Family Video Store Is Rewiring the Look of Gen-Z Music Videos From the Underground Up

There’s a reason so many Gen-Z music videos feel like they exist in their own universe right now. The colors are louder. The edits are sharper. The worlds feel handmade instead of algorithm-tested. A big part of that shift can be traced back to one New York collective quietly redefining what underground visuals look like.

Family Video Store isn’t a traditional production company. It operates more like a living ecosystem. Founded in 2022 by NYC filmmaker Evan Deng, the collective has become a hub for artists, directors, and storytellers who exist outside the industry’s default settings. Their work lives at the intersection of hyperpop chaos, indie film experimentation, and internet-era surrealism. The result is a visual identity that feels instantly recognizable without ever repeating itself.

Since launching, Family Video Store has embedded itself deep in New York’s indie and hyperpop scene, directing and producing videos for a wave of Gen-Z artists shaping the next era of alternative pop. Their credits include INJI, Mei Semones, Alice Longyu Gao, Namasenda, 8485, fish narc, Sophie Cates, Ravenna Golden, AJ Smith, SEBii, NOIA, Babebee, Dafna, and more. These aren’t just gigs. They’re cultural timestamps. The videos function as digital artifacts of a scene that moves faster than traditional media can track.

Deng describes the collective’s aesthetic as pioneering a hyperpop visual language, but the philosophy runs deeper than style. Family Video Store is intentionally structured to challenge who gets to create images in the first place. The collective centers Black, Indigenous, queer, and Asian creatives, and backs that mission with a concrete hiring commitment: a diversity goal of 50 percent of all collaborators representing minority communities and women. It’s not branding. It’s infrastructure.

That framework has allowed the collective to grow without sanding down its edge. Deng himself has appeared in major music videos for artists like Malcolm Todd, Armani White, Twenty One Pilots, and Jess Glynne, while collaborating with labels including Sony Music, AWAL, Universal Music Group, Polydor, Epitaph, and Robbins Entertainment. Yet Family Video Store still moves like an underground studio, prioritizing emerging artists and experimental visuals over safe commercial formulas.

As the collective approaches its 50th official music video release, it marks a milestone that feels less like a victory lap and more like proof of concept. You can build a sustainable creative ecosystem without copying the old industry blueprint. You can champion equity and still produce work that dominates timelines. You can create a recognizable aesthetic without turning it into a factory.

Family Video Store’s catalog reads like a visual archive of a generation figuring itself out in real time. The videos are colorful, chaotic, intimate, and unapologetically weird. They mirror the artists they collaborate with: internet-native, genre-blurring, and allergic to polish for polish’s sake. That authenticity is what makes their work stick. It doesn’t feel manufactured. It feels lived in.

Beyond the visuals, the collective is actively asking audiences to invest in a more equitable future for filmmakers. Their platform doubles as a call to action, encouraging supporters to contribute to a system that redistributes opportunity instead of hoarding it. In an industry that still struggles with representation behind the camera, that stance isn’t optional. It’s overdue.

Family Video Store isn’t chasing trends. They’re documenting the culture as it mutates, and shaping it in the process. If the next decade of music visuals looks different, brighter, and more inclusive, it won’t be an accident. It’ll be because collectives like this decided to build their own lane and dared the industry to catch up.

Family Video Store feels less like a production company and more like a cultural movement. When you look at the underground scene right now, what do you think mainstream media still doesn’t understand about the artists and visuals coming out of it?

We caught onto hyperpop towards the tail end of the movement, pre-Brat. We've worked with a plethora of artists like Alice Longyu Gao, Sophie Cates, 8485, Ravenna Golden, Namasenda, SEBii, Babebee, fish narc, cr1tter, etc. As early as 2020, we promoted similar music through our reels, marketing, etc., and were beyond excited when Charli XCX, AG Cook, and PC Music reached international acclaim during the Brat era. Fun fact, Charli XCX's DP follows me on Instagram!

Your work is often described as hyperpop visually, but it never feels like a gimmick. How do you balance chaos, color, and intense energy without letting the aesthetic overshadow the emotional core of the artist?

I'm so inspired by French New Wave, cinema verité, and Dogme 95. Fantasy but filmed like a documentary. I started off shooting on a dinky Nikon DSLR, so a lot of those creative "choices" came out of low budget and necessity. I've always filmed my music videos like it's Jean Luc Godard's Breathless, but instead of Paris, we're in the woods with Mei Semones, a fruit store with 8485, or the desert with Ravenna Golden. Truthfully, I'm in debt because of all the production design. [laughs]

You’ve built Family Video Store around equity and representation in a very concrete way, not just as a slogan. Has committing to that hiring structure changed the way your sets feel or the kind of stories you’re able to tell?

"Family Video Store is committed towards a diversity goal of 50% of all hired employees, contractors, or day laborers representing Minority Persons and/or Women." That's on our website. We've been pretty faithful to that, which has only made our productions ever more vibrant and unique.

After working with both emerging Gen-Z artists and major label projects, what differences do you see in creative freedom between the underground and the industry machine, and where do you think the future of music videos actually lives?

TikTok and short-form media have significantly shifted the music industry. We sell concert tickets based on eight-second reels now. Attention is the new currency. Underground artists figured that out first, and now the mainstream is catching up.

As you approach your 50th official release, what scares you more: getting bigger and losing the edge, or staying underground and being misunderstood by the wider industry? How do you protect the identity of the collective while it grows?

I think I'm more scared of the inevitable... this whole thing blows up and I get lost in the sauce, so to speak. I'd hate to be misunderstood, but I also think it's necessary in a weird way. Have you ever heard of a four-quadrant blockbuster? I've always thought of an artist as a canvas, anyway, blank and to be painted over, again and again. Representing the queer and marginalized will always be at the forefront of our mission.