Rollerwave Gallery

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This is a staple of the Rollerwave genre, a fundamental building block. If Dan Frost’s “To Every Man” is the Eccojams of Rollerwave, then “Cable TV Memories,” lovingly crafted by enigmatic Milwaukee artist The Homecoming, is its Floral Shoppe- an album which defines the genre extremely well. If you’ve ever wondered what straight Rollerwave sounds like, this is it. 

These are the sounds of a world so distant it is barely recognizable as our own. In fact, all signs point to it not being our own. This is a parallel universe of disposable smooth jazz, the kind of music that without a good deal of reverb and other effects is instantly forgettable, yet within the hands of a master craftsman like The Homecoming becomes something more, a delightfully twisted mutation. This is postmodern elevator music, always with a sinister hint behind it, a paratext to decipher. Trumpets and acoustic guitar whisk the listener into a television-induced coma from which there is no recovery. 

The Homecoming has been compared, time and again, to The Caretaker, seeing as “Cable TV Memories” came out post-Everywhere At The End Of Time. I think this comparison is missing the point, though. While both albums are ambient, and both utilize the remixing of contemporary music to create otherworldly effects, I’ve found that The Homecoming’s usage of 1970s samples is particularly otherworldly, and what with the 1970s being more recent than the subject material of EATEOT, I think Cable TV Memories ironically creates a greater distance between the modern and the retrospective.

The commercials The Homecoming intersperses throughout the album, too, serve to create subtle hints of alienation. far from benign, these are strategically placed to give the listener a sense of growing dread and unease. A storm warning that demands the viewer continue normal activities despite the looming threat. An ad which, in a sublime coincidence, advertises a false impression of the 1950s as a flawless, halcyon utopia, in the same way modern genres like vaporwave advertise the 1980s. An ad which literally tells the listener that Chuck Mangione is going to make them feel good, reinforcing the idea that music is a paralyzing drug designed to distract us from the problems of the modern world, and that, whether we want to or not, we’re sinking deep into the couch cushions while the TV continues playing. 

The samples within the album are altered just enough such that they’re rendered dreamlike and surreal, though not enough to rob them of their lifeless corporatism. As the title of the album suggests, it deals narratively with the introduction of networks like HBO for the first time into regions like Chicago and New York- a historical event of the 1970s which would later give rise to the modern cable infrastructure we all use today. 

All of us enthralled with horror and speculative fiction have, at one point or another, wanted to visit the Night Gallery in real life. You can’t deny the pull of these accursed paintings- masterfully brought into being by Tom Wright, they go today for thousands of dollars, each one a captivating original which represents a well-written tale of the paranormal or occult. And if the Night Gallery were a real place- a tangible museum rather than a manufactured set- it would attract thousands who wished to explore its dimly lit passages, with the captivating Gil Melle tune beeping and reverberating throughout. 

Many have accused Night Gallery of failing to live up to Rod Serling’s grand vision as a playwright, yet it contains all the proper Serling elements which made Twilight Zone such a hit initially. While it lacks much of the moral and philosophical nuance that have made Twilight Zone a timeless classic, I don’t think Night Gallery was ever intended to carry the same tonal weight, and I believe its lighter, more playful, anything-goes attitude is actually a benefit. 

Today, Night Gallery is indicative of a bygone era, which only props up its surreal, abstract intentions. The artistically inclined theme the show carries is no accident- this is the ultimate anthology series for the countercultural discontent of the early 1970s. Its editing is spastic, stories end on a dime with no definite resolution, the cinematography can become disjointed and trippy at points, and behind it all are some of the best celebrity performances you’re ever likely to witness, from the likes of Roddy McDowell, Sondra Locke, Joanna Pettet, Burgess Meredith, Rene Auberjonois, and more. 

While science-fiction episodes are rare, when they do appear, they’re great examples of the Rollerwave aesthetic, featuring technological bravado that could only have sprung from the imagination of Serling and his team. The segment “The Nature Of The Enemy” is what first inspired me to write this entry- set within a NASA laboratory during moon contact, it features the optimism of the Space Race, well-polished technicians and rows of beeping consoles, all coordinated to achieve lunar domination. Today, this fanatical dedication to spatial conquest is almost unbelievable. The gap between Earth and the Moon is palpable, held together only by thin radio signals and a blurry image on a screen. I won’t go into the plot here, but suffice to say, this is some of Rollerwave at its finest. 

Or take “The Little Black Bag,” featuring what I believe is a deliberately corny interpretation of 2098, complete with radio headset and computer. This is not only one of Burgess Meredith’s finest roles, equally on par with “Time Enough At Last,” it may be one of the greatest science-fiction episodes of any show, ever. It’s a tale of technological disparity and man’s cold inhumanity to man- a story which draws an ultimately misanthropic conclusion regarding our inability to exercise responsibility and good judgment when endowed with privilege. Its final scene is deliciously morbid. 

The greatest example of the Rollerwave aesthetic at work, however, comes up in the episode “Tell David,” wherein a woman is lost during a drive in the middle of the night and inexplicably travels forward in time from 1971 to 1989. An eccentric couple, David and Pat, living in a modern home with equally modern accommodations, show her such technological wonders as a computer phone and a gorgeous radio beeping out electronic tunes. The greatest achievement on display, however, bar-none, is one of the most accurate predictions I’ve ever seen in any sci-fi, let alone from the 1970s. This episode features Google Maps.

Yes, you heard that correctly- Night Gallery, in 1971, predicted a computerized, satellite-driven index of street names, addresses, and geolocational data. This machine might appear quaint to modern audiences, however being 34 years ahead of its time (Google Maps wasn’t launched until 2005) it’s an insanely forward-thinking, practical apparatus. David, in the episode, is revealed to have an obsession with gadgets, one of his chief characteristics, likely stemming from the childhood trauma he endures as a result of his father’s murder and his mother’s subsequent suicide. His preoccupation with technological innovation and modernity is in all likelihood a means for him to escape the horrors of his troubled past. This is not stated outright in the episode, of course, yet it comes across well enough as a subtext. Little else should be said regarding the intricacies of the episode- rest assured, it’s one of the Gallery’s finest. 

Here we must ultimately pass judgment on this show- does it constitute Rollerwave? I would argue that it does, at least when it attempts to tackle futuristic or scientific elements. These semantic concerns are ultimately what keeps this blog interesting- and why I began it in the first place. As a young, relatively unexplored genre, Rollerwave requires canonization- that is to say, an expert who can define what it is and isn’t. This expertise requires intuition, the ability to play it by ear, for the most part. Not all science fiction from the 1970s is Rollerwave- Alien, for instance, definitely isn’t.. By the same token, not all Rollerwave films are science-fiction, as is the case with Taxi Driver. 

“Just another gadget, really. But then, David loves gadgets.” 

Few films throughout history, particularly those as intellectually challenging as Taxi Driver, have earned the respect and admiration they deserve. Taxi Driver, of course, is an exception. It is still enjoyed by thousands today, who either see it as an isolated character study or deeply connect with it on a personal level, seeing something of themselves in the transcendent anti-hero Travis Bickle. 

The film is one of the greatest of the 1970s and of all-time, arguably Scorsese’s best in that it provides less action and a more grounded realization of American life than his other offerings. I have never found an angry review toward this film. It handles its subject matter realistically and tastefully, despite being morbid at certain points and gratuitous at others. 

The film builds atmosphere excellently, in fact it is a tour de force in how to effectively unsettle an audience. This is in no small way helped by the film’s amazing score, composed by Bernard Herrmann, also known for his work with such masterpieces as The Twilight Zone, Citizen Kane, and Psycho. Here his sensibilities are jazzier, lighter, with a touch of neo-noir. being the last score he ever completed in its entirety, we see perhaps in its blaring trumpets and empty woodwinds the encroaching figure of death. This is a movie about death, after all- the death of the American dream, and the death of the psyche. 

The film is not retrofuturistic, and would therefore not be considered true Rollerwave by most fans of the aesthetic, yet it is so ahead of its time- so influential to so many films that came after it- that it may as well be set in the future, and would not look out of place alongside other entries in the Rollerwave canon as we have previously defined it. 

Part of the film’s appeal is that it inadvertently serves as a time capsule of an era long since dissolved. This is a film which honestly and accurately captures the spirit of the 1970s- the outfits of the city’s denizens, the smoke wafting from doorways, and particularly the bold theater marquees which openly advertise smut, made obsolete by the arrival of VHS and home video only a year after this film’s release, in 1977. This is a particular moment in time which was fleeting and impossible to maintain, an unstable point where doubt reigned over the lives of the middle class. 

The film’s impact on modern Rollerwave cannot be understated. Dialogue from the date scene is sampled to great effect in Dan Frost’s composition “ScotchGARD,” the single off his famous 2017 album “To Every Man,” while the track “ 夜は続く,” which translates roughly to “The Night Continues,” incorporates pieces of the score to craft one of the best ambient songs I’ve ever heard. Listen to it yourself and you’ll hear the unmistakable noise of the slowly deteriorating mind, picked apart by months of tedium and ticking toward oblivion. 

Harry Nilsson’s 1971 animated TV special “The Point” is an unassuming thing- a cartoon which upon closer inspection is one of the most indicative examples of the Rollerwave aesthetic possible. 

It resembles a segment from an early episode of Sesame Street or Schoolhouse Rock, which makes sense when you consider that it was animated by Fred Wolf, creator of the famous Tootsie Pop commercial with the owl. His sensibilities in bringing Nilsson’s album to life are fitting in that they convey a surreal, extremely colorful world with no fixed rules. 

The story is rare in that it will appeal to both children and adults, far more than any segment from Schoolhouse Rock or Sesame Street. This is mainly due to the film’s theme of deliberate absurdity- that is, it is not designed to educate as much as it is to make the viewer think. These are two very different approaches. The Point is philosophical rather than methodical, it does not hammer any one particular idea into the audience’s head, and at times it is intentionally confusing, which is something you would not expect from a cartoon of this period. 

The work most readily comparable to The Point is, of course, Norton Juster’s 1961 masterpiece The Phantom Tollbooth, in that, like The Point, its settings and characters are entirely allegorical. This method of storytelling seems especially popular around the 1960s and 1970s, rejecting the straightforward methods of the 1950s. The Phantom Tollbooth also contains vivid illustrations, particularly similar in their cross-hatching, messy ink style. Fans of Jules Feiffer will, I think, appreciate the style of Fred Wolf to an equal extent. 

Some parts of this film draw attention to just how much we’ve changed as a society since the 1970s, and how much we’ve altered what is considered “acceptable” for children. During one abstract musical number, for instance, a dead whale is depicted, slowly rotting away, frame by frame. A modern viewer would see morbid imagery like this as only fitting in a Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared-type parody. In the 1970s, however, this was seen as not only acceptable to show children, but important, in that it adequately conveys the grim yet natural reality of death, and the cyclical system of nutrients in the ocean’s ecosystem. Other examples of children’s media being deliberately censored with the misconception that it would be deemed offensive include the infamous lost Sesame Street segment, “Cracks,” which was obfuscated during the 1980s cocaine epidemic despite having nothing to do with cocaine. 

The Point, as I mentioned, is a philosophical fable with the key theme of societal acceptance and dehumanization. On the other hand, its title serves as wordplay, in that it asks what it means for something to have a point. By the end, the viewer is left asking themselves whether the cartoon had any sort of point. This element is aided by dialogue which is obtuse by design, and a meandering plot which attempts to defy the well-documented “Hero’s Journey” structure in favor of an episodic series.

The frame surrounding the tale is equally abstract, featuring a father who reads a bedtime story to his son, all the while sarcastically commenting about how “kids these days just want to watch TV” and his son views the story, presumably as the film itself, on the TV next to his bed. The father was voiced by four people across The Point’s broadcast history, two of which were Dustin Hoffman and Ringo Starr, and watching each version provides a somewhat different experience, given the varying inflections of the narrators.

What can be said about Boards of Canada’s debut album that hasn’t been said already? For many, it is a gateway to the archetypal sound of the Internet. For others, it is a collection of songs and sounds which seem to have always existed in some form- and to claim that they did not exist prior to 1998 would be ludicrous, even sacrilegious. 

Music Has The Right To Children’s influence cannot be understated- not only is it considered one of the best albums from electronic music’s golden age, a time when new releases by the likes of Aphex Twin, Daft Punk, and Fatboy Slim were hitting record store shelves and selling out in the millions, it’s also a formative piece of Rollerwave- if not canonically Rollerwave itself, it is undeniable that it affected the sound of Rollerwave going on into the modern period. 

Its status as true Rollerwave is debated by aficionados of the genre. Some claim that Dan Frost invented Rollerwave with the release of “To Every Man”. Some claim other influences in the early years of the genre. Some praise BOC as the innovators. Much like with vaporwave, who first did it is less clear than it may seem at a cursory glance. We once assumed by default that Daniel Lopatin was vaporwave’s founding father- only to then be reminded of the massive impact hypnagogic pop and chillwave had on the genre. The same applies to Rollerwave- when dealing with an ethereal medium that relies on distorted memory, it’s only fitting that the medium’s history is choppy and contentious.

Many have said that listening to Boards Of Canada is a transitory experience, that their songs call to mind a nonexistent time and place, an anachronous past, a childhood that will never be recaptured. These descriptions are apt, yet in terms of BOC’s overall aesthetic, where does your mind drift to the most, what decade comes to mind first? That’s right- out of every promotional image, album cover, and photo the duo have ever released, they all look like the 1970s. 

MHTRTC is a cohesive arrangement, in that each piece follows a strict theme and an adherence to the aforementioned aesthetic. It’s easily BOC’s most listenable work, catchy and repeatable. Every hook is precise, each chord bursts with color and personality. It’s no wonder that, tired of the cheap-sounding futuristic noise electronic music claims to offer, consumers were immediately drawn to the album’s old-fashioned, halcyon sensibilities- a reminder that electronic music is not inherently futuristic, that it’s merely another means of conveying a message to the listener, and any message can be conveyed, whether that be futuristic or retrospective. 

It’s the sort of album which demands close attention and must be heard in one sitting- while less story-oriented than Tomorrow’s Harvest or Geogaddi, it nonetheless is an experience where the sum of all these songs together is greater than their individual components. Hearing these in order, with Wildlife Analysis at the beginning and One Very Important Thought at the end, is pivotal in understanding what electronic music can achieve if handled properly. 

“What’s wrong?”

This is the famous opening line of George Lucas’ masterpiece, THX 1138- an indication that we are witness to a world that is WRONG, so far beyond repair and so far gone that it bears virtually no resemblance to our own. 

The world of THX 1138 is perhaps the most bleak depiction of the future ever created. Unlike other dystopian scenarios in film, it is not the result of any structure which seeks to abuse power- rather, its environment is merely the result of the progression of time. THX is set in a place where humanity is fundamentally broken, has forgotten how to perform even the most basic task, and does not keep adequate sociological records.

Anyone who appreciates and respects George Lucas’ talents as a director knows of the captivating power of THX 1138, which is arguably even better than Star Wars. Indeed, in it we see many of the elements which later defined Star Wars- the robotic officers being similar to Stormtroopers, the line-refracted holograms THX views in his apartment being similar to the projection of Leia which pops out of R2D2 and the chess set aboard the Millennium Falcon, the sleek polished hallways calling to mind the interior of a Star Destroyer.

Of course, THX is a much less commercially appealing property than Star Wars, which explains why prior to Star Wars’ release in 1977, Lucas was only billed as the creator of the mildly successful film ”American Graffiti”. Overlooking THX is a mistake. It is a spectacular science fiction film, one of the greatest in scope ever conceived, and to think that it is George Lucas’ first film, and predates Star Wars by 6 years, only speaks to just how revolutionary the Lucas is in terms of storytelling and vision. 

The film follows three characters- THX, played by Robert Duvall, LUH, played by Maggie McOmie, and SEN, played by Donald Pleasance in one of his best roles. THX is a man who fears illness at the hands of his society, undergoes physical and mental trauma of which we can barely conceive, and in the end escapes his prison through sheer willpower. It is stated near the end that his society is concerned with the cost of his capture more than his capture itself, as his pursuit is abruptly terminated once the effort to bring him in runs over budget. Such are the intricacies of the bureaucracy which THX finds himself in. 

LUH’s fate is left ambiguous, as many things about her are ambiguous- such as the inner feelings between her and THX, which can only be known by them. Their relationship is one of the strongest chemistries ever witnessed onscreen, and McOmie’s expressions in the opening scene, wherein she witnesses the results of an untimely radiation accident, are excellent. 

SEN is the film’s most nuanced character in my opinion, more communicative than THX yet blinded by a lack of real desire to escape the system, despite his declarations in the prison scene that action is required. In one of the most captivating scenes, he and THX open the door which leads out of the prison, only to find a hallway with millions of swarming people- and confronted by the logistics of the masses, SEN is shocked into a state of horror. He is greeted by the abrupt state of conformity after a long period of isolation, which drives him down a path which ends with him as a shell of his former self, not even attempting to hide from the city’s surveillance cameras, being apprehended by officers and returned to prison. So it goes. 

Yet another element which adds to THX’s reputation as a tour de force is, of course, Lalo Schifrin’s masterful soundtrack. It is, like the film, decades ahead of its time, electronic and unsettling in equal measure, with smooth jazz interludes and dark ambient echoes. It tells the story of the film sonically, and is an influential piece in modern Rollerwave. It was notably sampled by Dan Frost on his debut album, “To Every Man,” on the single “scotchGARD”. The song also samples dialogue from Taxi Driver, which is fitting, given Taxi Driver’s similar themes of alienation in contemporary society. 

If there is one downside to THX, it is the director’s cut, which adds in unnecessary CGI which ultimately causes the film to feel dated- not dated by 1970s standards, but rather dated by the standards of 2004 when the CGI portions were added. It is the version you will likely find on any streaming service, so I recommend finding a copy of THX released on VHS prior to 2004. In its uncut, original version, it is nothing short of a masterpiece. 

The CGI shots Lucas added in the 2004 director’s cut are puzzling in that they add nothing to the narrative, and are jarring when compared to the wonderful practical effects of the 1970s. A rat which scares Donald Pleasance in the original cut is needlessly replaced with a strange scorpion creature. Highways are added to the city which make it feel more like the wonderful metropolis of Coruscant than an empty cavern. Most notably, THX’s work with radioactive metal is given the CGI treatment- and it looks abysmal. 

While it can be argued that CGI works well in the Star Wars prequels, given their nature as grand works of science fantasy where anything is possible, it is thematically incompatible with THX 1138, which is aside from the CGI edits extremely grounded and bleak. These cartoony editions feel like a completely separate movie, they are jarring and speak to an older, more cynical George Lucas who was emboldened by the potential of CGI as a new technology and felt the need to go back and touch up what he saw as a flawed film- even though it is in fact perfect in its original state. Any fans of Rollerwave as an aesthetic should avoid the director’s cut at all costs, as it subtracts from the marvelous 1970s aesthetic. 

This is particularly notable in the needless addition of CGI “shell dwellers” in the final portion of the movie, who don’t even look remotely like the shell dweller seen earlier during the prison scene, and whose mere presence subtracts from THX’s chase from the officers. In short, they ruin the conflict. This is a shame, given that THX’s final chase scene is fantastic and displays what can be achieved using practical effects and a vast underground tunnel. 

THX is unfathomably influential to modern science fiction, and unlike Rollerball or Death Race 2000, does not feel dated, despite its obvious 1970s appearance. This can be credited in part due to extremely well-honed performances by a cast who know exactly what they’re doing, and in part to Lucas’ behavior as a director. Every shot is perfectly calculated to achieve the ultimate atmospheric effect, up to and including the satiric clip of Buck Rogers which plays prior to the film proper. Its utopian vision exists in stark contrast with the morbid reality of THX’s world, and also communicates Lucas’ noted fascination with old film serials, which is palpable in Indiana Jones and, of course, Star Wars. 

It’s required viewing for any dedicated fan of Rollerwave as an aesthetic. Each shot oozes with technical prowess, from the gorgeous shopping mall-esque interior of the City’s commerce center to the vast maze of computer servers THX navigates while being relentlessly pursued by his captors. THX is one of the best visions of the future the 1970s has to offer, along with Alien, albeit initiating the decade rather than capping it off. 

This song is the only release by French house trio Stardust, composed of Benjamin Diamond, Alan Braxe, and Thomas Bangalter, who you probably recognize as one half of Daft Punk along with Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo. Out of all Daft Punk-adjacent projects, this is the one which most readily can be called Rollerwave, which is why I assume Stardust are listed on Rollerwave’s entry on the Aesthetics Wiki. 

This is an infectious piece of dance from the peak of French House’s popularity, when its novelty on American shores had not yet worn off. Despite being over 20 years old at this point, the song and accompanying music video are callbacks to an even earlier period of time, a halcyon childhood summer’s day spent engaged in ultimately futile pursuits. 

The music video is startlingly convincing, authentic to the point of being unsettling. It follows a young boy as he builds a handmade glider, which he proceeds to unleash over warm grassy hills, where it winds up in the hands of the trio, who stand playing perched atop a lavishly refreshing cloud, before tossing it back down and returning it to its rightful owner. 

Along the way, we catch glimpses of the trio’s subtle humor by means of completely fictional songs by entirely fictional bands on the TV screen in the boy’s living room- titles like “Luv On The Beach” by Samanthra, “Hotlipz” by Dave Stavroz and “Step On It” by Monstarr Bunch are all displayed, to give us the impression that we are witnessing a brief glimpse into a parallel universe with similar yet distinct musical acts, that Stardust itself is only one of these among many, and that the one song we are hearing- the only one Stardust ever released- is a freak accident sent across the dimensional threshold. 

The music video is charming and can only be viewed properly on a warm summer’s day, perhaps paired with a cool drink as part of a summer playlist. It’s directed by acclaimed French auteur Michael Gondry, and you can feel the Gondry schmaltz dripping from every element, from the bickering parents, who are lightly interspersed with the track, to the seamless blend of French and American culture, to the extent that the music video could easily take place in France or America. That timelessness and placelessness only add to the track’s enduring longevity among French House fans. 

The song itself, while repetitive, never gets old, always feeling fresh and novel, as unflinching as the good times it symbolizes. Recently, it’s seen a resurgence here on the Internet, with multiple remixes and loops made, as well as extended versions which keep the party going.