Things are starting to get off track. This essay was condensed from an original version published on his web site, willsheff.com. There's a woozy pedal steel off in the background, and we get a shot of their keyboardist Billy Francis, a longhaired beanpole with a tightly tucked-in shirt and a droopy mustache, playing a cheesy harpichord-sounding synth as Locorriere and Sawyer loudly and wordlessly yowl off camera. To his right are a long-haired bassist and a long-haired lead guitarist, the second partially obscured behind a high pedal-steel station. The band begs Locorriere to stop but he keeps saying, "I got it! Doctor my dose. Rezension aus Deutschland vom 28. We were two little kids making something just to kill time, being goofy, shouting and jumping around and pontificating behind a closed door, with no thought in our heads about an audience or a finished product and certainly no thought of outside appreciation or of exposure or fame of any kind. They bring a ten-thousand-ton wave of sheer joy, joy when all is lost, joy in music all by itself, in the act of playing music when there's no reason left to play it, joy in music stripped of any other motivation than as play. The rest of the group barely look at him, and he hardly seems to make eye contact with either them or the cameras, instead fixing his gaze at some unspecified point far off in the endless black of the studio. Was it cavernous? Most concert films celebrate bands at the height of their powers, depicting their massive stadium tours, their virtuousic skill, their almost shamanic sway over adoring audiences. The precursor of Dr. Hook. But "the thrill we've never known," they qualify, "is the thrill that'll getcha when you get your picture / on the cover of the Rolling Stone." Over the course of the set, the characters become gradually more defined. Scenarios would be completely abandoned midstream and we'd pick up another plotline, and then that plotline would be abandoned but one character from it would stay on, walking into another plotline like it was another room, until the actual bedroom we were in started to fade away and recede and we were actually living inside this radio-play, sloughing off and adopting new personalities and inhabiting imaginary shifting and melting dream-spaces, walking across the ribbon of that slowly unspooling cassette as it dumbly just kept recording, living and floating along this stream-of-consciousness that we both shared. The producers of Musikladen appear to have chosen "Penicillin Penny" as the song in which to get the most experimental with their editing technique; up until this point the editing has been mostly invisible, consisting of conventional long-shots with occasional cuts to different parts of the action, but in "Penicillin Penny" there's a switch to a deliberately disorienting pattern of very tight shots that alternate quickly and rhythmically.
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