'Cause I got bats in the belfry
I'm in the kitchen boiling society
I'm in the open catching all the leaves
We all see what we want, yeah
-Dispatch, "Bats in the Belfry" (Bang Bang 1997)
As Franklin Clinton, one of three protagonists in Rockstar Games' latest iteration of their billion-dollar Grand Theft Auto franchise, I'm cruising back to my pad in Vinewood, GTAV's version of Hollywood set in the hills over Los Santos (read: Los Angeles). I notice a patrol car speeding toward me, a not uncommon occurrence in a title that sets fits of unbridled rage as a gameplay mechanic. Except this police officer is chasing another violent offender, who is seconds away from veering in front of my vehicle's path.
Here's where choice sets in. And we're not talking the "will you or won't you" narrative mechanic like something out of Bioshock. This decision in front of me will have no bearing on my character in the long-term or how the game's story unfolds. It's simply a moment, in the countryside of San Andreas, where I as a player have to choose.
I swerve in front of the crook, blocking his path and making the pursuit all that easier for the patrol car. Both pursuer and pursuee (word?) emerge from their vehicles, weapons drawn. I do the same, hunkering for cover behind my sedan's engine (in retrospect, not the likeliest choice for safe-hiding-spot in a shootout). I pull the left trigger on my Xbox 360 game pad to go into targeting mode with my pistol. In another subtle nod to my choice as a player, I default to targeting a police officer, but I don't pull the trigger. Instead, the crook blasts him away before my eyes. Law is restored when his partner, at a different angle, takes one shot to put the murderer down.
GTAV isn't a perfect recreation of modern life. Following this encounter, the involved officer simply strolled back to his patrol car (I half expected to see him whistling) now sans one of its prior occupants and drove off. But these serendipitous moments of choice, and just HOW MANY there are in this massive game world, elevate Rockstar's latest above mere interactive entertainment to something more.
The chorus above is from one of my favorite ditties by 90s jam rockers Dispatch. The song begins with some psychedelic riffs on the electric guitar that fade into more ska/reggae beats at intervals. In the song's final act, the guitar swells to a pulsating fit of hyperactivity, echoing the mind of our speaker as he descends slowly into madness (hence the title) by the frenzied pace of modern life.
The Grand Theft Auto series has always been about choice. It was arguably more about choice before its 3D days, when the first two numbered installments in the series were "beatable" only after you obtained enough cash to proceed through a series of locations. GTA grew up with its first appearance on the PS2 and Xbox (GTA3), and has become a cultural force to be reckoned with.
The genius of GTAV is that it perfectly encapsulates the kind of frenzied mind that is created by the postmodern world. Michael and Trevor, the two other protagonists in the game, are relics of a bygone era, former heist aficionados sinking their teeth back into "the game." Because of ten years of cultural evolution that have left them behind, both have become mentally unstable in their own ways. The player, faced with a map the size of Rockstar's previous open-world games combined and numerous potential tasks throughout that world (in addition to just wreaking mayhem, a staple of the series) faces a similar kind of emotional distress (or, at least, I have multiple times while playing).
I'm not nearly finished with GTAV. I plan to sit down for a good long while with it today, some caffeine and alcohol at the ready for my fits of existential calamity. But, to date, the most impressive thing about the title is its ability to mimic the malaise of living in a world where choice is omnipresent and morals are blurry at best.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Sonic doom: In defense of Fun.
I've gotten a lot of guff over the past few months from friends who fail to see the appeal of Fun. I'll admit, they're kind of the kitschy alternative choice of the moment, and their melodramatic "Tonight (We are Young)," which is STILL burned ineffably into my car stereo speakers hasn't done much for my pro argument. Saturation has a way of destroying a pop song and the artist responsible (see the One Hit Wonder phenomenon).
Why, then, do I find myself consistently defending the New York, Fueled by Ramen rockers? Does it have something to do with the fact that I still (shamefully) dust off "A Mark. A Mission. A Brand. A Scar." some evenings over a bottle of red wine, dabbing at the corners of my eyelids with a handkerchief? (I don't. It's more like once every year...sort of.) Until this morning, on my first true run in about a week in the blazing Spokane summer, listening to the opening chords of "Carry On" that it hit me.
Fun. writes like the dramatic poets of old.
Yes, I seriously consider Nate Ruess' writing prowess up there with John Donne, Ben Jonson and even Goethe. Will bored schoolchildren read Fun.'s liner notes in two hundred years with the same lazy alacrity as they do in today's high school classrooms? Probably not. But they should. Consider the opening lines to the aforementioned "Tonight," often excised or sped through in radio edits:
"Give me a second I,
I need to get my story straight
My friends are in the bathroom getting higher than the Empire State
My lover she’s waiting for me just across the bar
My seat’s been taken by some sunglasses asking 'bout a scar, and
I know I gave it to you months ago
I know you’re trying to forget
But between the drinks and subtle things
The holes in my apologies, you know
I’m trying hard to take it back."
Now, compare with the first few lines of Donne's "The Flea," that lyric poem you had to memorize then immediately forget before fourth-period algebra:
"MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be."
What combines these two pieces of fiction? Story, symbolism, narrative directness. Both Fun. and Donne (see why I did that now?) are speakers addressing an unknown audience. There's a history here that is explored partially in the words, but also invites those reading/listening to cast their own experiences through the language jotted down.
To be sure, Fun. are not the only pop artists engaging in this kind of lyrical storytelling. Indeed, the dramatic poets often set their verse to song, hence the terms "verse" and "chorus" and the invention of what is commonly referred to as an "earworm." But the prevalence of the technique throughout Fun.'s album, Some Nights (see also: the introductions to "Carry On," "One Foot," and the album's introductory track, for crying out loud), demonstrates a commitment you just don't see these days.
Pop artists usually pay lip service to the need for story, allusion and higher thought in their works. I suspect that's due to the ceaselessly shrinking attention spans of pop music's target audience: teens. It's nice to see incredibly successful artists recognize there is still an audience out there that gives a damn.
That's why I like Fun.
Why, then, do I find myself consistently defending the New York, Fueled by Ramen rockers? Does it have something to do with the fact that I still (shamefully) dust off "A Mark. A Mission. A Brand. A Scar." some evenings over a bottle of red wine, dabbing at the corners of my eyelids with a handkerchief? (I don't. It's more like once every year...sort of.) Until this morning, on my first true run in about a week in the blazing Spokane summer, listening to the opening chords of "Carry On" that it hit me.
Fun. writes like the dramatic poets of old.
Yes, I seriously consider Nate Ruess' writing prowess up there with John Donne, Ben Jonson and even Goethe. Will bored schoolchildren read Fun.'s liner notes in two hundred years with the same lazy alacrity as they do in today's high school classrooms? Probably not. But they should. Consider the opening lines to the aforementioned "Tonight," often excised or sped through in radio edits:
"Give me a second I,
I need to get my story straight
My friends are in the bathroom getting higher than the Empire State
My lover she’s waiting for me just across the bar
My seat’s been taken by some sunglasses asking 'bout a scar, and
I know I gave it to you months ago
I know you’re trying to forget
But between the drinks and subtle things
The holes in my apologies, you know
I’m trying hard to take it back."
"MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be."
What combines these two pieces of fiction? Story, symbolism, narrative directness. Both Fun. and Donne (see why I did that now?) are speakers addressing an unknown audience. There's a history here that is explored partially in the words, but also invites those reading/listening to cast their own experiences through the language jotted down.
To be sure, Fun. are not the only pop artists engaging in this kind of lyrical storytelling. Indeed, the dramatic poets often set their verse to song, hence the terms "verse" and "chorus" and the invention of what is commonly referred to as an "earworm." But the prevalence of the technique throughout Fun.'s album, Some Nights (see also: the introductions to "Carry On," "One Foot," and the album's introductory track, for crying out loud), demonstrates a commitment you just don't see these days.
Pop artists usually pay lip service to the need for story, allusion and higher thought in their works. I suspect that's due to the ceaselessly shrinking attention spans of pop music's target audience: teens. It's nice to see incredibly successful artists recognize there is still an audience out there that gives a damn.
That's why I like Fun.
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