Now that I’ve been haphazardly posting for a few months, I should take the time to mention why I’m doing what I’m doing. I realized in the last few years that I really enjoyed writing, but writing for class was not the most engaging way to expand your thoughts. In course papers, you are always more pigeonholed than you think. So, for awhile I had been wanting to write more about things that interested me, and I figured maybe some of these things would interest other people. I got to thinking about subjects and thought that they might be fun to put into words.
Growing up, I developed some specific reading tastes. I was obsessed with Hunter S. Thompson, and read through nearly all of his works. Chuck Klosterman was hugely popular in my area, and he became an interest. Like many people, I turned first to the last page in Sports Illustrated to read Rick Reilly before I read the rest of the magazine. Elements of all of these writers are blatantly obvious in my writing. And I hope for that to be somewhat of an homage.
I spend a lot of time on the Internet. As I jump around from Grantland to Stereogum to IGN to ESPN’s Page Two, I realized that with all of the creative work I was reading and viewing, I would love to give some back. Trust me, this is far less noble than I just made it sound. I only felt that I could do something similar just to add it to the mix. The more I read, the more creative thoughts I came up, and the Internet is an easy place to display creativity. I realize this sounds conceited, but listen: I definitely did not say any of my writing was good. Hopefully the writing will get better over time. For now, I am only writing for fun and sharing what I come up with in case anyone else finds it interesting.
When casting around for a title for this blog, I realized that I really did not have a core theme to these writings. After explaining this to a friend, she said it made some sense. These writings are merely passions of mine that I wanted to share with anyone who was interested. That’s how I came up with the title: a general collection of diverse interests. And that is what I will continue to do. I am no expert in any one thing. In fact, you might know more about these subjects than me. But there are a few subjects I care about: music, literature, games, sports. When something interests me, I’ll try to put it into words. It’s just more fun that way.
So what to expect from me if you follow my writings? My goal is to put something new out every month or so. Reviews are easy; hypotheticals are fun. I’ll probably do a bit of both. If my current subject does not interest you, I’m sorry. The next one will probably be different. If you enjoyed one piece of writing, then I could not be more thrilled! I’m just looking to share some ideas. I can only hope they are as much fun to read as they are to write. Thanks.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Truck No. 722626
OCTOBER 1980… The clock struck 9:30, and the alarm began to buzz. Mann leaned over to grab a cigarette, pausing to shut off the alarm on the way back. Exhausted, he rubbed his eyes before sitting up. Another night, he thought grimly.
Patrick Mann stepped across his meager, but comfortable apartment to the bay window and raised the blinds. Not much seemed to be happening. The sun had just set over the monstrous skyscrapers of Midweigh, leaving the sky in a dark blue haze. The lights of the buildings made the city seem even more expansive. It always looked less intimidating from this level, forty stories above, looking down into the dark streets below. It still looked like a maze, to be sure, but it was much more terrifying turning each corner and not knowing what to expect. He thought of the thousands of other people looking down on the city, at the same time. They just do not know how hard it is, he told himself. But Mann knew what to expect when he left for work every night. He had a job to do, and he did it well. He’d lived in the city his entire life, after all.
He stepped out onto the street and headed towards the garbage plant, opening and subsequently consuming a greasy breakfast burrito along the way. Four months on the job had adjusted his daily habits, and he had gotten used to taking his meals at different times. But still he missed his other routines that were interrupted by taking this job of driving the night garbage truck. It’s only temporary--as he lit a second cigarette, his mind flashed back to the conversation with his younger sister the previous week.
“But what if it’s not, Pat? You’re twenty-five years old. What kind of life is driving a garbage truck at night?” his sister, Pam, begged. It seemed every time the two of them shared a meal lately, the subject inevitably turned to his working life. Tonight they were sitting in Pam’s kitchen. Pam was showing off some of her prints from her sophomore art school class when the topic turned to work.
“I’ll make it work. This is only temporary until I can find something better,” Patrick replied. “Besides, it’s not actually that bad. If you make a game out of it, it can be fun.”
“Oh, how can you say that?” Pam cried. “Do you know how you sound? You sound like you’re stuck in a rut, and now you’re making excuses for it.”
Patrick thought for a moment. “Don’t worry about me, Miss. I’ll be okay.”
As these words faded from his mind, Mann looked up to realize he was at the plant.
Patrick Mann stepped across his meager, but comfortable apartment to the bay window and raised the blinds. Not much seemed to be happening. The sun had just set over the monstrous skyscrapers of Midweigh, leaving the sky in a dark blue haze. The lights of the buildings made the city seem even more expansive. It always looked less intimidating from this level, forty stories above, looking down into the dark streets below. It still looked like a maze, to be sure, but it was much more terrifying turning each corner and not knowing what to expect. He thought of the thousands of other people looking down on the city, at the same time. They just do not know how hard it is, he told himself. But Mann knew what to expect when he left for work every night. He had a job to do, and he did it well. He’d lived in the city his entire life, after all.
He stepped out onto the street and headed towards the garbage plant, opening and subsequently consuming a greasy breakfast burrito along the way. Four months on the job had adjusted his daily habits, and he had gotten used to taking his meals at different times. But still he missed his other routines that were interrupted by taking this job of driving the night garbage truck. It’s only temporary--as he lit a second cigarette, his mind flashed back to the conversation with his younger sister the previous week.
“But what if it’s not, Pat? You’re twenty-five years old. What kind of life is driving a garbage truck at night?” his sister, Pam, begged. It seemed every time the two of them shared a meal lately, the subject inevitably turned to his working life. Tonight they were sitting in Pam’s kitchen. Pam was showing off some of her prints from her sophomore art school class when the topic turned to work.
“I’ll make it work. This is only temporary until I can find something better,” Patrick replied. “Besides, it’s not actually that bad. If you make a game out of it, it can be fun.”
“Oh, how can you say that?” Pam cried. “Do you know how you sound? You sound like you’re stuck in a rut, and now you’re making excuses for it.”
Patrick thought for a moment. “Don’t worry about me, Miss. I’ll be okay.”
As these words faded from his mind, Mann looked up to realize he was at the plant.
* * *
“722626, again?” muttered the foreman at the plant, as Mann stepped up in line. Mann nodded. He did not know why, but he had grown attached to the garbage truck. Others complained that it did not handle well, that it was slow to turn, but he found it a comfort. “Problem with the user,” he would always say to those who questioned his choice.
His job was actually incredibly simple. As much as he did not want to admit it to Pam, he had actually begun to enjoy it. Not that he could see himself doing it for a long time, but now it seemed like a bit of a pastime. Every employee took responsibility for one area of blocks. Shifts rotated in three eight-hour cycles. There was no time built in for a meal, but he was allowed to bring snacks in the truck for a boost of energy. In an effort to offset his quick and unhealthy meals, he typically brought fruit such as cherries, oranges, or apples. Starting from the plant, he wound the streets of his district picking up trash as he went along.
The amount of trash in the city was truly remarkable. It always stunned him that with all the technological advancements of the day, they could not find a better way to dispose of garbage. Nearly every corner he turned, every few steps, there was another pile of junk. The most baffling part was that he never actually seemed to finish his district. Just when he thought he had gotten every bit of it, he would find more. If he drove long enough, he even found trash in places he knew he had already picked up. Mann did not have a personal route that he took every time; instead, he took inefficient paths down side streets. It did not matter as long as he stayed in his district. And, as long as he was picking up trash. That was the important thing.
Throughout his life, he had truly begun to appreciate the intricacies of the Midweigh streets. They were always winding, with few entrances or exits. But Mann had learned some shortcuts, sometimes even by accident. One night, he took a left turn that he had not taken before. It led to a tunnel that was nearly invisible. As he later found out, it was even difficult to spot from the vantage point of his apartment. Following the tunnel, he emerged in an area completely different from where he started. Or so he thought. He had never really bothered to find out exactly where it went.
The only true danger to his job were the bandits. An eerie, roving troupe, they seemed to glow a faint, pale blue in the dim street lights. “Ghosts,” he and the other drivers called them. He knew there could never actually be more than a half dozen at a time, but they appeared around any corner without the slightest forewarning. Different gangs of them patrolled the different blocks like turfs. They moved somewhat unpredictably: sometimes he would encounter an individual rogue, other times they would stack up in a group. Worse yet, there was really no defense against them. If one approached, drivers were forced to turn their truck around immediately and continue on a different route.
Drivers were not caught often, but still there were horrific accidents. If a driver got too careless in his work, he could easily find himself trapped by three or four of the bandits in a dark corner. When this happened, hope was lost. Supposedly, the bandits suppress a stranded driver, raid the truck for everything of worth, and finally inject the driver with a unknown venom. Even if a cure was discovered, the alleyways in which the bandits attack are so desperately bare that no one could be saved in time. Postmortem analysis indicates that death occurs in a matter of minutes. When a driver failed to report back at the end of his shift, it was the duty of the next shift to locate the body and notify management. They were a vicious, godless group.
* * *
Mann sipped softly on his second cup of black coffee and smoked another cigarette. He was almost six hours through his shift and taking a small, but well-deserved break. He had had a good night, making several tours of his block. He had picked up a lot of garbage, on pace to have his best night yet. As an added incentive to keep them working, his pay was based in part on his results. He found that turning it into a game, competing against himself, made the night hours pass easier.
He finished his cup of coffee, throwing it into the back of his truck. As he did so, a rat leaped out of the nearest dumpster and hit the ground. He drew in his breath sharply. In this neighborhood, the slightest sound was enough to cause a spark of fear. Seeing it was only a rat, he laughed softly and got into his truck.
Starting up, he continued down the street, ready for his seventh pass through the streets. As he expected, trash was left in neat little piles equidistant apart on the side of the street. How can these people go through this much garbage? he thought. It truly was disgusting.
Finishing the block he made a sharp right, taking a route that he knew had no exits. One could only go straight through--or turn around. It was better to get these areas clear when the night was quiet. If anything caught him back here, he could get into trouble in a hurry. He was proficient enough to turn around on a dime, assuming the robbers had not followed from behind. He made the full turn around the corner. Nothing there; he’d made it. He made a left onto the longest straightaway in his department.
Mann peered through his dirty windshield down the long, orange-lit street, half-expecting some action. It was not uncommon for him to see the thieves a few times a night, but tonight, they seemed less active. He had seen one near the beginning of his shift and what looked like a pair moving towards him later, flickering through the dim streets. A simple turn and they were not seen again. Still, it had been a fairly dull night.
As he looked, sure enough, he could distinguish a bluish shape scuttling towards him. Feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety, he eased into the next alley. Instantly, he spotted another bandit, distinctly orange, much closer. Mann swore loudly. Just like that, his heretofore quiet night had become a trial.
Performing a finely-executed reversal, he returned to the straightaway, sneaking a quick glance at the oncoming thief. It was closer, much closer than he had expected. Further down the street, he saw in his rearview mirror, the two of them joining together in their approach. Not a problem, he thought, in an attempt to calm his racing heart. Just stay ahead of them. Don’t let them get me into a one-way street. Looking at his gas gauge, he evaluated that he had enough to get back to the plant for the night. He had never experienced two of the creatures this determined to get to him. Better to just head back to the plant, take his losses, and go home early. His supervisors would understand completely.
That’s when he heard the hiss and felt his truck grind to a halt.
What the hell?! he thought frantically. He took a mental calculation of his truck, his trusty truck, knowing that nothing should be out of date. Depressing the pedal, the engine revved, but the axle made a horrible wrenching sound. He had no choice but to exit the vehicle.
He took a quick inventory of what he saw. The bastards had put a hole in the rear left tire, rendering it unusable. Unbelievable! They had been known to carry guns for some time now, but he had never heard of them actually using them. No drivers had ever been found with gunshot wounds; the only known video recording of a mugging showed them using guns to threaten. Any time a gunshot was even heard, news reports had never linked the bandits to the event. At any rate, he had to move now.
Choosing to stay inside the truck would be suicidal. Any truck that had been attacked in the past probably lasted all of twenty minutes, from the looks of their wrecked returns. No, he had only one choice: flee. He dashed away from his truck, previously his only protection against these things. Now he really had to use his wits to make it back to the plant. He crouched behind a pile of trash twenty meters away to take in his surroundings. Fortunately, he was not completely lost and could find his way back, although his preferred route home was currently blocked by two menaces.
He looked back, saving one last hope that they would stop at his truck only and disperse when they were through. It was a longshot, but a possibility. He had no idea how these things reacted when a driver was not in the truck. For all he knew, it had never happened before. He was in totally new territory.
They slowed as they approached the truck. Flitting about, one ransacked the back of the truck while the other checked the cab. At once, they both stopped. So it was true, they were not going to stop at the truck if he was not in it. Turning towards his direction, the one that he had taken for blue made a horrendous shriek, the likes of which he had never heard. Probably, no one had ever heard. No one still living, at least. Mann’s blood chilled.
He sprinted away from the pile as fast as he possibly could. He knew now that he could not stop running. Surely the two were following him. Risking one more look, he could see they were even closer. Whether it was his sleep-dulled perception or agitated imagination, Mann swore they were moving quicker. He’d heard rumors that they moved quicker later in the night. Hadn’t he? No, he could not afford to spook himself now. Not at a time like this.
He turned the corner and saw another bandit, this one with a reddish hue, coming at him down the straightaway. Darting into a side street, he took a quick evaluation of his surroundings. There were two following from one direction with a third joining pursuit. It took a second glance at the nearest sign to realize where he was: the mysterious tunnel he had discovered a few months back. Although, he had taken it before, he could not explain it. He had no idea where the other end came out, only that it felt like another district. Nor could he tell who was on the other side waiting for him. So far he had seen three bandits; how many did that leave? Would they know about the tunnel and anticipate his movements? He had no choice. They really were moving more rapidly now, he was sure of it.
He finished his cup of coffee, throwing it into the back of his truck. As he did so, a rat leaped out of the nearest dumpster and hit the ground. He drew in his breath sharply. In this neighborhood, the slightest sound was enough to cause a spark of fear. Seeing it was only a rat, he laughed softly and got into his truck.
Starting up, he continued down the street, ready for his seventh pass through the streets. As he expected, trash was left in neat little piles equidistant apart on the side of the street. How can these people go through this much garbage? he thought. It truly was disgusting.
Finishing the block he made a sharp right, taking a route that he knew had no exits. One could only go straight through--or turn around. It was better to get these areas clear when the night was quiet. If anything caught him back here, he could get into trouble in a hurry. He was proficient enough to turn around on a dime, assuming the robbers had not followed from behind. He made the full turn around the corner. Nothing there; he’d made it. He made a left onto the longest straightaway in his department.
Mann peered through his dirty windshield down the long, orange-lit street, half-expecting some action. It was not uncommon for him to see the thieves a few times a night, but tonight, they seemed less active. He had seen one near the beginning of his shift and what looked like a pair moving towards him later, flickering through the dim streets. A simple turn and they were not seen again. Still, it had been a fairly dull night.
As he looked, sure enough, he could distinguish a bluish shape scuttling towards him. Feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety, he eased into the next alley. Instantly, he spotted another bandit, distinctly orange, much closer. Mann swore loudly. Just like that, his heretofore quiet night had become a trial.
Performing a finely-executed reversal, he returned to the straightaway, sneaking a quick glance at the oncoming thief. It was closer, much closer than he had expected. Further down the street, he saw in his rearview mirror, the two of them joining together in their approach. Not a problem, he thought, in an attempt to calm his racing heart. Just stay ahead of them. Don’t let them get me into a one-way street. Looking at his gas gauge, he evaluated that he had enough to get back to the plant for the night. He had never experienced two of the creatures this determined to get to him. Better to just head back to the plant, take his losses, and go home early. His supervisors would understand completely.
That’s when he heard the hiss and felt his truck grind to a halt.
What the hell?! he thought frantically. He took a mental calculation of his truck, his trusty truck, knowing that nothing should be out of date. Depressing the pedal, the engine revved, but the axle made a horrible wrenching sound. He had no choice but to exit the vehicle.
He took a quick inventory of what he saw. The bastards had put a hole in the rear left tire, rendering it unusable. Unbelievable! They had been known to carry guns for some time now, but he had never heard of them actually using them. No drivers had ever been found with gunshot wounds; the only known video recording of a mugging showed them using guns to threaten. Any time a gunshot was even heard, news reports had never linked the bandits to the event. At any rate, he had to move now.
Choosing to stay inside the truck would be suicidal. Any truck that had been attacked in the past probably lasted all of twenty minutes, from the looks of their wrecked returns. No, he had only one choice: flee. He dashed away from his truck, previously his only protection against these things. Now he really had to use his wits to make it back to the plant. He crouched behind a pile of trash twenty meters away to take in his surroundings. Fortunately, he was not completely lost and could find his way back, although his preferred route home was currently blocked by two menaces.
He looked back, saving one last hope that they would stop at his truck only and disperse when they were through. It was a longshot, but a possibility. He had no idea how these things reacted when a driver was not in the truck. For all he knew, it had never happened before. He was in totally new territory.
They slowed as they approached the truck. Flitting about, one ransacked the back of the truck while the other checked the cab. At once, they both stopped. So it was true, they were not going to stop at the truck if he was not in it. Turning towards his direction, the one that he had taken for blue made a horrendous shriek, the likes of which he had never heard. Probably, no one had ever heard. No one still living, at least. Mann’s blood chilled.
He sprinted away from the pile as fast as he possibly could. He knew now that he could not stop running. Surely the two were following him. Risking one more look, he could see they were even closer. Whether it was his sleep-dulled perception or agitated imagination, Mann swore they were moving quicker. He’d heard rumors that they moved quicker later in the night. Hadn’t he? No, he could not afford to spook himself now. Not at a time like this.
He turned the corner and saw another bandit, this one with a reddish hue, coming at him down the straightaway. Darting into a side street, he took a quick evaluation of his surroundings. There were two following from one direction with a third joining pursuit. It took a second glance at the nearest sign to realize where he was: the mysterious tunnel he had discovered a few months back. Although, he had taken it before, he could not explain it. He had no idea where the other end came out, only that it felt like another district. Nor could he tell who was on the other side waiting for him. So far he had seen three bandits; how many did that leave? Would they know about the tunnel and anticipate his movements? He had no choice. They really were moving more rapidly now, he was sure of it.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the tunnel.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Ziggy & Melody
In 1971, one of the most influential artists in French rock history came to London to record an album that would define his long career. A year later, also in London, the founder of glam rock produced what is possibly his most famous album in an equally illustrious career. Now, decades later, the two albums have stood the test of time and are remembered as some of the best of the 1970s.
All in all, David Bowie and Serge Gainsbourg have a lot in common. Both men were European artists who had enormously prolific and lengthy careers. The two were most active and at their bests in the 1970s and 80s. Both were hugely influential on the future of glam rock and post-punk. I’m almost positive Bowie was listening Gainsbourg’s 1971 masterpiece, Histoire de Melody Nelson, when he made his 1972 classic, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I just wonder how much, if at all, the two stellar contemporaries affected each other.
The two albums themselves have a lot of similarities. For both albums, a heavy load of music is contained in a short time. One could listen to both albums in just over an hour: Ziggy Stardust clocks in under forty minutes while Melody Nelson does not even break thirty. That said, the music fits incredibly well into the short play-time. They are very much intended to be listened to in one sitting. Both are known as concept albums, however ridiculous their stories become. In fact, the albums inspired short films based on their concepts. Furthermore, the lead characters in the two albums’ stories are loosely based on the singers themselves. If you have not heard either of these albums, or it’s just been a while, I suggest listening to them in conjunction, one after the other. They are both incredible.
Conceptually, the albums are a bit absurd. In Melody Nelson, after (literally) running into a young American woman with his Rolls Royce, the narrator seduces her, and the two fall in love. Their romance, while meaningful, is largely physical in nature. The man falls for her white pants and red hair, and the relationship culminates with a night in a hotel. Then, in a disastrous turn of events, Melody dies in an airplane crash on her return to America, the ultimate end of their tragic relationship.
Ziggy Stardust is equally implausible, but for different reasons. The story focuses on a sexually ambiguous rock star using the approaching end of the world as a way to highlight current problems. This social commentary turns the character into a sort of a messiah figure. The sense of finality comes with the death of Ziggy as the world continues to rush toward its impending doom.
Stories aside, it is the musical influence of the two albums that continue their relevance today. With Melody Nelson, Gainsbourg paints the images with his soothing voice, always spoken-word, over an ecstatic blend of instruments. The album is bookended with two 7-minute epics that detail the entire extent of the relationship. At times, the music sounds full and surrounding, guitar that could be found in the best rock albums; other times, the bass and light percussion creates a minimalist tone. It is no surprise that the album inspired a wide range of artists in the future. Bowie displays the precursor of metal with a blend of psychedelic on Ziggy Stardust. Like Gainsbourg, the blend of explosive hard rock and light orchestral background is evident here as well. Bowie’s voice, sharper and harsher than Gainsbourg’s, creates the title character as he yells Ziggy’s idealist points of view.
Perhaps the biggest similarity between the two albums was their effects on the artists. For two songwriters who were already relatively well established in the music industry, these productions altered their careers. Histoire de Melody Nelson changed Serge Gainsbourg from a jazz and pop musician to a rock star. Unfortunately Gainsbourg could never truly recapture the spirit of this album and did not make another great rock album. He made several albums, including forays into other genres, but none were as recognized as this one.
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars catapulted David Bowie after a successful run of several previous albums. It was a musical departure from his previous works and a leap into new styles. His second release on a new, major label, Ziggy Stardust brought his earlier albums out of obscurity. Unlike Gainsbourg, Bowie continued a successful career, making even better albums as he went along. Low might not have even been possible without Ziggy Stardust. And I’d like to think that Ziggy Stardust owes a bit to Melody Nelson.
If nothing else, the two albums share a clear sense of an unexpected rise and eventual fall. In an ideal universe, the deceased fictional characters, Ziggy and Melody, are together forever, holding hands in the afterlife.
All in all, David Bowie and Serge Gainsbourg have a lot in common. Both men were European artists who had enormously prolific and lengthy careers. The two were most active and at their bests in the 1970s and 80s. Both were hugely influential on the future of glam rock and post-punk. I’m almost positive Bowie was listening Gainsbourg’s 1971 masterpiece, Histoire de Melody Nelson, when he made his 1972 classic, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I just wonder how much, if at all, the two stellar contemporaries affected each other.
The two albums themselves have a lot of similarities. For both albums, a heavy load of music is contained in a short time. One could listen to both albums in just over an hour: Ziggy Stardust clocks in under forty minutes while Melody Nelson does not even break thirty. That said, the music fits incredibly well into the short play-time. They are very much intended to be listened to in one sitting. Both are known as concept albums, however ridiculous their stories become. In fact, the albums inspired short films based on their concepts. Furthermore, the lead characters in the two albums’ stories are loosely based on the singers themselves. If you have not heard either of these albums, or it’s just been a while, I suggest listening to them in conjunction, one after the other. They are both incredible.
Conceptually, the albums are a bit absurd. In Melody Nelson, after (literally) running into a young American woman with his Rolls Royce, the narrator seduces her, and the two fall in love. Their romance, while meaningful, is largely physical in nature. The man falls for her white pants and red hair, and the relationship culminates with a night in a hotel. Then, in a disastrous turn of events, Melody dies in an airplane crash on her return to America, the ultimate end of their tragic relationship.
Ziggy Stardust is equally implausible, but for different reasons. The story focuses on a sexually ambiguous rock star using the approaching end of the world as a way to highlight current problems. This social commentary turns the character into a sort of a messiah figure. The sense of finality comes with the death of Ziggy as the world continues to rush toward its impending doom.
Stories aside, it is the musical influence of the two albums that continue their relevance today. With Melody Nelson, Gainsbourg paints the images with his soothing voice, always spoken-word, over an ecstatic blend of instruments. The album is bookended with two 7-minute epics that detail the entire extent of the relationship. At times, the music sounds full and surrounding, guitar that could be found in the best rock albums; other times, the bass and light percussion creates a minimalist tone. It is no surprise that the album inspired a wide range of artists in the future. Bowie displays the precursor of metal with a blend of psychedelic on Ziggy Stardust. Like Gainsbourg, the blend of explosive hard rock and light orchestral background is evident here as well. Bowie’s voice, sharper and harsher than Gainsbourg’s, creates the title character as he yells Ziggy’s idealist points of view.
Perhaps the biggest similarity between the two albums was their effects on the artists. For two songwriters who were already relatively well established in the music industry, these productions altered their careers. Histoire de Melody Nelson changed Serge Gainsbourg from a jazz and pop musician to a rock star. Unfortunately Gainsbourg could never truly recapture the spirit of this album and did not make another great rock album. He made several albums, including forays into other genres, but none were as recognized as this one.
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars catapulted David Bowie after a successful run of several previous albums. It was a musical departure from his previous works and a leap into new styles. His second release on a new, major label, Ziggy Stardust brought his earlier albums out of obscurity. Unlike Gainsbourg, Bowie continued a successful career, making even better albums as he went along. Low might not have even been possible without Ziggy Stardust. And I’d like to think that Ziggy Stardust owes a bit to Melody Nelson.
If nothing else, the two albums share a clear sense of an unexpected rise and eventual fall. In an ideal universe, the deceased fictional characters, Ziggy and Melody, are together forever, holding hands in the afterlife.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Breaking Through to the Other Side
After a recent discussion with a friend, I made a personal claim that I have never before considered, but in retrospect, seems totally accurate. We were talking about music, specifically what was important to us and why. What artist or album meant so much to us that it stayed with us for life. After throwing out all of the common responses, I came to my choice. I had never thought about it too much, but without much second-guessing, it was obvious. The band who has had the biggest affect on my musical interests was The Doors. Typically, I hesitate to speak in superlatives, but in this case, I have no qualms claiming The Doors as the most influential musicians on my life.
When I was a freshman in high school, of course I still had a very youthful sense of music. I still do, but at least then, I was all over the top-40 radio hits, pretty much exclusively. Then, in the summer before my sophomore year, I became good friends with a senior on the cross country team. We had always been friends, but during that year, he and I started driving around, just talking about and listening to music. At one point, he asked me something along the lines of, “If I could be in any band, who would it be?” I forget what inane response I had, but he firmly answered, The Doors. I expressed some interest, and he seemed surprised that I could not have already experienced this band. Promptly the next day at school, he showed up with three CDs: Waiting for the Sun, L.A. Woman, and The Soft Parade.
I took these three home and immediately put them on. My first listen was Waiting for the Sun. I remember being shocked that The Doors did “Hello, I Love You.” I knew that song! But I had always thought it was some little one-hit band. How could I have been so wrong? Overall, I liked the album, so I went on to the next one. L.A. Woman was pretty cool, too. So, I finished my friend’s three CDs with a listen to The Soft Parade. I thought it was neat until I got to the last song on the album, the titular “Soft Parade.” At that point, I was blown away. I probably listened to that song several times in a row--and it’s over eight minutes long. Immediately, I made copies of all three of the CDs. I was hooked.
For the first few days of my following with The Doors, I only had access to these three albums. So, I became very familiar with them. Some songs astounded me and became my favorites. I was stunned by the immense sadness of “Hyacinth House.” The opening arpeggios on “Spanish Caravan” were purposely reminiscent of what I thought a market would sound like in Spain. “Not to Touch the Earth” was misleading and haunting, almost tribal. And still “The Soft Parade” was becoming my favorite song off my favorite album.
Over the following weeks, I was determined to get the three missing albums. It didn’t take me long to find the self-titled debut album, and I was just as impressed. The first half of that album is one great song after another. The second half appropriately ends with “The End,” an incredible epic forever immortalized by Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. Next, I found Morrison Hotel, which struck me as their most jazz-oriented record. The last album I tracked down was Strange Days, their follow up to their debut. This album continued the trend of having long, terrific closing songs seen on four of their albums.
By this point, my listening had become an obsession. It came at a perfect time, too: in 2007, all six studio albums got the remastered treatment. Eagerly, I collected them. For weeks, I was listening to nothing but Doors’ music, seemingly without tiring of it. Since my car only had a cassette player (this was 2007, after all), I used a Doors’ greatest hits tape that I picked up for a quarter. More live videos and rarities could easily be found online. There are many excellent books about the band, and I read them all (including Jim’s poetry). I borrowed the Oliver Stone film from the same friend and watched it several times. Using a classical guitar, I committed to learning as many songs as possible. Jim Morrison even lead me to a few of my now-favorite authors, like Jack Kerouac and Aldous Huxley. Over this period of months, my obsession with The Doors did not change my personality; but they definitely broadened it.
Musically, I think The Doors are nearly without comparison. Like fellow Californian contemporaries, The Beach Boys, there is a level of complexity in the music that does not sound like it could be made by only four people. Even listening today, I hear new parts of songs that I have never heard before. It is almost impossible to pick out each and every strand of music in the songs. They sound advanced, well ahead of their time. Drummer, John Densmore, highlights his jazz influences. The talented Robby Krieger showed his rock prowess on the guitar. Ray Manzarek blended the two in his parts on the organ. And there was no bassist! How many other popular rock bands can boast success without a bassist? Finally, there was Jim Morrison. His gruff, yet soothing voice is one of the best in American music.
I could not say when the obsession began to fade. It could not have lasted longer than six months. But I can say I have never before had a more continuous and complete phase with a band. I entered with a childish appreciation for music in general and emerged on the other side loving different music that I still treasure today. Although I have not gone back to them as often as I have with other bands, I can still go back to any one of their six main studio albums (before Morrison’s death) and it will cause an impression on me. The Doors are responsible for changing my musical views, and for that, I will always be grateful.
When I was a freshman in high school, of course I still had a very youthful sense of music. I still do, but at least then, I was all over the top-40 radio hits, pretty much exclusively. Then, in the summer before my sophomore year, I became good friends with a senior on the cross country team. We had always been friends, but during that year, he and I started driving around, just talking about and listening to music. At one point, he asked me something along the lines of, “If I could be in any band, who would it be?” I forget what inane response I had, but he firmly answered, The Doors. I expressed some interest, and he seemed surprised that I could not have already experienced this band. Promptly the next day at school, he showed up with three CDs: Waiting for the Sun, L.A. Woman, and The Soft Parade.
I took these three home and immediately put them on. My first listen was Waiting for the Sun. I remember being shocked that The Doors did “Hello, I Love You.” I knew that song! But I had always thought it was some little one-hit band. How could I have been so wrong? Overall, I liked the album, so I went on to the next one. L.A. Woman was pretty cool, too. So, I finished my friend’s three CDs with a listen to The Soft Parade. I thought it was neat until I got to the last song on the album, the titular “Soft Parade.” At that point, I was blown away. I probably listened to that song several times in a row--and it’s over eight minutes long. Immediately, I made copies of all three of the CDs. I was hooked.
For the first few days of my following with The Doors, I only had access to these three albums. So, I became very familiar with them. Some songs astounded me and became my favorites. I was stunned by the immense sadness of “Hyacinth House.” The opening arpeggios on “Spanish Caravan” were purposely reminiscent of what I thought a market would sound like in Spain. “Not to Touch the Earth” was misleading and haunting, almost tribal. And still “The Soft Parade” was becoming my favorite song off my favorite album.
Over the following weeks, I was determined to get the three missing albums. It didn’t take me long to find the self-titled debut album, and I was just as impressed. The first half of that album is one great song after another. The second half appropriately ends with “The End,” an incredible epic forever immortalized by Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now. Next, I found Morrison Hotel, which struck me as their most jazz-oriented record. The last album I tracked down was Strange Days, their follow up to their debut. This album continued the trend of having long, terrific closing songs seen on four of their albums.
By this point, my listening had become an obsession. It came at a perfect time, too: in 2007, all six studio albums got the remastered treatment. Eagerly, I collected them. For weeks, I was listening to nothing but Doors’ music, seemingly without tiring of it. Since my car only had a cassette player (this was 2007, after all), I used a Doors’ greatest hits tape that I picked up for a quarter. More live videos and rarities could easily be found online. There are many excellent books about the band, and I read them all (including Jim’s poetry). I borrowed the Oliver Stone film from the same friend and watched it several times. Using a classical guitar, I committed to learning as many songs as possible. Jim Morrison even lead me to a few of my now-favorite authors, like Jack Kerouac and Aldous Huxley. Over this period of months, my obsession with The Doors did not change my personality; but they definitely broadened it.
Musically, I think The Doors are nearly without comparison. Like fellow Californian contemporaries, The Beach Boys, there is a level of complexity in the music that does not sound like it could be made by only four people. Even listening today, I hear new parts of songs that I have never heard before. It is almost impossible to pick out each and every strand of music in the songs. They sound advanced, well ahead of their time. Drummer, John Densmore, highlights his jazz influences. The talented Robby Krieger showed his rock prowess on the guitar. Ray Manzarek blended the two in his parts on the organ. And there was no bassist! How many other popular rock bands can boast success without a bassist? Finally, there was Jim Morrison. His gruff, yet soothing voice is one of the best in American music.
I could not say when the obsession began to fade. It could not have lasted longer than six months. But I can say I have never before had a more continuous and complete phase with a band. I entered with a childish appreciation for music in general and emerged on the other side loving different music that I still treasure today. Although I have not gone back to them as often as I have with other bands, I can still go back to any one of their six main studio albums (before Morrison’s death) and it will cause an impression on me. The Doors are responsible for changing my musical views, and for that, I will always be grateful.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
The Universe for a Generation
Think about the console video game world in 1997. Although fans of Sony’s Playstation enjoyed core releases Final Fantasy VII and Gran Turismo, which ultimately became the system’s bestselling games, Sony was not a major video game entity until the Playstation 2 in 2000. Likewise, Microsoft’s Xbox would not be available for another four years. Sega saw the coming decline of its console career with the Saturn, released one final successful system, the Dreamcast, the following year, and essentially became the software developer we know of today. That left the gaming behemoth, Nintendo.
By far, Nintendo passed the 1990s as the most successful corporation in gaming. Since the mid-1980s, Nintendo had established itself as the most popular family gaming company. In 1997, the Nintendo had three successful platforms selling effectively--the newer, slimmer Super Nintendo, the updated Game Boy Pocket, and the immensely popular Nintendo 64--with arrival of the Game Boy Color in the queue. It is safe to say no other gaming company could compete with Nintendo, especially in handheld systems.
What could Nintendo possibly do to better themselves? The two best-selling franchises for the corporation were, and still are, the Mario series and the Pokemon series. In 2006, games involving Mario had sold over 185 million copies; Pokemon, 106 million copies. Since then, considering the releases of new consoles and new handhelds, these numbers have skyrocketed even higher.
The sheer amount of these games sold deserves a closer look, though. It may first appear that Mario games simply outsold Pokemon games by some 80 million copies. Keep in mind, however, that Pokemon games hit the market in 1996, fifteen years after Mario premiered in Donkey Kong in 1981, ten years after the release of Super Mario Bros. in 1985. At that rate, the Pokemon franchise sold quicker, moving almost one and a half times as many units per year than Mario. Furthermore, the Pokemon series was limited by the fact that it was sold almost solely on handheld games. Mario had the advantage of having hit games on every console--including handhelds.
It would seem, then, there was one last project that would seal Nintendo as the greatest video game company in history: create a Pokemon game for a console.
* * *
Before we begin, let me just say that I have no technical understanding of a Nintendo 64 video game. None. It might have been totally impossible to create a game of such scale on a cartridge. Maybe the random encounters would have been too much for the system to handle. It is possible the region of Kanto would have been severely compromised by the technical limitations of the machine. And I can accept that. But I can dream, right?1
Of course, some Pokemon games were released on the N64, although they were “Pokemon” by name only. They were more just scaled down certain aspects of the original games. (Anyone up for some Pokemon Puzzle League?) And Snap was fun for plenty of reasons other than its adherence to the Pokemon universe. Having the sprawling region was probably possible on later consoles, but I’m really only concerned here with the late 1990s.
Another factor that I’m choosing not to take into consideration is the financial possibilities of the project. Maybe it was just not feasible to put a development team on such a massive undertaking. Or perhaps no one could have predicted the popularity of Pokemon at that time that it should have merited a full-scale world, causing publishers to back down. I’m no economics student, but when I look at the numbers retrospectively, I think Pokemon 64 (as I’ve affectionately taken to calling it) would have made a lot of money. That’s my expert opinion.
At any rate, here’s what I would have liked. Imagine Ash Ketchum rolling out of bed late, missing an appointment with one Professor Oak, only to be embarrassed by your mother while you get stuck with an annoyingly cute electric mouse. Sound familiar? As you know, this was the start of the anime series. An effective origin, but one that was lost in the original games for the Game Boy. The beginning to the Red/Blue amounts to little more than being gifted a free Pokemon for wandering into grass. Now imagine yourself playing as this character in a fully colored, three dimensional world.
In my mind, I have an image sort of like the beginning to Ocarina of Time. Even the story is somewhat similar for the first few minutes: lazy boy has to run around Kokiri Forest/Pallet Town equipping the tools necessary to set out on a long and arduous journey. After the opening trials, you, the player, would be off. Remember “That Moment” when you first walk out onto the sprawling Hyrule Field as the music soars? It could have been the same in Kanto.
I realize at this point it just sound like a fanboy’s wishful thinking for the impossible. But it’s true! This hypothetical game has such unbelievable potential, and so far, nothing seems out of the realm of possibility. In this analogy, Pokemon Red/Blue would be the series’ equivalent to Link’s Awakening.2 Assume an alternate universe in which a three-dimensional Zelda game was never made but Pokemon 64 existed. You could just as easily make the argument the opposite direction. And who wants to live in a world without a 3D Zelda game?
Onto the actual gameplay. Specifically: random encounters and turn based battles. Random encounters had been around for several years (Dragon Warrior, Final Fantasy, etc.), but were still relatively new to 3D games. One reason the random encounters worked so well in Red/Blue was the fact that there were certain areas where you could expect to find encounters and certain areas where they were not possible. This could easily work in a 3D game. I can almost transpose it in my mind. If I close my eyes, I can picture my TV screen displaying Ash running through grass and the screen freezing and flashing, signalling a random encounter.
Another quality I liked about the Pokemon series was the fact that areas were limited to smaller sizes. It was kind of necessary to account for the handheld devices. The game had the feel of a large world, but not an open world. I would like to think that if ported to a console, the size of the area would increase slightly, though not too much. Sure, it would be exhausting to traverse such a large area without some sort of boundaries, so there could even be a system for fast travel, for when your Pidgeotto learns Fly. Why not?
Finally, there was the turn-based battle system. The core mechanic to every Pokemon game (or any JRPG, for that matter) was the alternating style of attack and defense. Fortunately, this part was already done! Pokemon Stadium, which actually showed up on the Nintendo 64 twice, featured such battle arenas as its main game.3 Long battles--however intense--bordered on tedious in Red/Blue, yet it was enough to make two entire games on the Nintendo 64. Logically, that should prove how profitable the fictional Pokemon 64 could have been.
I don’t know. Maybe the game would have been terrible. Maybe it would have ruined the franchise. I mean, the early 3D Castlevania games weren’t great. But when I think of the list of successes (Super Mario World to Super Mario 64, Donkey Kong Country to Donkey Kong 64, Super Metroid to Metroid Prime, etc.), I can’t help but wonder. If you’re interested enough, you can find mods that effectively run the game I’ve imagined on your computer. They seem to be quite popular, too. But they just can’t recapture the nostalgia.
1 Also noticeably absent is a Metroid game for the Nintendo 64. What happened between Super Metroid and Metroid Prime? Oh well. That’s a different question for a different day.↩
2 To be clear: many people, myself included, think Link’s Awakening was an excellent game.↩
3 And some really bitchin’ mini-games!↩
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