God will snap our arms like twigs

A delusional middle-aged DJ, an old man who runs his business from a trailer in the middle of the night, a masked couple driving at a glacial pace. Dance, Meathead! is not about the motivations of a set of characters but an exploration of the world they find themselves navigating with all the clarity of a post-surgical sedative haze. Pervasive industrial noise groans with obscene irony under the weight of the under-employed and idle. We bleed paint, perform for no one, sell human meat, drive cars filled with fog, spend years sitting on a chair, fail to notice anything extraordinary, have bad haircuts, line-up for days, recall people we haven’t met and events that never occurred. We drift further into an alienating world where one action makes as little sense as any of its
alternatives. In this world, with an atmosphere too thick to permit clarity but too light to crush one entirely, the connection of individuals is merely spatial. Our slow-moving roving camera tires quickly of each purgatorial character that it glimpses upon, as we find in every corner another strange story bubbling over.