a
Zip My
Breeches Up
The Prodigy aren't in their new video. But pill-popping and girl-on-girl action are. It's so outrageous, it's been banned already - by TV and the band themselves. So what's all the fuss about?
The story of Smack My Bitch Up begins in May last year, when Keith, Liam and the gang began to include the number in their concerts. Eyebrows - and arms - are raised in non-PC appreciation. When it appeared on The Fat Of The Land probings began.
In June '97, Liam hardly soothed concerns in an NME interview by stating: "It's probably the most pointless song l've ever written. I've got no explanation as to why l've got that lyric in. It's just there and it works." Elsewhere he said the song attempted to take the piss out of aggressive rap records, while simultaneously conveying to the audience the excitement such records deliver. Over in the US the band were "advised" by their worried record company to alter the track listing to Smack My B****Up, lest the album be barred from going on sale. In time it was made clear the band wanted the track released as a single but when it never appeared, people - even some of the most ardent Prodigy fans - assumed they were joking. Well, they couldn't do it could they? By the time word spread that it was to be the next single, encased in "tasteful" car-crash
picture sleeve, a post-Diana, tabloid-fuelled frenzy looked likely. Plans were hastily hatched for an alternative cover image. Meanwhile Radio 1 had decided the song, though not banned, was only suitable for broadcast on specialist evening shows. The furore and the filth were hardly extinguished by the promise of a lurid, sex-drugs-violence video promo, which, since its initial conceptualisation, has been hotly-tipped as the latest in a long line of three-minute wonders to fall foul of British censors. That's if they don't ban it straightaway. Apparently MTV has expressed concerns over certain audio aspects (ie, the word "smack") let alone the impending visual elements. And it's here, amid the rumours, the escalating hysteria from our moral guardians and the tut-tut-shouldn't-be-allowed titillation, that Sky enters the fray...
So then. This is clearly no bog-standard let's-get-the-band-to-mime-unconvincingly-to-the-track-in-a-studio-with-obligatory-backing-dancers-type set-up. The storyline, invented by Swedish director Jonas Aakerlund and the band themselves, is this: the main character - seen only through the eye of a camera lens, right until the gripping (literally) "climax" - is at home preparing for a rowdy night out. We see CDs being selected, lines chopped then hoovered, ablutions taken care of, drinks downed swiftly and dancing around the living room. We then head for the bright lights of seedy central London. Various subterranean scenarios occur, with Main Character progressively more drunk and abandoned, on a constant mission to get right out of it. There's aggressive dancefloor action, with hordes of extras wheeled in from the capital's freakiest club nights (and yes, they were all dancing to the song in question), fights break out, some bloke has an (E-induced?) dump, rather graphically.
There's a bit where loads of puke projects over an unlucky reveller. And then there's topless girls in G-strings, strippers-a-stripping, shiny geezers guzzling champers, bloody fisticuffs and buxom cleavages squelched into the camera, before all is finally revealed with a super-sly finale and a sting in the tail. You see, Main Character is not some largin' it wide boy, as is suggested/presumed, but in fact a distinctly non-shrinking violet WOMAN. And having grabbed the buttocks of a similarly unabashed young lass she then drags her conquest back home (with some extremely dodgy drunken driving in between) to indulge in a session of wholesome, girl-on-girl sack action. Just a casual, shandy-down-the-pub kind of evening, really.
So, having been granted exclusive access to the top secret video venture, Sky's invited along to an ordinary-looking west London flat, in which various scenes are to be completed. All the bits shot in the house are to be filmed this evening - it's now 6.30pm, shooting will go on until at least three in the morning - as well as a shockingly realistic hit-and-run car accident. The flat's a hive of activity. A sussed young video crew, and friends who are helping out for the day, look happy in their work, proba-
bly unable to believe their luck that they got to work on a Prodigy video. Director Jonas (previously, scarily, a maker of videos for Roxette's lead vocalist's solo career, amongst others), looks calm in dark denim and even darker shades. Does he anticipate the promo being banned or heavily censored? "Probably, I guess... at least, my past experiences say it will be," he replies, unfazed. "I've done much softer things than this and had trouble with censorship, so I imagine this will be the same." This is a man who likes to research his projects, with a messy, hands-on approach: "I got the tape of Smack My Bitch Up when I was in Copenhagen. That night I went out to a party, did the whole thing (gives knowing look) then came back to the hotel afterwards, listened to it, and came up with this idea!" So this video is basically a typical night out with Jonas, then. Fair enough.
If that sounds disconcerting, imagine the horrors from the previous day. Strip joint scenes shot in the über-tacky Zenon nightclub (an establishment long since divorced from its "classy" early 80s reputa-tion) proved gruesome: blocked toilets, puddles of piss, not to mention the fleas, which left the scant-ily-clad cast frantically scratching. Hmm, sounds like something from a Prodigy video. And Nikki The Big Cheese had to muck in with a mop and bucket after this afternoon's celluloid stint in Soho's notorious Raymond Revue Bar: "I was left to clean up after everyone had left, I think the staff thought I was the new charwoman," she shrugs, in mock exasperation. "Well, at least you've got another career to fall back on," reasons her clipboard-clasp-ing assistant Mel.
It's now 10pm and after a couple of hours of inactivity a cameraman walks past in just his underwear, complete with protruding mechanical contraption on his shoulder. It turns out he is recording the part of Main Character (or "Babe" as the team call her/him), and the contraption is, in fact, a specially-adapted camera which will create the illusion of everything being seen
through Babe's eyes. Prodge-A-Vision, perhaps? "Did you remember to shave your legs again this morning?" enquires the floor manager, sardon-ically. Luckily, he did - because he's meant to be a woman, and as his camera occasionally catches a glimpse of his pins, they must be baby-smooth at all times. The crew gather eagerly around a monitor, watching Babe as he films his freshly feminised legs poking out the bath and padding around the pokey bathroom. Time to meet the rest of the stars...
Less ruffled by the proceedings, and imminent raunchy boudoir scene, is her 26-year-old comrade Theresa May (aka the ultimately unveiled Babe): "I do this type of thing anyway, l'm a glamour model. I do Page 3, lots of calendars, LIVE TV, all sorts. I auditioned for it on the Thursday and got it on the Friday... over the moon, I was!" Are they nervous about the sex scenes? "Oh no, we're not nervous," scoffs Theresa. "When you've seen one you've seen them all." "Well I know Theresa anyway so it's not going to be too hard getting intimate and having a birrova romp... mind you, you have got a squelchy fanny!" accuses Christina. Uh-oh, soft-porn model conversation... "Who makes noises? I certainly don't!" retorts Theresa, briskly. "Anyway, nude scenes are nearly always filmed behind a 'closed' set, so no peeping now, you lot!" Is the absence of the band members a blow? "I was excited when I got this part," begins Christina, "thinking they were going to be in it - and in the bed scenes..." "Yeah, that crossed my mind too," interrupts Theresa, "but I thought we'd be wandering about with them, singing in the background. Unfortunately they're not here, so we have to imagine and fantasise." "Ooh, you dirty vag!" exclaims Christina, concluding the interview with: "I bet you think we talk a load of shit, don't you?"
This video for Smack My Bitch Up has already been banned by everyone, everywhere.
Just in case we were forgetting who they were (as if), the Prodigy are about to end 1997 in a blaze of notoriety. For as the curtain falls on their year of global success (No 1 in America album Fat Of The Land is behind only Oasis and the Spice Girls as the biggest seller of the year), controversy (imperfect but invigorating live performances) and stubbornness (virtually no interviews, a refusal to do Top Of The Pops) - an encore no one thought they’d ever unleash is about to land on our doorstep. The Prodigy are going to go that little bit further.
The story of Smack My Bitch Up begins in May last year, when Keith, Liam and the gang began to include the number in their concerts. Eyebrows - and arms - are raised in non-PC appreciation. When it appeared on The Fat Of The Land probings began.
In June '97, Liam hardly soothed concerns in an NME interview by stating: "It's probably the most pointless song l've ever written. I've got no explanation as to why l've got that lyric in. It's just there and it works." Elsewhere he said the song attempted to take the piss out of aggressive rap records, while simultaneously conveying to the audience the excitement such records deliver. Over in the US the band were "advised" by their worried record company to alter the track listing to Smack My B****Up, lest the album be barred from going on sale. In time it was made clear the band wanted the track released as a single but when it never appeared, people - even some of the most ardent Prodigy fans - assumed they were joking. Well, they couldn't do it could they? By the time word spread that it was to be the next single, encased in "tasteful" car-crash
picture sleeve, a post-Diana, tabloid-fuelled frenzy looked likely. Plans were hastily hatched for an alternative cover image. Meanwhile Radio 1 had decided the song, though not banned, was only suitable for broadcast on specialist evening shows. The furore and the filth were hardly extinguished by the promise of a lurid, sex-drugs-violence video promo, which, since its initial conceptualisation, has been hotly-tipped as the latest in a long line of three-minute wonders to fall foul of British censors. That's if they don't ban it straightaway. Apparently MTV has expressed concerns over certain audio aspects (ie, the word "smack") let alone the impending visual elements. And it's here, amid the rumours, the escalating hysteria from our moral guardians and the tut-tut-shouldn't-be-allowed titillation, that Sky enters the fray...
So then. This is clearly no bog-standard let's-get-the-band-to-mime-unconvincingly-to-the-track-in-a-studio-with-obligatory-backing-dancers-type set-up. The storyline, invented by Swedish director Jonas Aakerlund and the band themselves, is this: the main character - seen only through the eye of a camera lens, right until the gripping (literally) "climax" - is at home preparing for a rowdy night out. We see CDs being selected, lines chopped then hoovered, ablutions taken care of, drinks downed swiftly and dancing around the living room. We then head for the bright lights of seedy central London. Various subterranean scenarios occur, with Main Character progressively more drunk and abandoned, on a constant mission to get right out of it. There's aggressive dancefloor action, with hordes of extras wheeled in from the capital's freakiest club nights (and yes, they were all dancing to the song in question), fights break out, some bloke has an (E-induced?) dump, rather graphically.
There's a bit where loads of puke projects over an unlucky reveller. And then there's topless girls in G-strings, strippers-a-stripping, shiny geezers guzzling champers, bloody fisticuffs and buxom cleavages squelched into the camera, before all is finally revealed with a super-sly finale and a sting in the tail. You see, Main Character is not some largin' it wide boy, as is suggested/presumed, but in fact a distinctly non-shrinking violet WOMAN. And having grabbed the buttocks of a similarly unabashed young lass she then drags her conquest back home (with some extremely dodgy drunken driving in between) to indulge in a session of wholesome, girl-on-girl sack action. Just a casual, shandy-down-the-pub kind of evening, really.
So, having been granted exclusive access to the top secret video venture, Sky's invited along to an ordinary-looking west London flat, in which various scenes are to be completed. All the bits shot in the house are to be filmed this evening - it's now 6.30pm, shooting will go on until at least three in the morning - as well as a shockingly realistic hit-and-run car accident. The flat's a hive of activity. A sussed young video crew, and friends who are helping out for the day, look happy in their work, proba-
bly unable to believe their luck that they got to work on a Prodigy video. Director Jonas (previously, scarily, a maker of videos for Roxette's lead vocalist's solo career, amongst others), looks calm in dark denim and even darker shades. Does he anticipate the promo being banned or heavily censored? "Probably, I guess... at least, my past experiences say it will be," he replies, unfazed. "I've done much softer things than this and had trouble with censorship, so I imagine this will be the same." This is a man who likes to research his projects, with a messy, hands-on approach: "I got the tape of Smack My Bitch Up when I was in Copenhagen. That night I went out to a party, did the whole thing (gives knowing look) then came back to the hotel afterwards, listened to it, and came up with this idea!" So this video is basically a typical night out with Jonas, then. Fair enough.
If that sounds disconcerting, imagine the horrors from the previous day. Strip joint scenes shot in the über-tacky Zenon nightclub (an establishment long since divorced from its "classy" early 80s reputa-tion) proved gruesome: blocked toilets, puddles of piss, not to mention the fleas, which left the scant-ily-clad cast frantically scratching. Hmm, sounds like something from a Prodigy video. And Nikki The Big Cheese had to muck in with a mop and bucket after this afternoon's celluloid stint in Soho's notorious Raymond Revue Bar: "I was left to clean up after everyone had left, I think the staff thought I was the new charwoman," she shrugs, in mock exasperation. "Well, at least you've got another career to fall back on," reasons her clipboard-clasp-ing assistant Mel.
It's now 10pm and after a couple of hours of inactivity a cameraman walks past in just his underwear, complete with protruding mechanical contraption on his shoulder. It turns out he is recording the part of Main Character (or "Babe" as the team call her/him), and the contraption is, in fact, a specially-adapted camera which will create the illusion of everything being seen
through Babe's eyes. Prodge-A-Vision, perhaps? "Did you remember to shave your legs again this morning?" enquires the floor manager, sardon-ically. Luckily, he did - because he's meant to be a woman, and as his camera occasionally catches a glimpse of his pins, they must be baby-smooth at all times. The crew gather eagerly around a monitor, watching Babe as he films his freshly feminised legs poking out the bath and padding around the pokey bathroom. Time to meet the rest of the stars...
Less ruffled by the proceedings, and imminent raunchy boudoir scene, is her 26-year-old comrade Theresa May (aka the ultimately unveiled Babe): "I do this type of thing anyway, l'm a glamour model. I do Page 3, lots of calendars, LIVE TV, all sorts. I auditioned for it on the Thursday and got it on the Friday... over the moon, I was!" Are they nervous about the sex scenes? "Oh no, we're not nervous," scoffs Theresa. "When you've seen one you've seen them all." "Well I know Theresa anyway so it's not going to be too hard getting intimate and having a birrova romp... mind you, you have got a squelchy fanny!" accuses Christina. Uh-oh, soft-porn model conversation... "Who makes noises? I certainly don't!" retorts Theresa, briskly. "Anyway, nude scenes are nearly always filmed behind a 'closed' set, so no peeping now, you lot!" Is the absence of the band members a blow? "I was excited when I got this part," begins Christina, "thinking they were going to be in it - and in the bed scenes..." "Yeah, that crossed my mind too," interrupts Theresa, "but I thought we'd be wandering about with them, singing in the background. Unfortunately they're not here, so we have to imagine and fantasise." "Ooh, you dirty vag!" exclaims Christina, concluding the interview with: "I bet you think we talk a load of shit, don't you?"
This video for Smack My Bitch Up has already been banned by everyone, everywhere.