There were the eighties video staples that hadn’t become clichés yet: a fancy party in an embassy, a candelabra on a white baby grand beneath a chandelier, martinis drunk by grotesques shot in fish-eye lens, a tarantula crawling across the face of a passed-out guest, an ominous child playing a violin. There were lovers discovered by paparazzi, and someone shot to death on the grand curving staircase of an opera house. The feeling has gone, the singer cried out. It means nothing to me. This means nothing to me. The final chorus climaxes with a cymbal crash and it always gave me chills. Oh,
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