The other day on the Late Show I saw a game developer demonstrate his soon-to-be-released wares, a game called “No Man’s Sky”. The dev was himself suitably impressed with his own marketing hyperbole, but the demonstration, as per the usual in these circumstances, gave the lie to all the hype. The game generates an impossible-to-fully-explore universe the player exploits for resources. In the game, a universe consists of a fairly restrictive set of variables, summed up as planets and resources. The player looks at the pretty
screensavers virtual landscapes, marvels at the life-forms that populate them (generated by the recombination of a limited set of variables determining animal appearance and behavior), and monotonously collects abstracted “resources”. The reductionist ideology that guides the gameplay would have us believe that the only things to do in a “universe” is to engage in a mechanically simplified imperialist exploitation of foreign resources. That’s it! You’re G-d, and of course that means that all you want to do is collect energon cubes from hapless natives and watch your galactic credits pile up. The player gets a whole universe, and all he gets to do is play a monotonous farming game. It would be laughable if this ideology wasn’t so apparent all around us: places of cultural value, such as bookstores and revered record stores, close in towns across the country only to be replaced by Chase bank branches pushing the empty signs of monetary value.
The universe is bigger than dollar value. To attempt to reduce it to a place that only abides the predatory regard of others is cynical propaganda.
Of the many books in Bolaño’s interwoven oeuvre, this was the first posthumously-edited, as-yet-unfinished volume that betrays the presence, or rather the absence of the author. It flatly addresses questions floated or hinted at in other works (What about the UFOs? Why so many characters? Why so many retellings of the same stories from slightly different angles with slightly different details?). It seems to end mid-sentence, but then it does so appropriately, at just such an “I’ll be right back” moment as readers have become accustomed to. This pause, though, has the unmistakeable weight of finality, the epistolary finality of a farewell that has reached its recipient on the other side of an unbridgeable gap of distance and time. So it is that we are left to silently contemplate Padilla’s fate in Barcelona, thousands of miles removed from Amalfitano’s eerily bloody Mexico. This feeling of definite separation has its counterpart in the final break of reader from author, in the feeling from which readers have been thus far shielded; that of the author as an individual taking his leave. Whether this was a deliberate drop of the curtain or the unintended consequence on a work in progress of the drawing of the shroud, the reader takes away the rare feeling that, more so than in his other works, Bolaño has undisguisedly revealed more of himself to the audience than in any of his other works.
One thing I always enjoyed about the piss-drenched desperation compression chamber the kids call New York City was the free entertainment our evil overlords showered on us every summer as the weather warmed up and people started feeling even crazier than usual. Ohmyrockness has released it’s extensive list of these free mass distractions, so the starved and inebriated cubicle monkeys can get out of their roach-infested apartments and away from their insane roommates for a couple of hours a night practically any night of the week! Yay!
The people at VICE have made Gordon Bechard’s fan document to the greatest worst band of the 20th century, “Color Me Obsessed”, available as a Youtube stream. This collection of fan recollections of the band manages to describe the impact and arc of the ‘Mats’ career without any actual footage or recordings of the band.
This is one of those rare moments when the Internet gives something back, so give some eyeballs! Director Gorman Bechard is currently at work on a documentary about Hüsker Düer Grant Hart. Happy new year. Watch this.
For at least a week, maybe longer, it seemed that every music critic (read: every human being in the United States of America and 99.99% of those living outside America) was touting the excellent lead single to Black Marble’s debut LP. Even Mother Jones saw fit to interrupt its excoriation of all the bad things to tweet this:
Come on, Mother Jones, what are you, Salon? Do you even do record reviews? Has another forum for social criticism gone the way of the lifestyle magazine, and in an election year, no less? And what the fuck does “surprisingly warm” mean? Did you have expectations? Did your audience? Please, Mother Jones, if you must reward your intern’s free labor with the occasional interruption of the endless stream of tales of global woe, please see to it that he or she does it with words that, when put into syntactical order, will produce a meaning. This isn’t Etsy, for God’s sake. I don’t tune it to quilt feelings. I tune it to be firehosed with debilitatingly grim policy news and op eds.
I still haven’t heard the Black Marble single in its entirety, however the first record that came to mind after the single came on the radio the other day was this one:
Algorhythmes by Charles De Goal (1980), French Cold Wave from the day. I love this stuff, which is why I think that Black Marble is right in my wheelhouse. I’m thinking it’s probably in the band’s wheelhouse, too, since they’re cover art is pretty similar. To know, though, I must actually sit still to stream the record this weekend.
I just had to get that out there. That is all.