Bits For Rent

Having spent most of this past week suffering through a not-so-fun bout with a very resilient cold, I’ve been fortunate enough to have been able to spend a fair amount of time listening to some new music, as well as a few old favorites. Since class discussion sort of revolved around covering other music that was being made around the same time as the stuff we’ve already studied, I figure now is the perfect time to go off on a bit of a tangent myself.

“You’ve Done It Again, Virginia” by the National is, simply, a stunning song. A rarity for the band, the song is a low-fi minimalist work, completely acoustic and at times almost indecipherable for the listener. However, the lyrics are just as potent as any of the band’s more lively tracks, making me wonder if the purpose of this B-Side was to challenge the listener to actually start paying attention to more than the simple beats and guitar licks of their singles. Like several of the band’s other works, the song can be downright chilling in its depiction of scenery. The first verse alone sets a haunting, somber tone:

You went in and put a record on
To make it sound like someone was home
And thanked yourself for pouring yourself a drink

As a fan of the band, I was delighted to stumble upon a crucial missing piece to my catalog in this song. The lyrics may be piercing and even depressing to read as text on a screen, but like everything else with this group, the sum is so much more than the parts.

On a wholly unrelated note, I also, at the bequest of a friend, listened to the new Keane album. For the uninitiated, Keane is a Brit Pop trio that is now on their third attempt to become a band that is more than just a me-too Coldplay clone. Their first CD, Hopes and Fears, was a solid collection of piano ballads and pop-friendly Coldplay soundalikes. But then the group decided that being called a poor-Brit’s Coldplay wasn’t good enough for them, and so they changed up their sound with bigger production, sweeping melodies, and some darker material to sing about for their 2006 release, Under the Iron Sea. Unfortunately, Coldplay did almost all of the same things on X and Y, so the plan didn’t really work that well. But, hey, at least they got some air time on HBO’s second season of Entourage.

This time around, Keane are really, really serious about making you notice them. The CD, which is a mixed bag of fantastic tunes and some head-slappingly bad lyrics, is best described in one word: “Spiraling.” It’s the name of the first song on the CD, which is also the band’s current single. As a song, it’s like some sort of ’80s throwback, channeling a bit of Prince‘s funk and handful of other terrible tragedies that our country was forced to suffer during that time. Electronic drum kits are, thankfully, absent.

The rest of the CD is all ups and downs. Perfect Symmetry, the album’s name, is also the name of the best track of the whole bunch. But for almost every good track, there’s a misfire. And with only 11 tracks to be had, the whole thing comes across as a bit uneven. Definitely a CD that will be benefited by the iTunes era of music, but still disappointing for a band that has tried for 5 years to truly shake the establishment and demand that the masses stand up and take notice of them. There’s potential in this CD to get the group some new followers, but the rather retro, “been-there, heard-that” sound that the CD carries comes at a time when so many acts are pushing music in exciting new directions. How many people are ready to go back and start spelunking around the past?

In many ways the CD is a strong contrast to TV on the Radio‘s Dear Science. While that group is also taking past styles and exploiting them in new ways, they do so in a far more dynamic, abstract way. And, hopefully, I’ll be able to talk about that more next week.

As we progress further forward into the establishment of rock and roll, there is a clear change in style that is beginning to develop. Music from the 50s and early 60s relied on a set of backbeats and rhythms that, to a casual listener, sound quite similar to each other. In addition, musicians at this time tended to have songs that borrowed a lot from earlier works. Chuck Berry, for instance, seems to start off every song with his trademark guitar riff. Little Richard used a shout chorus that, from song to song, had little differentiation. Tutti Frutti became “Good Golly, Miss Molly,” but the piano and drums backing the vocals are practically interchangeable. Elvis is the probably the biggest exception to this trend, but I feel like that is largely due to the fact that he combined two very distinct genres. For others, such as Berry and Richard, it certainly seemed like they had discovered a formula that worked, and kept to it.

What we heard this week was proof, however, that the trend was moving away from “signature sound” and more towards “signature artist.” Buddy Holly and the Crickets had a fair number of hits and singles, even if you only look at the ones produced under one of his two contracts, and they all occurred in a very short time span. Much of this can be credited to Buddy’s undeniable musical genius, but the fact that he and his band were able to create so many songs in such a short period of time without any major signs of creative cannibalization is truly laudable. Here we had a young musical prodigy, inspired by Elvis, who hit the ground running with a broad range of commercial sounds. It’s almost as impressive as the King’s work.

More importantly, as has been hammered home again and again in class, first comes imitation, then absorption. In a matter of years, the patterned had already occurred between Elvis and Buddy Holly (his first songs were Elvis covers). In a few more years, it was destined to happen again with Holly and the Beatles, a band that could probably be said to have taken more from one artist (Mr. Holly) than anyone had done before them. Well, unless you count Pat Boone’s versions of Little Richard songs. Either way, the pattern is truly coming to the forefront: music is cyclical, and the 60s were firing at a very high RPM.

The History of Rock and Roll starts with Chuck Berry, as far as I’m concerned. Elvis was the King and all that jazz, but Chuck Berry really took the greatest elements of the past, the piano and the songwriting, and brought them to new heights with his trademark electric guitar riffs and his incredible, succinct storytelling abilities. Songs like Johnny B. Goode and School Day are great examples of this, as is the little diddy about divorce whose name escapes me at present. And if that weren’t reason enough to say that Rock started with Chuck Berry, he also had a serious car fetish. And quite frankly, you aren’t a legend unless you have an uncontrollable addiction or some bizarre idiosyncrasy like that.

This week in class, we also had a brief run down on Bo Diddley and Little Richard, another two all-stars of Rock with their own unique styles. For Bo, it was all about slapping that guitar and playing as few chords as possible while still sounding phenomenal doing it. Little Richard, meanwhile, has a legacy that needs to further explanation: high woos, dark sunglasses, flamboyancy in every sense of the word, and songs that don’t really make much sense but still get you to dance all the same. This was the pinnacle of 50s music, and it was the beginning of the beginning of rock and roll.

These are also artists, save for Bo Diddley who recently passed away, that continue to perform to this day. That’s over 50 years of playing music, something that very few people, let alone bands, could ever be said to have accomplished. It’s also about 3 generations of listeners. That means that your grandparents, your parents, and you and I have all been inspired by the same artists, whether we knew it or not. Because even if you’ve never listened to Chuck Berry outside of hearing him in Back to the Future, or if the only time you’ve listened to Little Richard is when he’s made an appearance on TV or has been given homage in a show, the bands and singers that you do listen to every day no doubt owe a great amount of their sound, style, or inspirations to these founding fathers of rock. And the great thing is that, unlike our country’s founding fathers, we’re actually fortunate enough to still have them alive and rocking to this day–not just have their heads carved into a mountain.

I guess history doesn’t always have to be boring.

I heard a lot of Elvis this week, and learned a lot about him. As far as rock goes, he’s probably one of the most important and influential icons ever to be associated with the genre, and is certainly one of the most important artists of the 20th century. But I’ve had a week dominated by Elvis, and that’s enough for me. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done with Elvis. Moving on.

I didn’t really listen to too much that was new or interesting this week, but there are a few standouts. One Day as a Lion is probably the weirdest name for a band I’ve ever heard, but there’s one thing that is very important about them: it’s MC is none other than Zach de la Rocha, the voice and perennially anarchical brain behind the legendary Rage Against the Machine. His raspy, politically laced verbal assault is instantly recognizable, and if you strain a little you can almost imagine that the band backing him might actually be as good as Rage was. They aren’t, but it’s not for a lack of effort. The drums are explosive–it sounds like the drummer goes through foot pedals like they’re a box of Ho-Hos–but the guitars lack the intense, erratic flair of Tom Morello, who in the years since Rage’s collapse has been incredibly successful as the lead guitarist of the now-defunct Audioslave and even released his own acoustic album under the moniker of “The Nightwatchman” in 2007. Nevertheless, the self-titled EP of One Day is a rousing little 5 song collection, and it’s nice to see that Zach has found himself a new outlet for all his anger and malcontent at our country. Really, the world is a better place for it.

Elsewhere and in a totally unrelated musical style, I’ve been trying to get into Portishead. Portishead is apparently one of the biggest saviors of the 90s indie sound, but their latest CD, Third, is a morass of eccentricities that I’m having a hard time understanding what all the fuss was about. The vocals–and here I should note that as far as female singers go, I am incredibly skeptical and very picky about what I will approve of–are sparse and ethereal… it’s as if I’m listening to something far, far away and in another language. I’m sure that this style is quite popular in some circles (otherwise what the hell am I listening to this band for?), but the problem I have with bands that rely on the whole “artsy”, “neo-intellectual” sound is that they often lack anything compelling to really sing about. As in, the lyrics are vague and carry no emotional weight, making the songs about as bland as the people listening to them. Of course, that group includes me at this point, but I’m just a sampler; I call it like I see it, good or bad, and will gladly admit I was wrong about a band if I start to “get” them after a few listens. Trouble with Portishead is, I just don’t see that happening anytime soon. It calls to mind an old saying: don’t believe the hype.

Other than those two groups, it’s been a slow week for music. Old staples have been a big help, such as the Raconteurs and Cold War Kids, but I just haven’t been able to whip up that adventurous spirit lately. That, and for the most part I’m still enjoying recent discoveries like The National too much to want to switch to something I’m not sure I will like. The good news is that iTunes now has the Genius sidebar, which means any time I play a song a list of recommended songs will come up by similar artists. It’s a feature iTunes has long-needed, and I’ll try to report back on it in the future if it turns in anything good. Until then, hound dog.

This week we finished our journey up Highway 61 and explored the nuances of the sounds of the three great cities of Rock & Roll–New Orleans, Memphis, and Chicago.

New Orleans music is perhaps the most distinctive of the three. It has a slow and steady beat, a soulful, emotional delivery, and a certain, hard-to-describe harmony to it all that makes it stand out from rural, urban/electric/and country blues. This is the sound of Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, Fats Domino, and many more. It is also the most important of all blues types, as it originated the blues sound and led to many soon-to-be-famous artist carrying the music with them into new and exciting places.

Highway 61 doesn’t connect New Orleans to Chicago literally–it actually runs a bit west of the windy city–but it still served as the artery by which the blood of blues music was pumped into the city. It started in the countryside as rural blues. This is where the legendary Son House left his mark on the music world, with songs such as “Death Letter” and “John the Revelator.” But then something amazing happened: the blues found their way into the heart of the city. And in doing so, they picked up the sound of the electric guitar. This was a major breakthrough on the way to the birth of Rock & Roll, and it was championed by early founders and blues greats Elmore James, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, and John Lee Hooker. These artists have been covered by dozens of major rock artists, and took blues music to new heights with an enlivened sound and a new, more urbanized style of blues lyricism. All of which would eventually be funneled back down Highway 61 to a final destination, the heartland of Rock & Roll, Memphis, Tennessee.

Memphis was literally bursting with creative energy by the time the blues got there. It’s only so often that the world gets to see a fountainhead of genius sprout up and delivery a new Renaissance of thinkers and artists. The 1950s and ’60s were certainly one of those times. And while we didn’t get to cover too much of Memphis in this week of class, the road to the future is already becoming quite clear: Elvis, B.B. King, Ike Turner, and Johnny Cash all began their trips to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame at Sun Records in Memphis, and would soon shake the world–and in one notable case, his hips–with an exciting mix of new sounds.

Which brings me to my new sounds of the week. Encouraged by all the electric blues and syncopated rhythms, I began listening heavily to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, or BRMC, with a dash of The National every now and then to tone things back down. BRMC are an exciting, grungy little rock band incorporating all of the main staples of the genre: guitar, bass, drums, and piano when the situation calls for it. Each of their four CDs has its own distinctive sound, ranging from outlaw to alternative to something akin to a biker bar live set. The music can be fast and furious or rest on its laurels, depending on little more than what the band wants to play at the time. But regardless of the tempo, they are almost immediately engaging for the listener, and their CDs are complete recordings that deserve, and often earn, full play-through once started. I first heard of them when their song, “Weapon of Choice,” was used in an episode of Entourage, and immediately took a liking to the variety and quality of the sounds the band toys with. This week, I was happy to once again be listening to them, only this time with thoughts of the King, Son House, and Howlin’ Wolf rolling around in my head.

Though the connections to the past are there when you hear the music being played, to try and link the two in abstract really highlights musical gulf that has been formed since the heyday of blues. As this journal is bound to show over the next dozen or so weeks, there’s a lot of ground to cover before we catch up to the present. We just have to wait until the end to see if it was worth the trek.

Week two of my listening journal falls into a slightly different format than last week’s. Since we were able to break down the history and origins of Rock and Roll a bit more in this week’s classes, I feel more comfortable talking about the artists we listened to in class this week than I do discussing the brief, scattershot samples we listened to the week prior.

The basic objective of this week’s lessons was to try to determine just exactly where Rock music started. In class, our professor has told us that several people vie for the title of Father of Rock & Roll, which led us on a journey through the first half of the 20th Century to try and discover where that point of origin might truly lie. Like all great inventions–the telephone, television, writing–there were a couple of people all coming up with the same idea at the same time, with little to no connection with one another.

In Rock’s birthing, this is largely due to the fact that most of the music at the time was able to be categorized into very few genres. Ragtime, Rockabilly, the Blues, Gospel, and Jazz all had some overlapping elements, but each sound was its own. What made Rock different was that it drew heavily from “race” music (i.e. black music) staples such as back-beat and melded them with guitar rhythms and bass grooves to form something entirely of its own. Whereas its genre predecessors were largely a progression from one or two other musical styles to another, Rock just sort of lumped them all together and came out sounding like everything and nothing all at once. No wonder Sinatra called it the most brutal thing he’d ever heard; when else had your parents’ music been so slapped together to create such a beautiful cacophony?

What class was able to provide evidence for was the progression of styles that lead to this exciting new sound. We heard some Robert Johnson, a man who they like to say made a deal with the devil in order to make some of the most powerful blues the world has ever heard. I, being a huge fan of the blues but not knowing much about any specific artists, was absolutely delighted to hear some of his work. In honor of his contributions, I began listening to some more of The Black Keys, a great indie blues duo that seems to be one of the only groups still making this kind of powerful, soulful music. I first started listening to the Keys at the beginning of the summer, when I had found out their latest album, Attack & Release, was produced by Danger Mouse, of Jay-Z/Beatles mash-up The Grey Album fame, and instantly took a liking to their sound. Having been exposed to a lot of new music this summer, however, they quickly fell out of my listening rotation and were replaced by other indie acts such as My Morning Jacket and Vampire Weekend. (Actually, Danger Mouse is sort of a Robert Johnson type himself, who established a legacy with just one album compared to Johnson’s two historic recording sessions. And as a person who explores the blending of musical styles, he’s a natural fit for this week’s listening journal.)

Happy to be hearing the blues again, I was also astounded at how much of Johnson’s work has been covered by bands I knew… and especially surprised at how many of the songs I liked were covers of him! CREAM‘s “Crossroads” and Led Zeppelin‘s “The Lemon Song” were among the standouts, but works by Clapton, the Stones, and others were also quite amusing. Rock is cannibalistic and adaptive by its very nature, after all, so it really makes perfect sense for covers and samples of classic works to exist inside the genre. In fact, it might be one of the most natural things about Rock music: building a path forward on the legacy of what has been, but making it your own in the process. It allows for Rock to constantly reinvent itself, as it has over the years, and still maintain that crucial connection to the past without feeling dated. And to think we were getting mad when it was just Elvis shaking his hips…

Today marks the beginning of a weekly project. With this entry, I begin a week-by-week catalog of my listening habits. As part of my class on Rock & Roll and American Society, I have been asked to submit at least 15 of these entries, taking me through a semester of rock’s great legacy as well as my own meandering interesting in the many niches and off-shoots of the genre. It’s a lot to ask of someone like me, who, rather infamously among my friends and family, cannot keep to a consistent schedule to save my life, despite being a rather organized person. Nevertheless, let’s get this thing started.

Since returning to school, I’ve been sifting through a torrent of new music that people recommended over the summer but only recently gave to me. Of the few bands I’ve been able to give a decent listen to, three in particular have caught my attention, and one is just a deliriously narcotic aural delight. In order from least to most played, they are as follows:

The Rumble Strips – I’m still not exactly sure where this recommendation came from — I think that I saw them on Rolling Stone’s Bands to Watch list — but the Strips are certainly a fair shake away from my normal listening preferences. If I had to classify their sound, I’d say it was somewhere along the lines of British Punk Ska, with a dash of emo. The songs are an irreverent catalog of little things in life that annoy and charm us all, but the up-beat tempo and soulful vocals somehow make a song about waking up early feel almost… anthemic. “No Clocks” is probably the best of the bunch, but I’ve been able to listen to the CD all the way through so far with only a few urges to skip to the next track. If Reel Big Fish are a bit too sarcastic and eye-winking, elbow-nudging “Aren’t we clever?” for your tastes, this might be a band to look into. And as a group that is only just now getting a small sliver of attention, I’ll definitely be interested in where they go from here.

The Hold Steady – Somehow I’ve missed out on what some call the greatest “true” rock band in the country (a statement that must derive from the straight-laced, effects-free guys-guitars-and-a-keyboard sound), but there’s definitely something about the Hold Steady that makes me want to wish I could completely and wholeheartedly endorse them in such a way. The lyrics seem to be from the same mold as classic Springsteen and Bon Jovi songs, full of soul and defiance and that rebellious spirit that transforms bands like the aforementioned two such colossal cultural figures. The only difference is that this group sounds like it’s doing it part time, like a weekend gig to beat the stress of a nine to five job. But somehow it works, and you’re sitting there an hour later still listening and thinking to yourself, “Hey, this stuff is actually pretty good.” It’s nice to know that, despite how progressive music tries to be these days, sometimes ordinary can work too.

The National – Even though this isn’t what I’ve been listening to the most, the National have become the group that I’ve been talking about the most. Having listened to their two most recent records, Alligator and Boxer, and watched a live stream of a recent concert they did, it’s easy to see why the indie music scene is obsessing over them. The mechanics at work — keyboard, violin, guitar, bass, and drums — have the potential to churn out some incredible songs, and the singer’s subdued, flat tone only helps to let what truly matters, the way the instruments layer over each other so effectively, stand out even more. Granted, the monotone lyricism means that what’s being said could be cut-and-pasted into another song and sound fine there, but that criticism could be leveled at bands like Interpol too. The fact is that it works, and it works damn well. There’s a chemistry to it all that makes me believe wherever these guys go next, the music industry is going to stand up and take notice. Perhaps it’s time you do too.

Fleet Foxes – Oh, where to begin? I tried listening to Fleet Foxes’ Sun Giant EP after Pitchfork called it one of the most impressive debuts in years, but found it to be so far from my current taste in music that it was almost repulsive. Five guys doing harmonies and acoustic sets while singing about folk mysticism and fabled tragedies and other bizarre Americana subjects? I’ll stick with the Decemberists for my story-telling, thanks. But then I kept hearing about them, and none of it was bad. I mean, absolutely none of it. So I got a recording of a live set they did, and sat down, determined to hear them out and hoping that I would prove myself right once and for all. But that didn’t happen. Somehow, I must have finally become “ready” for Fleet Foxes, because after listening to them a second time I have not gone a day with playing “Mykonos” or “He Doesn’t Know Why.” The harmonies are captivating, the drumming is enchanting, and the solo acoustic songs are flat-out stunners. And these guys are just a bunch of bearded hillbillies… from Seattle? It still doesn’t make sense, but then again, considering how Rock & Roll got its start from Ragtime, R&B, and country, is there any reason it needs to?

The plain and simple truth is, these guys knocked me out of my socks with a sound I never expected to hear from people born after 1975, and I couldn’t be happier to have been wrong about them the first time. Last time that happened, it was the Decemberists, and considering my previous comment it’s easy to see how that turned out. That’s the thing about music. It doesn’t always hit you right the first time, but let it sink its claws in a little and soon you can’t believe what you were missing.

We’ll see if that holds true for next week.

I won’t get into the details of what I’ve been up to, but I’ll sum it up as best as I can: I have been fairly busy with college, incredibly busy with Rock Band, and perhaps even more busy enjoying a fair number of tasty beers (in between bouts of binging on Coke). I am an awful, pathetic slacker that wants more than anything to be sit here daily and write out my thoughts, but who never seems to be able to load up the webpage and actually do anything about it. I’m disciplined enough to read about an hour before going to sleep each day, and I keep up with the news well enough, but fuck me if I can put pen to paper or finger to key and pound out a decent journal entry more than once a week — let alone once a month. But for anyone reading that may actually care what I have to say on here, I’m working on it. I’ll be coming back.

So, with all that aside, let’s get to the meat and potatoes of today’s post. Professor Layton and the Curious Village.

Professor Layton, as I’ll call it (or just Layton), is a peculiar little game. Created by the fine folks at Level 5 (who have produced the wonderful Dark Cloud 1 and 2, Dragon Quest VIII, and Jeanne D’Arc to name a few), the game is a complete charmer from the moment your journey begins. The story follows one Prof. Layton and his child assistant/pupil Luke as they journey to the secluded town of St. Mystere to unravel the mystery behind the Golden Apple — a prize left by the town’s wealthiest resident to be claimed by his one true heir. The opening dialog, which is presented with charming British accents, provides the user with all of the essential backstory before giving the player a little taste of the game’s main course: puzzles.

Now allow me to diverge from my summary to expand on the matter of puzzles. To me, puzzles are simply delightful. I love brainteasers, even when they are so obtuse I can’t possibly wrap my head around them — they are, simply put, one of the most natural and enjoyable ways of flexing that all-important muscle that makes us human: the brain. Now, I knew that Layton would be throwing puzzles at me left and right, but let me assure you: this game is absolutely packed with the bloody things. I believe there are something like 120 total, with an additional set of collection-based mini-puzzles available from the menu screen. A weekly puzzle is also available from the Nintendo WFC.

Anyway, back to the game. Or, really… I never stopped talking about the game, because after the spoken introduction, almost all of the time you will spend in St. Mystere will be staring at the screen of Puzzle ___, the cogs in your head spinning like tops to find the solution. And when you input the answer and the Professor or Luke goes through his victory animation, you may never feel as rewarded for your efforts as you do right then. “Professor, I’ve solved it!” and “Every Puzzle has an answer” will soon become a mantra for you, and after quickly gathering some information from the townsfolk, you’ll tap your way around the screen to find the next object or person to interact with, not just to advance the plot and determine just who is behind all the strange occurrences but to get that next quick fix… to face that new, unknown challenge.

If I’m making the game out to sound like some sort of addiction, well… perhaps that’s the right thing to do. As I stated before, the game is just utterly charming: the art on display is unlike anything you’ve seen in a game in recent years, and the characters are wacky enough that you can’t help but tap on them and see what kind of derranged ramblings they will spout about this damned puzzle they’re working on and won’t you please help me solve it and if you do I’ll tell you about where to find what you’re looking for. I don’t think there’s a monetary system in St. Mystere (I’ll spare you jokes about Hint Coins); knowledge is the only currency these people recognize.

Aside from the puzzles and the art and the great cast of characters, I don’t want to speak on much else of Professor Layton, as it was an experience that was better served by going in with little knowledge of what to expect. I only hope that I have piqued the interest of someone out there; for $30, you will get at least 15 hours of great mind-benders and a cute-though-somewhat-predictable story; but more important than either of those is the experience, on a whole, that you will have gone through. Layton is a game that stays with you, much like a Miyazaki or Pixar movie might stay with you. The presentation, the puzzles, and the people you meet all blend together to form an unbeatable package. If you were ever interested in this game, or if you feel even a slight bit of interest now, do yourself a favor and check this title out. Soon, you too will be waiting eagerly for the sequel.

Has it really been seven weeks since I last wrote anything here? Well I guess that says a lot about the current state of affairs in the gaming world, let alone my own. To keep it short, college has become a bit of a mother-fucker this year, and the increased pressure from that, plus a few self-proposed changes in my disgusting habits–trying to keep up with the news, make more time for reading books and magazines, getting out of the computer chair every now and then–have left me very short on time for writing blog entries, and even playing some of the great games coming out has been difficult. However, that is not to say I have not persevered. So without further ado, it’s time to talk games.

The first game I’ve tackled is the last game I mentioned on here — Metroid Prime 3: Corruption. After only a few hours with the game, I was totally in love with the control scheme and blabbering to anyone who’d listen about how refreshing it was to play a shooter like Prime that placed an emphasis on interface; not just between the user and the controller but the character and the environment. Prime is truly an adventure game at heart. And so long as we forgive them game its historical conceits–everything seems made for a morphball to tunnel through, never naturally structured–the atmosphere the game presents is overly engaging. No two hallways are alike, no gimmicky puzzle must ever be repeated time and time again for the designers to get their jollies; Prime is a game that was made by people in love with the lore they created, and it clearly shows.

However, I must say that all is not gold in the land of Samus. There are several flaws with the latest Metroid that harken back to the roots of the franchise, as well as a few gaming cliches that should have been swept aside. First and foremost, the continuing, persistent use of voice-over directives that require the player to bring up the map before they stop are incredibly obnoxious. I cannot think of a more profound way of pulling the user out of the experience than to beat them over the head with instructions and insistent objective reminders. Yes, I know that I have to find an item capable of opening the next type of door in order to shut down the core reactor that will lower the shield and let me get into the giant seed that has plunged into the planet, corrupting all the life on its surface. You told me about it right before I turned the game off last night, I don’t think I’ve forgotten.

And please, must you belittle your own effort at making this game so beautiful by putting a time requirement on the last level of the game? I’ve played for 15 hours to get there, why the hell do I get 15 minutes to run through it? My friend, a longtime fan of the series, still to this day loads up a copy of Metroid Prime just to look around at all the detail in that game’s world. In Elysia, the Chozo-influenced world of Corruption, gorgeous mosaic artwork adorns the floors and doorways of all the floating buildings, and no one but a few steam-powered robots are there to badger me while I study them. There should be no concerns of “pacing” in a Metroid game; the entire purpose of the series was, until this game, to emphasize detachment, isolation, and the sense of wonder and fear one has in exploring a new environment. There were no commander’s orders to report to Waypoint A and grab Plot Device C, just suit upgrades imperative to your own survival. The further you pressed into the core of Zebes or Norion, that progression was made at your own risk, by your own accord. The fate of the galaxy was not in a bounty hunter’s hands.

I know a lot of people in the press said that the first level of MP3 is incongruous with the rest of the game, that it felt forced and too much like a Halo set-up for it to be truly Metroid. I agree, to an extent. Samus should not be the pawn of the Galactic Federation, she is and always has been an autonomous, independent figure. She has been a beacon of feminine power in the gaming world for too long to be forced to obey orders from some generic army goon, who we cannot and will not feel empathy towards as his ship is attacked by Space Pirates. That bastard got what he deserved.

In fact, the entirety of this game it feels like Samus is never really where she is supposed to be. After being attacked by Dark Samus (spoilarz olol), she is fitted with a new suit that gives her access to something called Hypermode: an essential yet utterly shallow game mechanic. After using this mode for too long, Samus will become corrupted and you have to expell an energy tank’s worth of energy to recover. Otherwise, you pop into it, fire off a salvo of lasers to kill anyone in your way, then pop back out. If the regular weapon and missiles were not so inaffective against the normal enemies, this would be entirely unnecessary. But that is a minor nitpick at this point. What I’m trying to explain is that Samus, or You, wakes up in this new power suit, “rebuilt” so to speak by the Federation and charged with saving the world. But you’re a bounty hunter. This feels more like the storyline of Bionic Woman (more on that one later) than Metroid. If only the game wasn’t so damn good, I would be outraged as a casual fan of the series.

So yes, Corruption was awesome. It’s about 16 hours long, the controls were never a burden unless a very precise aim was needed to hit a target (not often enough to cause me greif, thankfully), the levels are stunning for a Wii title, and the core mechanics of older Metroid games make a few welcome cameos–I’m looking at you, stacking beams. Overall, in a year starved for good games exclusive to the system, Metroid Prime 3 makes for a great breath of fresh air for Wii owners, and will at least make the wait until November that much shorter. Recommended.

Yikes. I really got on a tangent in this post. I’m going to just put this up as its own topic and post another article about the rest of the games, music, books, anime, and TV I was going to mention. Maybe two articles. Maybe a whole series.

I guess the last entry took the wind out of me. It’s certainly been a while since I’ve managed to come around and punch anything in to this little text field that was worth punching in, but I’ll spare the lengthy diatribes for another time and just chat about some recent goings-on.

Since the last time I posted, Arctic Monkeys released their second CD, Favourite Worst Nightmare, and I’ve probably listened to the whole thing well beyond a dozen times. At just over 38 minutes, the disc is an dense compilation of break-ups, breakdowns, cultural criticisms and wry ballads about sex kittens now domesticated. It’s every bit what you’ve come to expect from the explosive little band of Brit youngsters, with a dash of cock-punching thrown in for good measure. If you like rock, then be prepared to hear some of the best guitar and drum coordination this side of the year 2000. I do not exaggerate.

Other than music, I’ve been dividing my time up betwixst a medley of anime, sci-fi, and good old fashion gaming. In terms of the latter, I’ve recently detailed the rekindled love affair between myself and Pokemon Diamond on the aL forums, plus I’ve been finding spare moments to level up and explore the world of Ivalice once more in Final Fantasy XII. I really wish that the PS3/Wii hype hadn’t occured at the same time as this game’s release, because if it weren’t for those things I honestly believe that I could have written about this game for months on end. (Which reminds me, I never did finish the Legend of Zelda articles on here… blast it all.) Something about playing an RPG where the story is so rich and the characters so complex and the combat so effortless that at times I merely steer my party around with naught but the analog sticks just seems so divine. Being able to type long sentences about such a game is also quite enriching, but I shant detract from my love session to indulge in that just yet. In reality, words are lost in describing how beautiful the world of FFXII is, even in its starkest dungeons and most vile of villains’ smiles. Undoubtedly, my game of the year for 2006. Bar none.

But what of the pokeymons? Ah, pokemon. Such an interesting one, that. I really do like the psuedo-3D that Game Freak went with in this one, as well as the nice big touch screen buttons that you tap on to carry out battles. Both add a great deal of charm and endearment to a series that is growing considerably long in the tooth. I cannot say I have great pleasure in the first 4 or so hours of the game that I have played. Something about the fact that the wild pokemon always being so weak and so repetitive (500 types and I’ve only got 14 logged in my Pokedex? What. The. Fuck.) and that first dungeon always being Rock pokeys just annoys me. And I had to get running shoes to move fast? What the hell was I wearing to begin with? Cinderblocks?

Early nags aside, the game does show some serious potential to fuck up my summer. I’ve been limiting my play sessions quite moderately, but once the looming figure of finals week has passed over me, it’s balls-out gaming time for me. Ninja Gaiden Sigma demo (Fucking SICK! You have no idea.), FFXII, and Pokemons to keep me company at the pool is going to make for a May like no other. Or like every other, only better. Either way, me and my Fire-spitting, Fear-of-God-inducing baboon Momo are going to be kicking ass and taking names for quite some time. That is, unless someone hands me my ass on the Nintendo WFC.

Two more bits I want to jot down here. First off, I’ve been trying to force-feed myself some anime, since I’ve been rather avoiding the stuff overall for the past few months. I’m working through Samurai 7 (good), and I totally made Afro Samurai at the top of my Buy List (right up there with the Pan’s Labyrinth DVD), but the one that has be intrigued the most right now is Madhouse’s Claymore. It’s essentially the same fucking cartoon we’ve seen forever: rogue, solitary antihero goes around killing demons or whatever in different towns, saves an obnoxious little brat and ends up buddying up with the kid to become a more “human” figure and learn a bit more about right and wrong, or something. What’s endearing to me is the animation quality and apparent spit-polish that’s been put into such a straight-forward plot. The visuals are truly striking, and each of the three episodes aired so far have been enjoyable from start to finish, enough so that I’m actually eager for my next filling. Madness, I say.

Oh, and then there’s some show called Battlestar Galactica that I decided to download and try out. I think you’ve probably heard of it. All I can say is holy shit how was I so late to this fucking party. The show has everything I require from life: a hot chick walking around talking nonsense while being naked or wearing something incredibly hot, a scientist that is out of his freakin’ mind with hallucinations and paranoia, a craggy old commander struggling to fight a war and keep his life together, hulking-ass robots that trying to wipe humanity out entirely, and a giant game of Guess Who’s the Cylon that only gets more and more intriguing with each episode. Color me impressed, folks. I’m about halfway through season one, and after watching the past seven episodes and the miniseries I’m just about ready to call myself a fan. And as my parting words for the evening, I would recommend you becoming one, too.