Endless breakdown: Negativland projected for hours at the Trocadero.

UPSTAIRS AT THE TROCADERO last Thursday, waiting for Negativland to commence its "Premeditated Breakdown" show, Bug Girl was buggin' out and writhing fetchingly while being filmed by her cameraman boyfriend. Everybody within earshot knew he was her boyfriend because she said so -- loudly -- even though no one had asked. She also mentioned her public-access TV show, which apparently features endless shots of her rubbing her bicycle shorts all over the nearest sticky pole.

Mr. Music Snob was less than impressed. "She bugs me," he confided without intending to pun. "I bet they met and she said, 'Hi! I'm an exhibitionist!' and he said, 'Great! I'm a voyeur! Let me get my camera and we'll go out!' "It was that kind of night, what with the Troc being stuffed with more people than an anthill is with ants -- but without the ants' tendency toward complex social structures.

Multimedia was the buzzword, which translated into a lot of film footage flickering on every available wall. It seems the geeky AV monitors from high school have found their niche at last. The scent of patchouli fought with the smells of sweat, hair-care products, stale beer, and tobacco, blending into an aroma of distinct ickiness.

By the time Negativland took the stage, the crowd was stuffed in cheek to jowl to butt, all straining to see the stage, where men with bad hair industriously fiddled with knobs, microphones, and gadgets.

"The mind is a symbolic processing entity," intoned an amplified voice over and over and over. Uh, OK. Whatever that means. "We're going to do this for five hours," added the Weatherman, Negativland's most mysterious member (who, until Thursday, had been missing for years). A passing couple stopped. "Five hours?" the male half asked the female half incredulously. "Five hours of this?" They sighed, hair perfect, and moved on. The mass of faces was without exception white, and for some reason everyone had amazing hair: ringleted, buzzed on the sides, poofed upon top -- a bevy of flawless dos with nary a don't in sight.

The shifting lights hit a row of young beauties leaning over the upstairs railing as they gazed at a flickering video that read, "Year in and year out, day and night, Sundays and holidays, carpenters work either building up or tearing down." Everyone appeared very serious. Pay attention: This Is Art.

Onstage, the Weatherman was looking more and more like Allen Ginsberg. ("I have seen the best hairdos of my generation / falling falling with no purpose / their poorly fitting leather pants sagging sadly.") A shifting lineup of deejays came and went while Negativland bonded with their equipment. The sounds they created were clinical and passion-free, a bloodless sort of futility, an endless loop without climax.

A technician walked by, massive headphones bulging from his neck like synthetic goiters. A producer stopped and oh-so-seriously explained the setup to me: There are four projectors in the south part of the club, you see. And six in the east. They project images to different areas of the club. "Negativland came in with no idea of what they were going to do," he confided. It showed.

A drunken man lurched, caught himself, and fell in slow motion against the wall. A bottle broke, sending beer and glass flying everywhere. And I tried, really I did, to care. But the steamy cesspool of bad cologne and the sounds going on and on like hours of bad foreplay with no end in sight were too much. Waves of ennui washed over me, and the only thing left to do was flee into the night.

Edited by Neva Chonin. Contributor: Julene Snyder