Mumford and Sons – “I Will Wait”

  We start out with the video showing a black screen longer than you normally see one, to the point that I’m thinking “wow, this is a seriously minimalist video”. Then we get the image of a craggy rock wall alongside an unknown highway (a statement about the House of Representatives?), followed by the words “The Road to Red Rocks”. That could mean anything from a cheap Western movie to a porn site on the web. I have no idea what’s about to happen.

  Then we’re suddenly at a concert venue, and it doesn’t take long to realize that Red Rocks refers to that outdoor amphitheater thing in Colorado, a way cool place that I’ve always wanted to visit. (Not that I’m trying to make this all about me, but somehow I usually manage to do so in the end, so I might as well get there right off the bat.)

  I’m hoping this doesn’t mean this is one of those videos where we just watch the band play on the stage, because although concert videos can be fun for the dedicated fan, they suck mightily when you’re trying to write snarky comments in a blog post. There’s nothing funny about people just standing there and singing. I need me some cray-cray people running around in a nightclub while wearing bling and having sex with supermodels. That I can work with.

  Anyway, the band members kick off the song, with all 74 of them banging on their guitars and banjos and… other instruments with strings, I was never a whiz in music class. (And I had no idea that Mumford had so many sons, there are people all over that stage.) One of them even hoists what looks like a bass violin (whatever it is, it’s big) over his head, so we’ll have to assume that energy-drink consumption took place in the green room.

  Then we hit a slow part of the song, which allows the cameraman to feel safe enough to give us close-ups of the folks doing the singing. (Hey, that one guy is pretty hot. I’m suddenly a little bit more invested in the goings-on.) After we’ve met and become friends with everybody, the camera then turns to the surroundings, letting us know that, yep, this place is truly surrounded by red rocks. Big-ass rocks. As in, if one of these things fell on your house, an entire zip code would be wiped out.

  We focus back on the stage, where it basically becomes clear that everybody in the band gets to sing at least bits of the song. That’s nice. This keeps people from becoming bitter and writing tell-all books at a really inappropriate time. Then we go back to a wide-shot of the audience, with the rocks and everything, and I have to pause the video for a minute to check out travel packages on the web because this place is definitely now on my bucket list. Mmm hmm.

  I come back to the band launching into another fast part of the song, where they’re all plucking strings like Thanksgiving  dinner is late and Granny’s pissed that nobody’s prepped the turkey. A shot of the audience reveals that nearly all of them are jumping up and down with their hands in the air. This is refreshing and shows that true fans really appreciate good music. Unlike the audiences at “pre-packaged band-of-the-day” concerts, where 10% of the audience is even bothering to look at the stage and the other 90% are trying to smoke weed without getting caught.

  Slow part of the song again, with the close-ups of strumming and sweat. These guys are really intense, burning with their talent. Or maybe it’s just those enormous lights on the sides of the stage, soaking the men in tremendous wattage, making it look like the final scenes of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, when we learned that Richard Dreyfuss wasn’t crazy after all, despite the thing with the mashed potatoes.

  More shots of the audience members , bouncing with a frenzy like they’re on the Ellen DeGeneres show and they just found free toaster ovens under their seats.

  Slow tempo again, with the heartfelt and emotional vocals, and if you listen really closely, you can hear several folks in the audience apparently having orgasms over the poetry and beauty of it all. Or maybe that’s just Nicki Minaj in the manager’s office, making a fuss about not getting to be a “featured artist” on one of the band’s singles. Not sure.

  We eventually get back to another upbeat part of the song, and the audience once again goes into a frenzy of passion and bouncing. (Well, at least the audience members who haven’t already climaxed and are now smoking a cigarette and gazing up at the stars, all fuzzy and warm.) It’s quite pleasing to see so many people really invested in a band, but part of me also wishes people in America could get this excited about participating in the election process, and maybe we wouldn’t have so many zombies in Washington.

  Then we launch into the hyper-aggressive section of the song, where the band essentially transforms to another plane of existence as they pluck and pound and emote, sweat flying and vocals harmonizing. This allows the audience members who haven’t yet clawed the ceiling with their toenails to do so, in a rousing Big O that surely registered on the Richter scale at a nearby monitoring facility. (Even Nicki Minaj, still ranting in the manager’s office, suddenly feels butterfly wings in a special place.)

  The video ends with the band thanking the audience. The audience responds by throwing their phone numbers, panties, and paternity test results at the stage…

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Havana Brown, Pitbull – “We Run The Night”

  We start off with a montage of images as Pitbull is using his Announcer Voice to introduce Havana who, based on the glowing praise that Pitbull is tossing her way, apparently invented the solar system or something. We have strobe-lights flashing as Havana, or possibly Audrey Hepburn, sashays into what might be a fancy nightclub or a very progressive church. Since Pitbull is involved, it’s most likely a nightclub, because I’ve never seen him anywhere else. Does he even own a house?

  This opening montage includes the first scenes of Havana and Pitbull standing in front of an intricately-carved door, striking various poses while fans blow air everywhere and stylists are on standby in case something unsexy should happen with the couture. The door must be very important in some way, because we keep coming back to the two of them perched in front of it. Are there record executives on the other side, trying to figure out who else Pitbull can do a duet with before he sets a new record?

  It takes Havana a very long time to make her way down the entrance hallway, indicating some type of navigational issue, but once she enters the inner sanctum, people start dancing and screaming and looking beautiful. In the mean time, we also get shots of Havana wearing what will become two of her signature outfits for the video: a flimsy beige number that might qualify as sleepwear in a bordello and this red ensemble that includes an aggressive bow tied in her hair. More on those items later.

  Havana finally starts to actually sing (in front of the mystical door, naturally), with Pitbull beside her either doing some minimalist choreography or motioning to one of his handlers that something itches. Then we zip over to Hair-bow Havana, as she sits on a red throne and vocalizes. It seems that her voice (or possibly the way she can’t sit still) inspires everyone around her to initiate an orgy right there on the dance floor. We have writhing bodies and expressions of ecstasy piled all over the place. This is not your grandpa’s VFW hall.

  This goes on for a bit, in case we didn’t get it at first that Havana makes everyone horny, mixed in with shots of Havana somewhere else, wearing enough jewelry that she will never get through airport security in time to make her flight. Hair-bow Havana does look especially pleasing on that throne, and the orgy participants nearest the royal seat keep reaching over to paw Havana and show their appreciation. Or maybe they just need extra condoms, because this place is pretty busy.

  Then we roll our way into a sequence where Havana is doing a Madonna tribute by wallering around on some floor whilst wearing what could be a wedding dress. It’s not really clear what’s going on, because they are using a spotlight that only lets us see bits of Havana at one time, because getting the whole enchilada at once might cause us to lose our minds with lust.

  Oh wait, some of her friends from the Orgy Dance Floor have joined her, and there’s more pawing. It must be nice to have companions that will pet you on command. This segment also goes on for a while, with Havana apparently unable to get off that floor, to the point that they should probably call in a specialist. But Havana doesn’t seem to mind being on her back for such an extended amount of time, so they just let her writhe around until she’s motivated to do something else.

  And really, that’s about it, folks. We’ve been introduced to all the locales and outfits, and from here on out it’s a busy mix of those same ingredients: the Pitbull duet in front of the door, the royal orgy in the nightclub and Havanadonna on the floor. To be fair, there’s a lot to look at, because everyone is so energetic and their libidos are fully-charged, but it’s safe to assume that the script for this thing could have fit on the back of a postage stamp.

  Pitbull returns to the mix, of course, with a long bit in front of the special door, where he does his usual spiel about being too sexy for this planet and how a female is not a true woman until they’ve ridden the Pitbull Express. But the red jacket he’s wearing is a nice touch, and it coordinates just right with the ribbon on Hair-Bow Havana. Too bad they’re never in the same scene together so that we can fully admire the matching colors.

  He also spends some time getting rather intimate with Havana, but I’m assuming this is a package deal when it comes to Pitbull. (If you’ve met Pitbull, you’ve met his tongue, what else can I say?) Then he flips us off and demands his paycheck. 17 seconds of work and he expects to be paid. Is he a Republican?

  Then we cut to Havana being a DJ and running the soundboard. Perhaps she does this in real life, so I can’t comment on whatever skills she might actually have in this department, but I think the real reason she’s doing it now is so the editors can jack with the video and create three images of DJ Havana rocking the house. Which they promptly do, so that it looks like an army of Havanas has taken over a disco near you. Again with the fairness, Havana looks quite luscious as she fiddles with knobs and pumps her fist in the air, so seeing three of her doing that is not such a bad thing.

  (That sound you just heard was Pitbull running to his handlers and demanding that he be replicated in his next project. More to have sex with, right?)

  And from here on out we’ve seen it all. Simulated sex, constant bouncing, Pitbull. We do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time checking in with Havanadonna on that floor, but she still appears to be having a good time at that lower altitude so we really shouldn’t judge. And it becomes increasingly clear that all of the Havanas really like to touch their various body parts, but since this ability seems to be a requirement for emerging musical artists these days, we can’t really blame her for that mess, either. She’s obviously studied her craft, and her erogenous zones, very well.

  The last bit of the video involves DJ Havana whipping out a sledgehammer and destroying one of the turntables. This is completely unexpected, and I’m not sure what the message might be, especially since the turntable she suddenly hates is responsible for playing the music that is giving her a career. Then again, I don’t have the special talent of being able to cause crowds of people to have sex just by the way I can sit on a throne or wear a ribbon in my hair, so I’ll just assume that Havana has her reasons for getting psychotic with the sound system.

  The video ends with Havana thrusting the deadly hammer into the air and looking sultry. (That sound you just heard was Pitbull demanding that his handlers run to Home Depot and get supplies for his next project…)

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Coldplay – “Paradise”

  We start out with some sunset wildlife scenes, with animals traipsing around an African locale. It’s very cinematic and all, but then we start seeing fancy credits and I start to get nervous because I’m really not in the mood for an art film about poverty, animal injustice, and a political message that will force me to contemplate life. I just want to drink my beer, watch videos, and wail along with the songs until the po-po knock on my door and tell me to knock it off. (This is a skill I learned in college. That tuition money was well spent, let me tell ya.)

  Luckily, it seems that the fine Coldplay folks just want me to be happy, and we suddenly cut to the image of someone wearing an elephant costume and standing behind the metal bars of a gate somewhere. The Elephant Man looks very sad, even though his outfit is cute, and then Elbert turns to a nearby wall with the stick figures of three more elephants and a lot of hash marks. Elbert adds another mark to the count and continues to look sad.

  Is he keeping track of his days in captivity? Does he owe people money? Is he helping Coldplay count the millions they have made from record sales and merchandising ventures like Coldplay bath soap? Elbert doesn’t say, so perhaps his attorney has advised him to keep his mouth shut until after the trial is over.

  Elbert suddenly decides that he’s had enough of living wherever he is (it appears to be a zoo) and he breaks the tiny little lock on his cage door (it appears that the zoo is a bit lacking when it comes to security) and Elbert runs like the wind. Two guard-like people make a half-ass attempt to chase after Elbert, but they give up when he finds a bicycle lying conveniently nearby. (Everyone knows that once an elephant gains access to transportation, it’s a done deal and you might as well go back to whatever you were doing before all the running started.)

  Elbert rides the bike to a subway station, then he runs inside so he can hold up cardboard signs with the lyrics that lead singer Chris is now warbling. (No one bats an eye at this bit of business, because people in London are jaded and they’ve seen it all. Only people in small towns get excited over four-legged creatures holding cue cards.) We then kick off a montage of Elbert with the lyrics and Elbert riding the subway while absolutely no one pays him any mind, including a nun and what looks like Kevin Spacey after another questionable incident in a city park.

  Eventually Elbert gets off the subway at Heathrow, a quiet little airport where nothing much happens and there’s never any traffic. (Not.) Continuing with our theme of “nobody noticing the elephant in the room”, Elbert is able to dash across a runway in broad daylight and sneak aboard an airplane. (Meanwhile, on the human side of things, bitter security-screeners are shoving cattle prods at 3-year-olds and grandmothers because somebody might have a bomb hidden in their pacifier or hip replacement.)

  The plane takes off, and we have another montage of Elbert on his impromptu journey, snacking on spilled peanuts and riding on the luggage conveyor. Then the plane lands in an unnamed distant city, one also lacking in any type of serious security when it comes to pachyderms being where they shouldn’t be.

  Elbert pauses in his travels to stand outside a graffiti-soaked building and do some more business with those cardboard lyric signs. This session involves considerably more choreography than the first one, with Elbert showing off a lot of smooth dance moves that he must have picked up from watching 80’s movies about drugs and rhythm. He also has one of those “please give” boxes where people can throw coinage if they are inspired by his antics, a move he must have picked up watching the American banking industry screw things up for a decade or so and then fly in a private jet to Washington with their hands out.

  Then we have Elbert wandering down some street, and he happens to come across a bicycle shop. I guess he has a fondness for those things after one of them helped him with his big break, so he goes inside to find another little wheeled friend. Sadly, the only thing Elbert can afford (let’s not even ponder how he got the little money that he does have) is a unicycle. (Personal side note: I think unicycles are of the devil. There’s just something fundamentally wrong with those things.)

  Anyway, next thing you know we have Elbert trucking down the middle of a highway on the unicycle. He’s got his thumb out, trying to hitch a ride, but no one seems interested in allowing a strange elephant into their car. (Would you? Even if you’ve been drinking?) There is one point during this segment where Elbert takes off his elephant head so we can see that, yep, it’s Chris inside there. Or maybe it’s Gwyneth. Not sure, somebody blond. Apple, maybe? How old is she these days? If she’s old enough to get a job, she needs to be doing something.

  Oh wait, now Elbert seems to have made his way to the pretty African-plain place that we first visited in this video before we learned the story was going to involve animal-costume fetishes and illegal international travel. We see Elbert strolling along, carrying the unicycle instead of riding it (I told you those things were not right with Jesus). He comes upon a giraffe, who immediately runs away from him, which is a sad commentary on life if that creature is the only thing in the video thinking “there’s something a bit off with that elephant over there”.

  Then Elbert spies three figures in the distance, and he studies them for a second before hurling the wretched unicycle to the ground and running to greet the rest of the Coldplay band, all of them in elephant costumes. They immediately launch into a celebration of freedom, homecoming, the ability to easily locate friends in a vast continent with relatively few road signs, and the joys of having very long trunks that swing in the wind.

  This goes on for quite some time. These people are very happy to be reunited and it feels so good.

  We eventually transition to the band playing at a live concert, wearing just the elephant heads and banging away on their instruments. Judging by the way the audience members are having orgasms and doing backflips, the whole elephant thing has apparently become a very important part of the Coldplay touring experience. And it does look like a lot of fun, in an odd, “Sesame Street on acid” kind of way.

  The final shot is back in Africa, with the band members in full elephant-mode, running toward the camera with a startling intensity. The image of the one elephant with the polka-dot ears and the John Lennon glasses is probably my favorite, and I hope he wins for supporting actor at the MTV awards. Unless he hops on a unicycle. Then all bets are off…

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