forrest

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David Sylvian has gone through many changes, from a dangerous perfect-haired glam rock sex symbol in the mid-70s incarnation of his band, Japan, to perfect-haired made-up auteur bishonen in the early-80s, and then pivoting to perfect-haired (and possibly) Maoist-intellectual in geek-chic glasses during the “Tin Drum” era of Japan; and finally, around the time of his 1987 solo record “Secrets of the Beehive,” a down-to-earth reclusive bishonen who no longer wears makeup but still has perfect hair forever.

Being a “solo artist,” putting – only – your name on the cover of albums, is an interesting phenomenon. It’s unlikely that one person is the sole creator of an album’s worth of material composed of varied instruments (unless you’re Prince), and in David Sylvian’s case, he’s certainly not playing all the instruments himself, as indicated by the lengthy personnel credits within the liner notes, including Ryuichi Sakamoto on strings and synths, a renowned Japanese avant-garde musician, actor, general savant, and Sylvian’s close friend; a starcrossed kinship reflecting the eccentricity of both men.

The truth is that being recognized as a “solo artist” with a full backing band is a privilege earned through perseverance, unique vision, and, sometimes, just being – that – cool. If I sound flippant, that’s the opposite of my intention because David Sylvian actually deserves it. This is the man who wrote “Ghosts,” a lamentation so relatable in its capture of regret that it propelled itself into the number 5 spot on the UK Singles Chart, despite being a slowly hushed whisper antithetical to anything labeled “pop” at the time; coupled with the fact that Sylvian was the inspiration for the mid-80s “New Romantic” aesthetic, and bands like Duran Duran shamelessly imitated his entire style (which itself was inspired by a hodgepodge of David Bowie characters). Is it any wonder that when David Sylvian says, “I want you to play on my solo record,” you drop everything and play on his solo record?

The point is: David Sylvian is cool in a way others can only hope to capture in fleeting moments of pale imitation. David Sylvian is entirely himself. But that’s enough attention-deficient-detouring, let’s talk about the music.

“Secrets of the Beehive” is about mood, particularly a pensive, somber mood, like watching leaves fall and wither in autumnal real time. That last line tries-real-hard to invoke David Sylvian’s beautiful lyricism but fails in spectacular fashion, and that’s because throughout Beehive, Sylvian plays the role of narrator for ten grand stories written humbly to craft Byzantine emotional landscapes for the often-unfortunate protagonists to travel through in each story; sometimes, the protagonist is David Sylvian himself.

“September” sets the climate and, clearly, the month in which these stories take place. September is the guillotine of summer, the symbolic end of the carefree, childlike wonder. It’s only appropriate that “September” is a sparse piano hymn that invokes a whispered sense of longing for a time that only just recently slipped away. “Sipping Coke and playing games,” he reminisces while the summer fades, with strings softly creeping into the mix as if they were there all along. Ironically, while September is the end of a season, it’s the beginning of the record.

With the realization that summer’s fading comes “The Boy With The Gun,” a fantasy of violence in which the protagonist dreams of killing those whom he perceives as having wronged him. Autumn’s leaves wither in our protagonist’s mind as he “carves out the victims’ names in the wooden butt of the gun.” Yet, as we round the bend to the end of this short story, Sylvian, in a rare moment of vulnerability, sings “my name’s on the gun.” This track, like many others on Beehive, draws on the theory of minimalism, a motif found throughout the record, driven by a plucky double bass line and subdued guitar licks that add sinister fringe to the whole affair.

David Sylvian sings, “I harbor all the same worries as most, the temptations to leave or to give up the ghost,” as he struggles to find inspiration and hope in his dreams. “Standing firm on this stony ground, the wind blows hard, pulls these clothes around,” he sings, effortlessly coloring the mood on “Orpheus,” an epic poem reaching out to Homer’s pantheon for inspiration, swirling with subtle chords, swelling horns, and sleepy synths resembling, perhaps, the onomatopoeia of dreams bubbling up right before deep sleep. “Orpheus,” in many ways, is David Sylvian’s Iliad, epitomizing the album it finds itself on, fusing elements from each story while borrowing pop song structures on loan from the Greek bard of divine musical inspiration.

Video: David Sylvian Performs Orpheus Live

Breaking the mold, “When Poets Dreamed of Angels” uses classical Latin-tinged guitar tones to create an infectious opening too beautiful for the subject matter. “The bruises inflicted in moments of fury … next time I’ll break every bone in your body.” An elegy of violence serenaded in such melodious iambic pentameter that the listener can’t help but rewind and listen to it again before trailing off into jazzy improvisation.

In many ways, “Secrets of the Beehive” is a direct sequel to Japan’s “Ghosts,” covering similar themes and expanding on the musical concepts, particularly jazz and minimalism, that David Sylvian would continue to pioneer in later work. Like the ghosts of the past, “Secrets of the Beehive” is a haunting; tracks such as “Maria” and “The Devil’s Own” invoke a sense of disquieting unease, perfect for exercising the wraiths after two glasses of red wine, while “Let The Happiness In” tries to recoup with its doomed grasp at hope before finally succumbing to the rain in “Waterfront,” a song that sounds like the younger brother of “Ghosts,” with its use of empty space creating a void of anticipation before a great wave of emotion. Japanese pressings of the album include a final track, “Promise (The Cult of Eurydice),” a soft ballad made up of only Sylvian’s light guitar strumming and baritone and Ryuichi Sakamoto’s sparse keyboards, invoking the ancient story of Orpheus’s attempt to save his true love’s soul, only to spiral into despair after losing it all in a game with the god of the underworld.

If you’ve read this far and truly want to know if “Secrets of the Beehive” is worth your time, consider the following hypothetical: if you can smell the autumnal aroma drifting through September skies and recognize the beauty in its ephemeral existence, then “Secrets of the Beehive” is well worth every moment.

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#Music #DavidSylvian

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In 2004, George W. Bush was re-elected President of the United States. BBC’s “Top of the Pops” stopped advertising Coca-Cola in an effort to be more health-conscious. “Half-Life 2,” one of the greatest computer games ever made, was released and revolutionized the first-person-shooter genre. The Strokes had already released two excellent records of raw New York garage pop-rock that would invigorate an entire generation of musicians, leaving countless copy-paste-bands in their wake. In short, 2004 was a great year for teenage-me, who didn’t give even-one-damn about politics and was addicted to nasty soda pop, computer games I would continue to discuss well into my thirties, rock music on repeat, and, most importantly, trying to appear as cool as possible to my peers by pretending to be something I wasn’t. Ah, the fog of youth.

Enter the Jarmans. Twins Gary and Ryan, along with their younger brother Ross, saw The Strokes’ youthfully-disheveled frontman, Julian Casablancas, perform “Last Nite” in feigned apathy, as if he wasn’t aware of trying to be the coolest guy in the room on November 6th, 2001, at Top of the Pops. The Jarman brothers immediately had to form their own copy-paste garage rock band, and The Cribs were born. We’ve seen this before; The Strokes were very much a re-run of the Sex Pistols performing at CBGB in the ’70s; nine-out-of-ten people in the audience went on to create their own band, but this time the audience was different: greasy-long-hairs addicted to Daria and Michael Moore documentaries, undesirables that McDonald’s wouldn’t even touch with a ten-foot pole.

“Before the Cribs I used to try and get jobs in McDonald’s but even they wouldn’t employ me, which was so weird. I still don’t know why they wouldn’t give me a job. I really wanted to do it. I would neaten myself up and tell them I could work whatever hours they wanted. I went for job interviews in McDonald’s three times but they never gave me a job. They never said why either.” — Ryan Jarman, The Cribs. The Guardian, Feb. 2013

There were countless “British Strokes” bands, but The Cribs were special. Their debut self-titled album was recorded in 7 days in an 8-track studio, with one song being produced by the famous Chicago-eccentric Bobby Conn (which I’m sure I will write about one day; his albums “The Golden Age” and “King for a Day” are masterpieces in their own right). Yet somehow, the young brothers struck gold despite flunking out of music school and failing to be McDonald’s material.

Ryan and Gary’s obviously British yet truly authentic dueling vocal warbling, Ryan’s amateur yet innovative guitar playing that sounds more like furiously attacking someone after one-too-many shots at the pub, and, most importantly, the brothers’ sharp ear for melody inadvertently created an extremely high bar for them to surpass with every future Cribs release.

The album starts with an odd number, “The Watch Trick,” which sounds like a silly-meme-song at first but quickly becomes something far more complex with its ending mini-chorus about a minute and thirty seconds into the track, shifting into dangerous hyper-melodic-territory; this flows into “You Were Always the One,” a sharp-powerpop number showcasing the Jarmans’ ability to conjure a hook out of nothing more than Gary’s straightforward basslines accompanying Ryan’s organized-chaos-guitar-work, and Ross just on drums (poor little bro never gets the spotlight).

Video: The Cribs – You Were Always the One

Songs like “Another Number” showcase Ryan Jarman’s bizarre yet brilliantly neurotic guitar-playing, which sounds like four-year-old-plays-guitar, but upon further listening, is actually a creatively-intricate melody that is infinitely-memorable and impossible to get out of your head for three-straight-weeks; featuring a nervously-picked guitar line formed by what has to be a malformed chord going into a “dududududududu” for the chorus, then back to the broken melody; a perfect microcosm of Ryan’s unique playing style which is truly idiot-savant-levels of “what the fuck?”

In an effort to remain objective, not everything is rainbows here; some tracks just miss the mark entirely. “Tir’elle,” the Bobby Conn produced track, is an instant skip, along with “Learning to Fight,” which is marred by repetitive, ugly verses.

Overall, The Cribs’ first album is fast-paced hook after hook after hook into utter exhaustion; it’s good sex. The first time I played this album, it was on a lark while I was working, to put something on in the background while fiddling with an Excel sheet; this was a mistake as ten minutes later I was replaying songs constantly and not getting anything done; an immediate sign that what I’m listening to is special, something I will be listening to for years to come.

My wife would often comment, after I emerged from my office exhausted and sweaty, “You’ve listened to the same song twelve times in a row, are you ok?” This is now a common occurrence whenever I start listening to The Cribs.

Upon deciding to write this article, I thought, “I haven’t listened to this album in a while; hopefully, I didn’t wear it out, and it’s as good as I remember.” My worries were misplaced as I ended up a broken record repeating history, looping insanely catchy tracks like “You and I,” “The Lights Went Out,” and “What About Me” while typing away about how much I love this album and occasionally looking back at my work computer to ensure no one sent me a furious email.

It’s easy to come to the conclusion that the Jarman brothers were trying to be The Strokes. The Cribs, like teenage-me, wanted to be something they’re not. That’s the easy take, the lazy take. The more nuanced-take is that The Cribs, while inspired heavily by The Strokes, could never sound like their inspiration because of their unequivocal-essence; instead of being Just-Another-Number, their natural talent and gift for crafting catchy pop music shines through, exploding with youthful vigor into what can only be called one of the best records of 2004.

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#music #TheCribs

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On Guided By Voices’ previous album “Mag Earwhig,” prolific songwriter Robert Pollard crooned about becoming “produced.” Then, for their 11th album, 1999’s Do the Collapse, he hitched a ride in Ric Ocasek’s Mustang and rode straight into a full-blown studio complete with a hundred-track recording setup, poppy-warbling synths, and amplifiers that actually worked.

The joke is that Ric Ocasek was – is – the frontman for the hit 80s band, The Cars. He produced this album. And he, maybe, would drive a Ford Mustang? That last part is an assumption on my part.

The result is Guided By Voices’ most polished record to this point; but, not everyone was pleased. A certain subset of fans is only happy if the music sounds like it was recorded through a 1980s tape recorder in a basement with two defective washing machines on spin-cycle and a vacuum running in the background. “It’s just like, not ‘it,’ dude – where’s the lo-fi, man?” Of course, those fans are here for all the wrong reasons. Guided By Voices, lo-fi darlings they may be, never intended to sound like a cat-fight in the backyard. The music was a product of circumstance and surroundings. What matters most are the songs, not the production. Discounting one or the other solely based on one or the other would be folly.

And, contrary to what someone on Allmusic might tell you, the songs on Do the Collapse are some of the most consistent and strongest Guided By Voices have recorded since their 1995 cult-classic LP “Alien Lanes.” If one can’t get over the fact that you can actually hear all the instruments clearly, then consider taking a step back and analyzing why you like anything at all; is it because you put the band patch on your nasty leather jacket used solely for picking up cute alt-goth girls at the shows, and you’re thirty-five now with over forty-thousand in student loan debt for a useless degree, or is it because the music makes you want to sing-real-loud when no one is around? If the answer is the former, I can’t help you – that’s a personal problem.

Ric Ocasek’s professional nail polish is appreciated here because the songs themselves are spectacular, and the production only helps to highlight this fact. Every ounce of musical flair is clearly defined and aurally shimmering, like the coyly glistening Smiths-like guitar licks and accompanying strings in “Wrecking Now,” or the beautiful ringing of the picking in “Wormhole,” the former being an instantly arresting “stop what you’re doing, this is amazing” track. All of this detail would be lost or simply not included on previous Guided By Voices records because the production wasn’t there to make it happen, and it all exists within the classic wall of Guided-By-Noise.

“Do the Collapse” is more focused than previous records, including only 16 carefully selected tracks instead of the normal 25+ one would find on earlier records. The trade-off here is that the majority of these tracks are two minutes or longer, which is an oddity considering the band we’re dealing with, known for including – sometimes – 20-second long tracks throughout their albums. The longer the track, the more responsibility it carries: responsibility to actually be worth listening to, and, thankfully, every track rocks or pops or does something worthy of your time.

If you want the chaotic noise of past records, it’s here with tracks like “Zoo Pie.” If you’re looking for the bubblegum-poprock-mastery of “Game of Pricks” or “Gold Star for Robot Boy,” well, you’re in luck because this album contains the strongest pure-pop Guided By Voices ever released, starting with the very first track “Teenage FBI,” a somewhat off-putting radio-friendly track that is just too catchy to hate, followed by “Things I Will Keep” and “Surgical Focus,” which are immediately melodious to the point the Greek God Apollo is jealous of how simple Guided By Voices makes crafting a hook look.

This album gets mixed reception for all the wrong reasons. If you want ultra-catchy-sing-along-songs that mask the darkness swirling underneath the lives we all live, this is the Guided By Voices album for you.

Don’t believe the anti-hype.

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#music #GuidedByVoices

Letter From the Editor – OCGM#2

The electric question – “Why?” – has been snapping around the synapses of my brain like lightning bolts lately. I can hear the question not only in my mind’s voice, but in the little squeaks and squibbles you hear up there in your head when everything is real quiet. It’s vexing, to say the least. Why do I do this? Why do I write so much? Why do I make this magazine? Why do I hide away from my friends and family to do all this despite making no money and having very few fans? Why do the articles masquerade as “video game journalism” when they are only tangentially related to the games themselves, focusing instead on vaguely-related fiction, personal stories, and half-baked critiques of modern society? Why does it seem like I have a particular disdain for video-game culture yet still participate in that same culture? Why does it seem like this publication hates itself? It’s clear that I want to write literature to be taken seriously, but if my goal is to write literature, then why am I writing it to an audience of people who are (largely) more concerned with how many pixels can fit on a screen rather than ever reading a single word in print or otherwise? Am I trying to impart some grand wisdom on the reader? Am I trying to convince someone of something? Am I writing this for others – or myself?

“Nothing sounds as good as, ‘I remember that.’ Like a bolt out from the blue, did you feel it too?” – Prefab Sprout. “I Remember That.” From Langley Park to Memphis. 1988.

I’ve told myself before that I publish so much material because I want to be remembered. My daughter is eleven years old now; as of writing this, she mostly cares about makeup and doing her hair and video chatting with her friends until way past her bedtime. But maybe one day she will ask, “What was my father really like underneath that parenting facade that I used to take so seriously?” The same goes for my son, who is only a single year old at the time of writing this. Maybe one day they will both ask, “What were the contents of our father’s soul?” And when those questions start snapping around the synapses of their brains like bolts of lightning, they will be able to pick up this issue of On Computer Games Monthly and start to piece together the puzzle that is their father’s soul: “So this is what father was doing all the time in that little office shed?” Maybe they will find that they think a lot like their old man, or maybe they will think the opposite: that I was a hopeless fool who wasted years of his life typing pretentious drivel to an audience of literally no one and that everything I wrote failed to make a goddamn difference to anyone at all – but it will make a difference to them. They will remember me by the words that I have written. (Among other things too, one would hope.)

But is this the only reason why I write?

“Everywhere that you go, I'm with you now.” – Guided By Voices. “Unspirited.” Isolation Drills. 2001.

But that is not the full story. There is a part of me that wants to be loved. There is a part of me that wants a cult of personality. I want to be told that I’m a good writer. I want to be told that I make very good points, that I am really-really smart, and that I am also super cool and know so much about the totally-important world of pop culture, literature, music, and computer games. I want to be adored. Even the “I want my children to know and remember me” excuse comes from an egocentric place of wanting to be adored. I want to be adored by my family; I want to be adored by literary critics; I want to be adored by random people online; I want to be adored by your mom and dad, and your aunt and uncle too; I even want to be adored by the people who would much sooner hate me than read anything I’ve written. I tell myself that this is a natural desire. I tell myself that any artist who puts themselves out there is doing it – at least partially – from a place of vanity. There is a certain hubris to the act of creation, with the baked-in assumption that anything you create is worth being considered by anyone at all. Some artists say they do it for fun or for self-improvement – and there may be some of that mixed into my work as well. And some say they do it to make some sort of political message, but this implies that you believe your political message is righteous and worth considering, and this implies hubris. I am guilty of all of these things, and I freely admit to it, and I use this willingness-to-admit as a badge of honor to deflect criticism – but here I am, still doing it. I tell myself that everyone is like this and that most just won’t admit to it; those people are not true to themselves, I say. I tell myself that everyone just wants to be loved; and this makes me feel a little better.

Is this the true reason why I write? There must be something more.

“I am human and I need to be loved – just like everybody else does.” – The Smiths. “How Soon Is Now?” Hatful of Hollow. 1984.

I am a bundle of contradictions, so, of course: I undermine my own desires. I am standoffish, quiet, and cold when clearly people would like me more if I was the opposite of those things. I believe my work should speak for itself and if you don’t like it then you just don’t get it. I'm too proud to boast, and I see self-promotion as a low-key form of boasting; so my capacity for self-promotion is close to none. I will post the link to this magazine on a few online forums, but anything beyond that makes my stomach turn. Despite my vanity, copious self-promotion feels just a little bit too forward, a little too confident, a little too capitalistic, a little too revealing of one’s intent. You may think this contradicts my claim that I am vain – “If you’re vain, then certainly you would advertise your stuff to everyone everywhere in an effort to amass that cult of personality you so desire!” – but I assure you, dear reader, that this anti-desire to self-promote also comes from a place of vanity; because I don’t want people to know how vain I am.

“But surely by admitting how vain you are, it proves that you don't care if people know how vain you are!”

Wrong again – because I’m banking on no one reading this to begin with.

And we are no closer to answering the electric why…

#computergames #autobiographical

libertas deigned to cover her eyes when her light went out and her people were dead but alive

they picked a coin from the leftmost pile it was ancient faded tired necrotic with an absent smile erstwhile

they picked a coin from the rightmost pile it was obese treacherous wild putrid and covered in bile just fucking vile

the coins were placed over her eyes and she was sent on her way but when she arrived at the banks resigned to her fate the ferryman scowled for these symbols of decay even he would not take

#poetry

am i fat? don’t answer that unless the answer’s no in which case can't you see my legs jiggling with every step i take my footsteps like small quakes the blubber rippling beneath my shirt my smile nervous and fake on the blob that is my massive head with acorns in my cheeks like a chipmunk having a feast i have no contours i have no shape i always feel out of place they look at dirt to avoid my face and every day my mind is raped by the mirror person posing as if on tape and i want to fade away literally

so i ask again am i fat? wait don't answer that unless the answer's no in which case i don't believe you

#poetry

every #hashtag is a cry for attention take a look at my interests my #music, my #artwork, my #poetry my righteous missions

refresh refresh refresh why has no one liked this thing don’t these philistines know that i have created a masterpiece

every #hashtag is a cry for attention engagement low time to shift it my poison, my shade, my #nudes my embarrassing admissions

refresh refresh refresh now we are in business

there's a data center somewhere that feeds on your rage tells you who to hate

there's a data center somewhere that feeds on your dark waves now you play shadow mage

the piers and parks where we used to play are now digital voids they claim same they mirror ourselves with beautiful sliders now we don't know the ugly inside us

there's a data center somewhere that knows what you say now you talk their way

there’s a data center somewhere that knows your exact weight claims that you’re gorgeous but could work on your shape

the pillow forts and trouble that we used to make are now digital voids they claim same they transmit ourselves with on-off toggles now we don’t have to deal with even the smallest quarrels

there's a data center somewhere your passion its prey now your loves are mundane

there’s a data center somewhere that will one day go away and your holy grails will perish and that is OK

#poetry