“The Hottest Band In The Country Is About To Take Over The Planet!”
So was at the Berkman Center’s fellows hour today, and Ethan Zuckerman (not expectedly) gave an amazingly badass talk in his usual amazing style. In addition to getting right to the meat of it and engaging with the cultural interfaces emerging on the web (while being vaguely a paean to his 1980s childhood), it managed to cover all the cultural weirdness/ethical quandaries going on with the Nigerian Prince phenomenon. Since I wouldn’t even be able to do justice to the nuances of that particular discussion (you’ll have to wait for his book), I’d like to talk about something less complex.
Point: I’d like to focus on the fact that Journey (yes, that Journey, with Steve Perry) HAD AN EFFING ARCADE GAME. For serious, you can even download an emulation of it. This apparently falls into a whole era of games that stretched from the mid-80s to mid-90s that were all co-branded with bands and featured mind-blowingly ridiculous premises:
Michael Jackson’s Moonwalker:
Mr. Big has kidnapped children for no apparent reason. Michael, in an effort to save the children, goes after Mr. Big, and eventually discovers his plot to take over the world using a large laser cannon built on the Moon. Each level begins with a small comic book-style presentation of the ongoing conflict between Mr. Big and Michael, intending to show a transition from one level’s setting to the next. These cut-scenes, however, do not reveal any additional plot details.
Queen: The eYe
The game is set in the future where the world is ruled by an all-seeing machine called “The eYe” which has eradicated everything that promotes creative expression. You play Dubroc, a secret agent of The eYe who in the course of his duties has re-discovered a database of popular rock music, and is sentenced to death in “The Arena”, a live television show broadcast through satellites to the world in which the contestant battles fighting arena champions called the Watchers… from there Dubroc, the secret agent, goes on a quest to destroy The eYe.
Kiss: Psycho Circus
The game’s story revolves around a KISS tribute band, who suddenly receive superhuman powers.
And so on…
Obviously, though, the genre here isn’t quite like the adventure game, which reached its height with Sam & Max and Grim Fandango before dribbling into an increasingly lame set of half-hearted Leisure Suit Larry re-runs. Indeed, music crossbrands are still with us today — the Rock Band concept’s been no small platform for bands and musicians to maximize their merchandising capability (Aerosmith)
But the experience here is different — the presumed frame of the universe in which rock gods are supposed to inhabit are different. The whole point of Guitar Hero is that it’s a machine who’s able to give you the terrific illusion that you, YOU, the geek on the couch tapping on an overblown Hannah Montana “Pop Star” edition electronic guitar, are in fact a money-for-nothing-chicks-for-free Rock God. Everything, from the simulated cheering crowd to the button syncopation reassure you that you are full of youth and beauty. But ultimately, the goal of the game is mundane: it’s about making money, building up your rep, and being the best damn cover band you can be. It presumes to be some kind of vague simulation of what being a big time rock band would be.
Things were totally different back in the old days. Even in the Journey game, the goal is pretty mundane (you need to help Journey be able to rock out at a show), but you do it by flying in a rocketship to different planets to retrieve your instruments. Same thing with the Michael Jackson game, the goal is pretty mundane — any good person would try to rescue captured children, but then it veers into the tiny subplot that the villian is trying to destroy the world with a laser. Like David Byrne interviewing himself before “Stop Making Sense,” musicians existed in an increasingly bizzare universe that had goals you might be able to sympathize with, but in a world totally separate from everything else.
But obviously, doesn’t make sense to keep these distinctions sharp — both are pretty fictional representations of the musicians themselves. Really, it’s all in the flavor of the kind of fiction you want to buy into. Personally, though, I’m really one for believing that Kraftwerk are actually robots, and that Lil Wayne really does live in a world that consists mostly of an extraordinarily long limo. Things are so much sweeter that way.
