated dancefloor collision results in my girlfriend tearing her ACL. We’re too fucked up at the time to know what’s happened. But when I wake up the next morning, she’s there beside me, crying in her sleep from the pain.
She’s been cast in my play as Looloo, a twenty-five-year-old recovering heroin addict whom Arson meets touring a new hospital wing. Looloo is a patient there because she skied off a mountain in an apparent suicide attempt. So, it makes sense that her leg might be in a brace, we reason. Sometimes things like this just have a way of working out.
“Do the math,” Lon from Providence insists. “It is a poetic masterpiece...about a plaid skirt...the girl he had a crush on in school wore...hence the colors maroon (crimson) and green (clover), and then the pattern over and over..........”
My girlfriend and I are among the half dozen or so co-owners of Hell, where, until the accident, she was also a bartender. She’s the real reason Jett’s 1997 retrospective Fit to be Tied is on the box, and why we frequently holler out, in our best Ray Sharkey impressions, “Joanie Jett! She’s got the greatest voice I’ve ever seen!” whenever it plays.
Sharkey portrays the title role in DuBeat-e-o: a movie director who’s on the hook to the mob for a new picture starring Joan Jett. In real life, director Alan Sacks (best known as a creator of Welcome Back, Kotter) had been hired to salvage botched footage from an attempted screwball movie based on the Runaways—the all-female, proto-punk band Jett founded with drummer Sandy West in 1975, just weeks shy of her seventeenth birthday. Sacks had fallen in with the L.A. Hardcore scene and his solution to the problem of trying to use bad footage to make a good movie, was to make an even worse movie about a megalomaniacal director’s fantasy of making a great one.
“See, I shot this film so that Joanie would come out looking hip enough to handle any situation. Understand?” DuBeat-e-o lectures Benny, the cough syrup-addicted film editor (played by Derf Scratch from Fear) whom he’s chained to an editing station at gunpoint. “I mean, that’s why I put her in every slimey, scummy situation of Mankind that I can think of, okay? I mean, the essence of my film—my film!—is that true talent, no matter where it comes from, has gotta come out—because it’s got fucking ENERGY! You understand?!...That’s why I’m the director! I got the vision, you prick!”
IMDB lists Jett as “starring” in DuBeat-e-o, but this is a Bowfinger-like deception, since she only appears by way of the archival footage Sacks was hired to edit, and as a picture adorning a wall in DuBeat-e-o’s seedy apartment. More accurately, Jett is hostage to the movie, her bottled image coopted to serve its baser designs; her ever-tough performance chops fronting the Runaways cut to look as if she’s delivering these efforts to please the leering countenance of The Mentors’ El Duce (who plays his slimeball self in the film).
And yet, perversely, it all works. Moreover, it works just as DuBeat-e-o, at his most deranged, said it would: Jett’s hipness—her ENERGY—rises above it all, untouched and unsullied. And the movie, either in spite or because of its many flaws (it’s really impossible to say which), truly exalts her.
In the 2018 documentary Bad Reputation, Jett—its ever-inspiring subject—avoids any mention of Sacks’s film by name, but merely shrugs it off as “some weirdo porn movie.”

Before I started tending bar at Hell, I knew next to nothing about Joan Jett, outside of “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll”—a single that peaked when I was eleven years old and inking “O-Z-Z-Y” across my knuckles.
I didn’t know about the Runaways or Jett’s affiliation with the Sex Pistols. Didn’t know that she produced the first Germs album and music by Bikini Kill. Or that she and ex-Shondell Kenny Laguna—her longtime collaborator and Blackheart producer—were forced to shill her hit-laden solo debut out of the trunk of Laguna’s car after it was turned down by twenty-three labels. In short, I didn’t know that Joan Jett was punk before punk and indie before indie.
But by 1998, not only do I know these things, forty-year-old Jett has recently turned up in a black-and-white commercial for MTV, flipping off the camera and sporting the close-cropped platinum-dyed hair that will become as iconic to that era as her black shag was to the seventies. She’s been going at it hard for more than two decades at this point, only to emerge looking fitter, tougher, sexier, more otherworldly than ever before, and I am becoming obsessed.
“And there was Joan in the black leather jacket,” Laguna says of their first encounter at the Riot House on Sunset Boulevard. “The way I remember it, there was razorblades hanging from it. And...I just never seen anyone like this. I was like, ‘Whoa! What is this?!’ And...I think I loved her right away.”

Ahhh, well, I don’t hardly know her...

“A little quiz for the Peanut Gallery,” posts Alan from Providence on Songfacts. “Crimson is my color and clover is my taste and aroma. What am I?” he asks, before adding, with a tacit wink, “And there is a reason Joan Jett loves this song.”

But I think I could love her...

Laura from El Paso concurs: “I have to say that when Joan Jett sings this song, for me it is impossible not to feel it takes on a whole new meaning. She is singing about ‘her’ and how she wants crimson and clover over and over.............”

And when she comes walking over
I been waiting to show her...

Joan Jett’s cover of “Crimson and Clover” arrests us, not only for those parts of the song she’s altered, but also for what she’s kept in place: the pronouns of the singer’s object of desire. Though Jett has said this decision was about preserving the integrity of the rhyme scheme, the seismic impact of hearing one woman sing so intimately to another—unprecedented on popular radio in 1981—can’t, and shouldn’t, be overlooked. Not because the choice scandalized certain listeners (I mean, seriously, fuck them), but because for many others this was a revelatory and liberating event.
As Bikini Kill’s Kathleen Hanna puts it, “The first time I heard Joan I was in the car with my dad and it came on. It was ‘Crimson and Clover,’ and I heard that voice, and I was just like, ‘Who is this person?’ And then, when she would get to the pronouns and say, ‘she,’ I got really interested.”
At the same time, I think it’s important to take Jett at her word as a no-nonsense rock- and-roller simply working in the service of a great song. Certainly it’s true that, where rhyme was no impediment, she proved more than willing to make heteronormative adjustments. Case in point: her most famous cover off the same album, the Arrows’ 1976 tune, “I Love Rock and Roll”: “Saw her standing there by the record machine” became “saw him standing there.”
But what’s true in both cases is that Jett’s persona animates and subverts each narrative equally. Speaking for the eleven-year-old that I was when I first heard “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll,” it was a novel and noteworthy experience to be confronted by a sexually aggressive woman describing her recent conquest of a teenage boy in such tough, conversational terms. Like Hanna, or Kenny Laguna, I distinctly remember thinking, Who is this person?
Jett describes her own approach to inhabiting songs this way: “Part of it is having fun, and part of it goes back to...being able to do everything. When you’re singing songs about love and sex, you want everyone to think you’re singing to them. Whether you’re a boy, a girl, a woman, a man—whatever you’re into, I can be that.”

My, my such a sweet thing
Wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling...

“The greatest voice you’ve ever seen”—that superlative from DuBeat-e-o—has never been showcased to greater effect than 1982’s “live” performance video of “Crimson and Clover.” At minute 1:28, Jett seems to be singing in harmony with her own eyeballs. Yes, sing the eyes, you know exactly what I mean... I would argue that as much as keeping the word “her” matters to this cover, the potency of Jett’s rendition hinges on her phrasing of the word, “ev-er-y-thing.”
What’s brilliant about Jett’s cover of “Crimson and Clover” is the way she both queers and straightens the song. Gone is the drippy vibrato and underwater warbling which threatens to make the original a relic of Psychedelia. In their place, Jett and Laguna have punched up the guitars and amplified the dynamic interplay between the breathy, epiphanic verses and the riotous bounce of its instrumental breaks. In live performance, at the dramatic crescendo—Yeah!—Ba da! Da da! Da da!—Jett never fails to let go of her guitar and raise her arms fist high toward the audience. “Crimson and Clover” is an anthemic rocker, as she embodies it—a song about connection, celebration, ecstasy.
But what truly distinguishes Jett’s version from the Tommy James and the Shondells’ original, is that Jett actually knows what she’s singing about; Tommy James didn’t have a clue.
“People ask me what it means?” James told a Youtuber who calls himself the “Professor of Rock” in a 2019 interview. “Two of my favorite words that sounded very profound when you put them together. And just a three-chord progression, backwards.” For Jett, on the other hand, the meaning is clear. In Bad Reputation, she envisions the song from the perspective of the woman she’s singing to: “‘Oh my God, she’s gonna take me home and fuck the shit out of me!’ That’s scary!”

I don’t make this comparison to disparage Tommy James; cluelessness is possibly the single greatest feature of his music. He recorded “Hanky Panky”—his first number one hit and one of my all-time favorite rock-and-roll tunes—having only heard a garage band’s cover of the original and remembering almost none of its lyrics. His chart-topper “Mony Mony,” from March of ’68, cribbed its title off the acronym emblazoned atop the Mutual Of New York building, which loomed outside the window of James’ Manhattan apartment. In both cases, his ability to imbue nonsense words with infectious energy and devilish intentions earns him Kenny Laguna’s praise as “the Led Zeppelin of Bubblegum.”
With “Crimson and Clover,” however, James needed a song that would do the opposite— launch him out of Bubblegum’s playground on the AM dial and into the burgeoning FM market.
And while he loves to tell the story of how the title arrived in his sleep and how the song was a deus ex machina for his band (“I think my career would have ended right there with ‘Mony Mony’ if there wasn’t ‘Crimson and Clover,’” he told It’s Psychedelic, Baby in a 2013 interview), the real truth is that Tommy James had spent nearly two years clocking an impending shift in the musical landscape. At an earlier point in the same interview, he describes the moment in February 1967 when he heard “Strawberry Fields Forever” crossover to an AM Top 40 station: “That really left an impression on me.” A new audience was emerging for whom Pop’s infectious energy was not enough. They were hungry for something beneath the surface.
Or, at least, the suggestion of it.
Not to be outdone by the Songfacts sleuths, I have my own admittedly less romantic view of the real meaning behind “Crimson and Clover.” Whether consciously or not, the title is a “Strawberry Fields” analog. Red and green, verdant and evocative—Crimson and clover, over and over is Tommy James’s Strawberry fields, forever.
This suspicion only solidifies with a listen to the whole Crimson and Clover album, which wears the influence of that particular Beatles’ song pretty thin over its ten tracks. "Hello banana, I am a tangerine,” Tommy James sings at one point, sounding like a narc trying to bluff his way onto the Psychedelic school bus.
But look again at the same three songs: “Hanky Panky,” “Mony Mony” and “Crimson and Clover.” All three open on an image of a woman in motion. All three turn on a chorus of indefinite but suggestive meaning. What truly separates them, and what also separates Bubblegum from Psychedelia (“Sugar, Sugar” from “Mellow Yellow”) is that the former uses innuendo to hint at a song’s true meaning, whereas the latter employs it to the opposite effect— suggesting that the song’s meaning is deeply buried and perhaps not even fully available to everyone.
All of which is to say that, while Tommy James certainly knows how to inject a song with implied meaning when he wants to, with “Crimson and Clover,” he is deliberately trying not to say anything. It’s a masterpiece of indirection. Like a shell game with no pea.

Stage lights rise on a young man hanging upside down, his head in a bucket. This is the character of Jeffery, the surfer in my play. He’s been imprisoned in an unnamed country by fascist goons who have mistaken him for a writer. He hangs like this for a few beats, and then his interrogator enters and grabs him up by the hair. That’s when the soundboard operator cues the song: Ahhh...well, I don’t hardly know her...
Joan Jett’s “Crimson and Clover” kicks off act two of my play. This is the real reason why I’ve chosen the title—I want the song to feel like it’s stitched into the very fabric of the text, so that no one will mistake it for a directorial or sound designer’s decision. Like DuBeat-e-o, Alan Sacks, Kenny Laguna, Kathleen Hanna, I want Joan Jett’s bottled light to illuminate my dim interiors; I want to claim some of that impossible energy of hers for myself.
But my director has other ideas about the power source we need to tap into for our production. A week before we open, he introduces us to Robert, his guru—a professor from his grad school days. Robert speaks at length in a haughty British accent on the subject of “vibrating at a different frequency”—a discipline which he believes, once mastered, renders an actor utterly captivating to audiences.
We’re gathered in a circle where the only language we’re allowed is the single syllable, “bah!” and we’re instructed on ways to “direct our sound.” First, off one wall. Then two. Then off two walls and through the window out into the street, like a bullet ricocheting. Bah! BAH! “Put your bah into your chests,” Robert tells us. Bah! “Now into your stomachs!” Bah!
I’m afraid to even look at my girlfriend, there in her leg brace across the circle from me. This is everything I promised her theatre wasn’t. The total opposite of Punk rock.
“Now, put your bah into your left foot,” Robert, the guru, prompts me, dropping to his knees so that he can rest his ear just below my ankle.
“Bah!” I shout.
He looks up and says in earnest, “Don’t yell. It’s not about volume. It’s about putting your voice into your foot.”
The next day, he takes the cast to a mall, where, at full voice in front of the Cinnabon, he describes the milling shoppers as “dead people.” Our job as high priests of the theatre, he informs us, is to remind them all what it means to be alive.
When Tom tells the guru that he finds the mall patrons “electric,” he is banished from the inner sanctum. Meanwhile, my girlfriend has hobbled off with one of the other actors to get stoned in the parking lot.
Eventually, I too shuffle away in despair and embarrassment. The guru’s visit has cost us two thousand dollars and we can no longer afford the boat we need for the climactic third act scenes on the underground river. It’s just as well. I’ve lost all faith in my play by this point. All my big ideas have turned into mush. The monologues I was so proud of, despite all my actors’ best efforts, ring false and contrived.
There’s only one scene I care about anymore. Over the run of the show, it will be the only scene I consistently emerge from the wings to watch. I wrote it in five minutes and thought nothing of it at the time. It’s just a breakfast scene with the whole cast present. Everyone gathers in the kitchen, trying to start their day and pass the butter around the table. Arson and Bell, the scientist, discuss plans to launch his underground journey from the secret lab she runs beneath Mount Weather. Ed, the CIA operative, tells a crass joke to Looloo and Benedict—a psychic who’s recently been helping Arson communicate with the dead.
Jeffery is the last to enter. He’s been in bed for days, horribly sick from his ordeal. He’s shaky on his feet and not really certain where he is.
There’s something about the rhythm of this sequence I got right. The butter, the stray fragments of dialogue and competing conversations. The entrance itself, which isn’t clocked by everyone at the same time, so that it’s like a musical breakdown with all the instruments cutting out one by one. The particular quality of the silence that follows, as Jeffery stands there swaying, and Looloo slowly rises to meet him. There’s something about the way the actors have to extend themselves to fill the gaps in this scene; that’s where the life is, I’m starting to understand, in those gaps.
This is my first real piece of theatre. No one thinks twice about it but at least I’ve figured that much out. In performance, you don’t hardly know what you’ve written until someone else tries to make your words their own.

The author in 1982, the year Joan Jett’s cover of “Crimson and Clover” peaked at #7 on the Billboard Hot 100. Captured here in the wilds of New Jersey, without a clue in his mind that he is headed straight to Hell. And from there, eventually, Oregon. He will pick up bartending and playwriting along the way and would be pleased to know that he’ll one day land a gig writing about vampires for television.

BRIAN OLIU ON PLACEBO’S “RUNNING UP THAT HILL”

In March of 2007, Placebo announced that they were crowdsourcing their newest music video, a cover of Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God),” in the most 2007 way possible: asking fans via Myspace to record a webcam video of them singing the song, and then uploading it to a personal video sharing service called Motionbox, one of what seems to be dozens of likeminded services that popped up during the late aughts in hopes of being the next YouTube, complete with the multimillion dollar Google buy out.  
The call was simple: download the instrumental version of Placebo’s cover, print out the hand-written lyrics to the song, play the song using iTunes (!), RealPlayer (!!) or Windows Media Player (!!!), sing the song directly into your video camera or webcam, and then upload it to the Capital Music Group’s personal Motionbox.
The result was a beautiful time capsule of 2007 internet culture: a stitched together montage of Placebo fans looking forlornly into their Logitech QuickCams solemnly singing the dirge-like version of Kate Bush’s synth bop anthem—a precursor to the collaborative nature of current video-centric social media platforms.
It is very dramatic. The video starts with plenty of black and white shots of heavily shadowed emo-adjacent attractive people doing their best version of an arthouse film from their bedrooms. There is someone singing along while floating in a bathtub. There are a lot of bangs and black eyeliner. There is a lot of looking everywhere but the camera, before a lot of soul-staring directly into the black fish-eye lens. There is always an awareness of self and audience when either ignoring or mouthing along lyrics into the lens; every peek a glance into the very thing that can somehow validate everything one is feeling, yet also powerful enough to capture the moment from you.
The whole video is a pixelated mess. There is somewhat of a universality between the performers & the general mood and aura, but the deviation comes in the varying qualities of the recordings. There are heavy scanlines on some of the performers—blue-ish hues where there should be black—most performers existing in a play between light and shadow, like a poorly digitally rendered chiaroscuro masterpiece.
It is both deeply moving, but deeply silly. Every shot blurs the line between incredibly earnest and wildly performative. It is dated and nostalgic, but also somewhat prescient and welcoming. While it all seems contrived in retrospect, there is a welcome lack of “TikTok Face,”—hyper-aggressive facial expressions and bombastic emoting that seems to be a necessary rite of passage to social media stardom. Instead, it is teenagers and folks in their early 20s trying their best to figure out their relationship to the song, themselves, and the camera.
So, it was definitely surprising to me that upon re-watching the video for the first time since I had a stand-alone webcam, I found myself tearing up a bit.
This isn’t overly surprising—I’m a dude who is, for the most part, rather in touch with my emotions. However, it takes a lot to make me cry, with one exception: a well-placed musical montage using a song that I love, hitting at the exact right time.
I find myself endeared to music as a visual medium, or at the very least, I find that my listening experience is always heightened when paired with something I can bear witness to. I love all music videos and find myself especially excited when a song that I have enjoyed for a few months is getting a new life as a YouTube exclusive upload. 
I could be watching a milquetoast Christmas movie that is going through all the motions, but if we get to a point where the characters are racing across a faux-Manhattan in the snow while “Pogues of New York,” is playing, I will find my eyes welling up. One of my favorite television moments of all time is in the final season of the vastly underrated sci-fi show Fringe, when all hope appears to be lost, John Noble’s Walter sees a yellow daffodil rising from the rubble, while Yaz’s “Only You” plays from a burned out taxi. Then there’s Ted Lasso recovering from a panic attack while Celeste’s “Strange” plays in its entirety over the Liverpool night. Bloc Party through the rain and a blue French horn. Meek Mill through the streets of Philadelphia. Kate Bush’s own “Cloudbusting” after breaking a time loop for love.
Placebo’s “Running Up That Hill” has been used as a soundtrack to a long list of television shows since its official release in 2003, usually to dramatic effect. In many ways, adding music to a television scene allows for the producers to say something that cannot be easily said by the characters—to add an additional layer to what one is watching or supposed to infer from the scene. It relies as both guide and signal to let us know what we are expected to think about what is unfolding—a disclosure of a secret. This is why “Running Up That Hill,” works so well and what works impeccably well about the cover: whereas Bush’s version was famously about wanting to swap places between a man and a woman to learn about each other’s differences to further their love, the Placebo version comes across as bleak, defeated, and a little sinister. It puts the one wishing for a deal with God in a position of powerlessness—pleading to be able to swap places with someone who seems to be struggling. It is a yearning from a place of emptiness: a way to signal to the viewer that everything here is incomplete. It’s Ryan from The O.C. living in Mexico as a cage fighter at the beginning of Season Four ignoring the pleads of America’s Dad, Sandy Cohen, as he attempts to track down the man responsible for killing Marissa Cooper. It’s Stefan in the Vampire Diaries getting scolded for returning to Mystic Falls and killing two of its residents while he pines over a picture of Katherine, who, gasp! looks exactly like Elena, the girl he just met during his first day of high school. It’s Michaela showing Gabriel where the hidden camera is while the news report of the District Attorney’s death plays in the background in How To Get Away With Murder. It’s a crazed Shawn Michaels goading The Undertaker into a rematch at Wrestlemania to end Taker’s undefeated streak by putting his career on the line—alienating his best friend and emerging from underneath the ring during the Elimination Chamber. It’s strangely and hilariously literal as a television promo for The History Channel’s documentary about Gettysburg, playing in the background as soldiers charge through a battlefield while the words “We faced our deadliest enemy yet…OURSELVES,” appear and disappear on screen.
And yet every single time it is incredibly effective. Are you looking for a slightly more obscure and more menacing “Hallelujah,” for your brooding scene? “Running Up That Hill” has got you. It is the “Gonna Fly Now,” of being down bad; of questionable motives. Beloved characters doing something out of character. Underhanded reveals. Penultimate episodes. Sea changes.
This is all to say is that this cover seems to exists to elicit a response within the listener and viewer—this is one of the larger debates we hear about music and its purpose. Often we regard art as something that is created with an audience in mind: a novel about intergenerational heartbreak is meant to make the reader think, or an abstract painting brings upon self-reflection and curiosity. However, there is an equally important debate that what the audience feels is a byproduct of the art, rather than the crafting of the art itself. This raises larger conversations—of control of one’s audience once the work has been released into the world, of corporatization of one’s creations, of the massive weight of it all. The crux of Placebo’s version of the song relies upon the “you” of the song: in Kate Bush’s original, the “you” is smashed into a quickly uttered “d’jou” before getting to the rest of the line; a product of the rolling up-tempo original against the slow tin-can goth downward spiral synth of Placebo’s. When Brian Molko is singing, he is singing directly to you: you want to feel how it feels. You don’t want to hurt me.
The music of a montage is there to tell you how to feel when the images simply aren’t enough—it’s less of an exchanged experience, but a shared one. It’s the illusion of being there in the moment: whether in a storage room in Mexico, or breaking through the plywood and canvas to kick your sworn enemy in the throat. You aren’t there, but you still have the effect of being there: a sugar pill of a down-tuned piano and a synth replaced with a human whisper conjuring up your own feelings of being alone and being misunderstood.
But it’s still all about you. The production team and the paid actors melt away. And in those moments—the mixing of elixirs, the summoning of something real while being presented something entirely scripted, the camera seems to find its way back to you—back in time through upstairs bedrooms and heavily filtered video uploads and broken codecs. It’s where we imagine our own montages—our quaint-footed soundtracks—ourselves existing in the third person as if we are the one filmed; letterboxed and alive; bigger than we’ve ever been. We will not have ourselves pulled and stretched thin the way the piano strings on the opening haunts slide through our computer speakers. We will not be uncompressed to unimaginable sizes: grown bloated and deteriorated because we have grown too large in the moment. We will be stripped down, but no less grandiose. We will be missing a few letters, but remain grandiose. We will be small. You and me. We will steal those moments back.

Brian Oliu lives, teaches, writes, and spreads the gospel of Kate Bush in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. His newest book, Body Drop: Notes on Fandom and Pain in Professional Wrestling was released in September 2021 by The University of North Carolina Press. A chapbook with the poet Jason McCall, What Shot Did You Ever Take, was released by The Hunger Press in June 2021. Find him on Twitter talking about running, football, wrestling, and pedagogy @BrianOliu.