New York City, 1977 Smoke filled street corners and ragged bars, pimps and pushers, a smell that won’t go away. His nighttime sky is filled with dreams that died. It’s then that he sees her. Half human, half android. Half woman and half machine. Peering into his television she vanishes as quickly as she appeared. The air around him has become thick and humid, like the lie of a politician’s smile, it masks the reality of his desperation. The air in the streets is heavy, the exhaust of too many taxis and Marlboros linger for days. A stray dog feverishly barks from the alley. He tries but can’t block it out. Another headache. Another victim. Time for bed, but he can’t sleep. He can never sleep. Then one night he is startled by the sound of metal on metal and a gritty static TV flickers as he enters the room. Slowly pacing towards the set, he sees her neon metal helmet. It seemed to be glowing in a way, inviting him. Reaching his arm inside the television he pulls hard, and finally she is there. She is real. Video Girl.
You’re a video girl Tuned to black and white Spin that record Till the past survives Eyes turn away Put your lips to mine Yeah we dance like this Till the end of time
I am your video girl I am your video I am your video I am your video girl
You’re my video girl Turn me on tonight Just press play So the past survives Lights turned down But your lips don’t lie Can we dance like this TiIll the end of time?