We start out with Pat just sitting on a stage, surrounded by sound equipment and a lack of anybody else. Then he and his boots get up and walk to the microphone stand and begin to wail. The camera pulls back from the stage, and we can see that we are in an older building of some kind, and that other members of the band are standing off to the side. I’m no music producer, but I think they’re standing in the wrong place.
Pat doesn’t seem to care, especially when the camera zooms in on him so he can make grimacing faces, widen his eyes, and let us review his slightly-bohemian couture. A few of the band members finally join him, and it’s becoming clear that this video is just going to be their performance, nothing fancy. Luckily, this song is from back in the day, before Pat adopted that annoying bed-head hairstyle, so at least we’ll be able to look at him without the constant urge to hand him a brush.
A group of ladies arrive and start setting up the tiny orchestra that plays on the song. I’m thinking someone should have told them to wear matching outfits, because their clashing styles makes me not want to be supportive. Pat distracts us from this fashion foul by touching the side of his face and smiling at how good it feels to do that.
The rest of the band arrives, and Pat sings his praises to Heaven. Or at least the attic. He doesn’t get any celestial confirmation, so he gives up on that angle and goes back to mugging for the camera. He discovers that if you stretch out the microphone stand way longer than necessary, and then lean it over so you can still sing, it sets up some really interesting cinematography. We spend far longer than we really should studying this development.
Then some other folks arrive, a couple with initially unspecified duties. The woman is sporting one of those irritating backpacks shaped like stuffed animals, so we already don’t like her no matter what her purpose in life might be. These two sit on the floor and start watching the band. Are they the audience? Is that it?
Oh, guess not. Other people start wandering in and plopping their butts on the ground, a wide variety of people, proving that everybody loves Train or that the concert tickets were completely free. To show his appreciation, Pat does a bit where he poses like an airplane. Everyone smiles and nods in approval, so they must be serving cocktails in the lobby.
We focus on Pat singing for a while, and it’s clear that he really, really likes to wave his arms and hands about while telling his story. This is probably why the rest of the band doesn’t stand anywhere near him. It’s too dangerous. The audience continues to fill up, and I’m happy to report that some bright staffer has finally located some chairs for the folks to sit on so that everybody doesn’t have to waller around on the floor. Unless that’s just your thing.
Next up is an extended bit where Pat does his interpretation of a revivalist preacher discovering that his underwear drawer is empty, and therefore The Rapture is just around the corner and it‘s time to board the Jesus Plane. Or it’s time to milk the cows. Something. I really don’t know what that was all about. Happily, he soon stops doing that arms-wide-open thing and just sings for a while.
But even simple singing can be an eye-opening experience around Pat. At one point he throws open his mouth so wide that if we just added water we’d have a five-person hot tub. You don’t want to get near that, it’s too risky. Please remain seated until the pilot turns off the seatbelt sign.
Happily, the threat of death by gaping mouth is minimal, as the song and Pat are winding down. The camera hops around to show us that the band is having a swell time, the audience never wants to leave, and the only thing that could make everybody happier is that the waitress shows up with another round of drinks.
Quick bit with the camera focused on Pat’s face, with him sporting one of his trademark “is that sultry, or is that demonic” expressions that people from San Francisco tend to have. (Maybe it’s the weather up there?) Fade to black…
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