1997: directed by Sophie Muller

Sophie Muller has directed countless videos for folks of whom the Author approves, such as the Cure, Bjork, Curve, Radiohead, and the Eurythmics, as well as countless others whom the Author trusts the Viewer to find out for themselves. She has recently (2001) won an award as MVPA Director of the Year, much to the delight of her company, Oilfactory. (The Viewer, if so fortunate to have a fast computer and fast internet connection, should visit this site, if only to hear the excellent funk MIDI that plays.)

Graham Coxon, in a stripy-brown, short-sleeved button-down shirt, looks everywhere as long as it's the ground, gently whisking out the opening muted whacks of Blur's first single from blur, "Heroin" ... oh, no excuse me, "Beetlebum". As he moves into the full riff, the room (lots of amps and a freakishly awful carpet) bounces up and down behind him. The camera's close up on his hands as he plays, so no one can dare not know how to play this (fifth fret, bar chord, slide to twelfth fret, extend middle finger to tell the music industry to fuck off if they think they know what to expect from Blur).

We see the room in general - carpet cleverly designed to hide puke stains of any configuration, amps, Dave's kit, and Alex sitting on a red couch. Damon, in grunge sweater and Nikes, approaches the mic. "Heroin... it's my wife, and it's my life," he sings. No, no, no, really. He doesn't. He does look rather anaesthetised, though. He turns on the ball of his foot and looks over at Alex. Alex, the essence of Kool in all black, Jazzmaster bass, smoking what we must assume is a harmless filter tobacco cigarette. There is no way to tell, though, for his smoking implement is hazed with a subtle digital blur. He arches his eyebrow as if to say, "Ya want a piece of this?" We do, Alex James, we do.

Close up on Damon and his beads and his sideburns and his pierced ear and his three days' stubble and his eyelashes and the little dent in the end of his nose, and he glances up at the camera with eyes the colour of the sea, not blue or grey or green, but a mirky suggestion of all three. Bags under his eyes. He's aged ten years since the "Charmless Man" video. How does it happen? He clutches the microphone and sings, "I'm gonna try for the kingdom if I can, 'cos it makes me feel like I'm a man," unsteady on his feet, like he hasn't slept in six months and only the mic stand keeps him from keeling over entirely.

Alex, still sitting comfortably, grooves along with Dave, who is drumming in a sexy tan golf shirt. Dave looks great. Graham, singing uncertainly into his own mic, also looks great. Neither of them has aged a minute in years. Damon, though... we are squarely in post-modern Blur. Perhaps the post-modern era started when Damon and Alex started considering shaving optional. This is not to imply that the Author finds Damon or Alex unattractive when unshaven. Not in the least.

Damon flutters his eyelids, because the light is just too damn bright. When the nine-beat bridging riff occurs, we get still-frame impressions of the band in movement - Dave playing, Alex leaning and glowering under his gorgeous locks of oilslick hair, Graham punching at his guitar, Damon with hands cradling, but not actually touching his microphone, eyes closed, lost in a reverie. Graham's glasses are really crooked. Alex's fringe is really long. Extremely fine Alex hair. Enjoy the beautiful Alex as much as possible in this video. It's so downhill from here it's not even funny.

As Damon sings "And when she lets me slip away... then I feel just like Jesus' son," the camera pulls back - way back - out the window and out of London and off the planet and into space, which is made up of multidimensional disco sparkles, with all the shiny, ovoid universes arranged in beautiful sparkling disco harmony. It's a hit of loveliness, a quickie visual orgasm. When we return to Damon's face, the light isn't so bright in his face, and he stares haggardly into the camera, desperately clutching the microphone. Shyly, he averts his glance. Alex plays as if bass was easier than anything except drinking and smoking. Damon stands with his arms hanging limply at his sides, then in close up, he slides his thumb into the corner of his mouth and slides it back, forming a grimace.

Dave takes advantage of a quick break to grab a can of what we can assume to be Coca-Cola because of the red colour behind the digital blur. However, it could very well be ... well, heck, it's Coke. The room bounces behind Graham. Alex stands up finally, destroying his chain of gorgeous smoke rings. The smoke curls back towards him, because he's just that attractive. His firey spliff remains blurred out. Extreme closeup of Damon, eyes definitely shading towards green... or is that more grey? You can see the texture of his skin. It's not so great. He's still lovely. He's not selling Lancôme products, for heaven's sake, but the Author just notices these things. He appears fragile, but much tougher at the same time. Alex plays with the cigarette still clenched between his fingers.

Damon has a problem. He's had too much. He's got his lips on the microphone. He's making love to the microphone with his lips. Tell him to stop! "She'll suck your thumb, she'll make you come," he promises, looking into the camera good and hard. The Author always finds she has to swallow suddenly at this sight. Damon's weaving back and forth. Poor dear; someone fetch him a chair. The Author wants to hurt the people who did this to him.

The nine-break and the action stills happen, these a little wilder than the last. The camera leaves the gravity well again, travelling faster than a neutrino in a big fat hurry, and this time all the continents of Earth show up in silhouette against the bright flashing lights of destiny. Can we save ourselves before it's too late? Aren't we all just one people? And such tiny specks, all alone in the universe. Oooh, pretty. The mind creates such lovely pictures. Where can I get some more of this stuff?

Oh no! Harsh toke! The Author suggested before spaceflight that someone get a chair for Damon, and now look what's happened - he's fallen over! Someone get a doctor! Alex! Alex James! Get a doctor! (Alex James glances down at his fallen comrade with extremely vague interest) No, c'mon, Alex! Damon's really done too much nitrous this time! He's writhing around on the floor, arm up over his eyes to shield them from the infernal light, showing tummy under his grunge sweater... er... where was I? Oh, to hell with it, he'll be fine as soon as he sobers up. He's too fucked up even to enunciate; his glassy eyes roll up, seeing if Alex is upset. Of course, Alex cares nothing for anyone.

The microphone slides out of Damon's limp hand. How vulnerable he is. He rolls over and tries to get up, but ends up just toppling over again, rolling nearer and nearer to a slightly muddled deck of face-up playing cards. He's so tired. He's on the nod. But he revives in time to play a little acoustic guitar (sitting down, of course, his mama didn't raise no fool). Dave, head bent, soldiers on gravely, apparently running low on energy himself. Oh, it's night time all of a sudden! The neon lights outside flicker on and off behind Alex, who casts a long, sinister shadow. Graham, head bent even more than Dave's, is absorbed in his guitar.

As Damon finishes the last line, "Well, I guess that I just don't know", he lets the guitar slip out of his hands onto the terrifying carpet. The camera tracks past this carpet, because it's so great we deserve to see it even more. Damon stands in front of a garage door or something of the kind - the whole wall doesn't usually rise like that unless it's a garage door - and looks out at the gray early morning. He stares out at it, totally freeze-dried after a night of serious junk and nitrous oxide abuse. The camera slowly backs away from the window where Damon stands, arms limp at his sides, frozen with horror at the possibilities of the bleak future. The camera leaves the Blur Practise Building and goes for a journey toward the rising sun over a landscape of rooftop car parks, warehouses, and not much else.

Grim and gorgeous.

CUTE FACTOR: too sex-ay!
VIDEO QUALITY: weird job visually; continuously surprising; psychadelic bummer. Very, very good job of capturing what the song is truly about.
FUCKED UP FACTOR: The Author imagines grips wheeling Damon Albarn in and out with a hand truck. Then again, it might just be method acting.
OVERALL GRADE: A