Minneapolis's Carroll takes on the swell life with the debut of their billion dollar video for "Billionaire", directed by Sean Leonard with cinematography by Domenic Barbero. Having just released their Needs EP, the talents of Brian Hurlow, Max Kulicke, Charles McClung, and Charlie Rudoy sink down the skies of celestial indie pop to earth with the recording assist from Lance Conrad courtesy of NE Minneapolis, MN Humans Win! Studios.
"Billionaire" begins with the big time break as the Gatsby-esque protagonist grooms himself for an awaiting, and expected surprise party. Joining the company at the table, praising are sung, beverages of various colors are poured and impromptu toasts are made. "You're a billionaire with a shotgun and you feel it in the back of your throat, maybe it's the lonely nights or the days gone by, you know where you got to go". Lapping up the high life and compliments paid while ignoring the emptiness for a moment; a grand piece of modern corporate office art is unveiled in the company of 'yes' women and men. The synthesizers move around the drum machine programming in mimicked breath utterances to compliment Carroll's chorus harmonizing of "ooohhs", like keyboard crafted music for Roman bath spring chambers or contemporary museum installations.
The guitars are strummed in restrained, soft and sparse manners while the warped key swells signal dance parties, champagne showers, red rose gifts, and red wine button down shirt stains. "With a hurricane with a baseball bat, three strikes you're out, storm keeps rolling on the window panes with the ladies flying out". The shirt splashing incident brings about an internal storm of discontent for the "Billionaire", an inner pang for a connection that all the gaudy oil paintings or beautiful, smiling Daisies could never quell. Beyond the monetary built comforts of the estate, the inebriated purchased smiles, hot tub soul synthetics; our big swell finds himself alone in a darkened world of homesick harbors, vacant streets, ghostly crosswalks and the sad sanctuary of the Madison Avenue Laundry.
Popping corks and letting the bubbly flow until it is no more distinguishable from the jacuzzi suds, the dress-up shirt stain sends the F. Scott Fitzgerald smooth-keyboard jazz age fantasy into the contemplative evening-endgame solo adventure. "So you hit the streets for a midnight stroll or just a breath of fresh air, there is a siren sound up the avenue and the street light color is in neon blue, what got into you, what got into you…" Repeating the questions of self-definition after making the grade, the high life of modern art pieces and stained white collar CEO excesses are contrasted to the municipal glow of city light utilities, urban gas station oases open late and the public laundromats of the common class.
