As promotion ramps up for La Roux’s forthcoming third record, Supervision, so, too, has her release of singles (though she ought to be more parsimonious considering the record only tops out at a taut eight tracks). “Automatic Driver” marks her third one before the official February 7th debut of the record, and, in the spirit of “International Woman of Leisure” and “Gullible Fool,” La Roux is firm in sticking to a fiercely 80s aesthetic, replete with checkered Vans and a video game feel (with point markers and “GAME OVER” graphics adding to the vibe). Directed by Valentin Guiod, the visual safari plays out like an instant classic of an arcade game, with La Roux at the center of it all in her multi-colored “at the driving range” ensemble that would surely be enough to convince any fashion-savvy sort to partake of the sport.
Of course, golf has long been a white man’s game (save for when F. Scott Fitzgerald depicted the only other possible option for such a “sportsman” being the more than slightly dykey Jordan Baker). And the decade of the 80s that La Roux seems to favor so much was no exception to the rule. For let us not forget that Caddyshack cast its pall over the entire decade right out the gate in 1980, riveting not only dweebos but avid golfers alike, both categories of which, naturally, tended to be white male.
La Roux reinvents the wheel of that Caddyshack association (at best, updated by Happy Gilmore), entering a fanciful cave at one point that is, instead of creepy, filled with multi-toned neon rocks that rival the colors of her own getup. Indeed, the fact that Guiod began as an art director in advertising overtly trickles into the attention to detail paid to “product,” as it were, in this. For what is the purpose of golfing at all if not to embrace all the many accoutrements that go with it?
This also extends to golf carts–four, to be exact. All lit in purple (for the moment) neon as they follow behind a cool and collected La Roux, driving club slung over her shoulder. And yes, the wielding of her metaphor regarding what an “automatic driver” is certainly feels salient as she sings, “I wanted to manage information/Find the automatic driver/Oh, I’ll find it/Woah, but I’m still so in love/Imagine how much I’m crying.” That the driver is the most common club designed to hit the ball as far out as possible onto the range in the hope of getting it “in the hole” is an undoubted visual manifestation of how finding and taking a gamble on love works: it’s often met with unwanted results that cause more embarrassment than joy after putting yourself on the line. In such bombastic attire, to boot.
And as her backup dancers disembark from their carts to perform their supportive choreography behind her, it feels as though La Roux, at the very least, has made peace with the complicated nature of relationships amid the tranquil settings that most golf courses are known for. As the sun sets, she drives off into it in her own cart (automatic driver that she is), and, in the process, leaves behind a new association with golf that isn’t, well, so Republican… It’s up to her and Tiger Woods, one supposes.
