ACOUSTIC ANARCHY
A BRIEF EXPLORATION OF FOLK PUNK AND THE LABEL THAT MADE IT A GENRE
Despite how many times I may have nodded off in my “Intro to Art Theory” course, there were a few statements my professor repeated that managed to burrow their way into my sleeping subconscious. Aside from the phrase “I have managed exhibitions at four major institutions,” the other one that comes to mind is the old mantra that “everything old is new again.”
Art perpetually imitates itself, time after time, and his current examples made sense: many recent films, songs, and even video games are harking back to ‘80s technologies to imitate a more straightforward artistic process, but with a newfound self-awareness (i.e. the film Super 8, the band Twin Shadow, the video game Fez, etc.).
This same anachronistic resurrection took place in the 1990s, as well, but from a less obvious era. Punk was declared, for the umpteenth time, dead. So, too, was the cultural relevance of Folk music. Together, however… well, that’s a different story.
Punk, like so many other iconic institutions heralded as a zeitgeist, had run itself stagnant after its initial boom. It rode the momentum of its shock value as far as it would take it, and the scene came to precarious point where it either had to legitimize itself as something complex and worth maintaining or die an overdosed death in the process.
Some bands, like Blink 182, NOFX, and Propaghandi walked a playful path, evolving their humorous, entendre-laden songs into what is now known as “Skate Punk.” Others, like Green Day and The Offspring, would see the financial potential of a more approachable aesthetic, and would shift their technique into a chimera called “Pop Punk.” A few, however, looked to another dying genre, Folk, for inspiration. From this stemmed a whole scene that resisted definition and went through a gauntlet of titles: cowpunk, acoustic punk, alt-country, and many others, until settling on an elegant, albeit obvious, moniker: Folk Punk.[1]
To discuss the growth of this niche genre, I interviewed three of its underground icons: David “Spoonboy” Combs, Chris Johnston (better known by his stage name, Chris Clavin) from the band Ghost Mice, and Terry Johnson, the lead singer and bassist of This Bike is a Pipe Bomb. Some are more influenced by traditional folk music (Ghost Mice performs with only an acoustic guitar, a fiddle, and a ukulele) while others more a hair more modern (the only non-electric instrument that TBIAPB uses is a harmonica). However, all three have released albums that have been definitive examples of Folk Punk, even if some of these artists no longer consider themselves as current contributors to the genre.
FROM HUMBLE (AND HUNGOVER) BEGINNINGS
To start off each interview, I asked for their greatest influences, and they all had one band in common near the top of their lists: The Pogues. Though Folk Punk did not come into its own until the late ‘90s, its seeds were planted by this group over a decade earlier. The Pogues, formed by singer Shane MacGowan in 1982, infused traditionally depressing Irish lyricism with a hard-and-fast timescale inspired by punk rock and American blues.
The group’s first two albums were had a harsh lo-fi sound, following the work of MacGowan’s previous band, The Nips. However, in their third album, If I Should Fall from the Grace of God, The Pogues found an earnest, alternative identity in American and English folk music. Chris Johnston, of Ghost Mice, commented: “Before that it seemed like they were goofing around, singing about silly shit – but standard shit. They were good, just sort of juvenile. On this album, though, the sound grew up a lot and they sort of wrote something timeless and relatable. This music wasn’t just about parties and comedowns – it was about people.”
The general public took note of this change in tone; the single from that album, “Fairytale of New York,” raced to #1 on the Irish charts and #2 in Britain.[2] Its blue-collar lyrics and raw-and-rough vocals were reminiscent of Child ballads – a collection of ancient English and Irish folk songs known to many a British patriot – and its heritage enchanted UK listeners with a swell of nostalgic nationalism, albeit with a friendly “fuck you” disposition.
The song was later voted as the 84th Best Song of All Time by BBC Radio 2 listeners in their “Sold on Song” top 100 poll.[3] Even with the band’s success, people still did not know how to define them (as their genre did not exist yet), leading many to dismiss them as an ephemeral novelty. MacGowan left the band in 1992 due to alcoholism (in classic Folk fashion) and many say that the rest of their work was unfortunately eclipsed by that one successful, infectious single.
THE FOUNDING FATHER (AND MOTHER)
From The Pogues’ ashes rose a vibrant social sinew, solidifying the skeleton of the fragile genre MacGowan had inspired. The most heavily influenced were other Irish artists, forming groups like Flogging Molly, Blood or Whiskey, and Dropkick Murphys. This hyper-specific style of music went on to become its own subgenre of the existing Folk Punk subgenre, and was labeled “Celtic Punk.”
Across the pond, however, American fans of the fallen Pogues thought their approach could be carried beyond the boundaries of its Gaelic roots and melded into a distinctly American sound. Chris Johnston – more widely known by his stage name, Chris Claven – planned to just that, with all the earnestness and dirtiness that made the style so appealing.
Johnston formed the record label Plan-It-X in 1992, under the mantra “If it ain’t cheap, it ain’t punk.” Johnston and his friends’ bands (The Ted Dancin’ Machine, Instinct, The Latch Key Kids) recorded and sold cassettes for a dollar… even though they cost a dollar to make.
“We were a non-profit tape label,” he stated proudly, before admitting that they didn’t really have a choice in the matter. “No one really would buy our stuff otherwise,” Johnston laughed, “It was hard to be punk in Georgetown, Indiana. Not really the epicenter for the scene.”
The label was practically a matter of happenstance, in itself. After Johnston and his friends recorded their first cassette, they found themselves scrambling to create some sort of cover art for it at Kinko’s. His friend and co-founder, Samantha Jane Dorsett, was dead-set on putting art on both the front and back of the cassettes to make them feel a little more “legit.” Johnston suggested that they brand them with a proxy record label, as well. Dorsett loved the idea and proposed the name “Planet X.”
“You see,” Johnston explained, “Sam swore that way back when, she was kidnapped by aliens for two years and held captive on another planet, called Planet X. Don’t ask.” I took his warning as a casual turn of phrase and inquired further, but he preferred if I didn’t press the topic: “Look,” he locked eyes with me, “Sam was awesome. Amazing. She made us what we were.”
There was a melancholy reverie in his voice – I later learned that she had recently passed away.
“Anyways, we just dug the name,” he shrugged. So, they decided to “spell it weird” to avoid potential copyright issues, and – just like that – “Plan-It-X” was forged on a whim.
This accidental label began to gain a modest amount of notoriety as they put out more cassettes and booked higher profile performances. “We all sucked, and about twenty people would come to the early shows,” chuckled Johnston, “and we got sick of dubbing tapes, like everyone does after awhile.”
Their label was humble, almost to a fault: they were losing more money than they making – that was, until later that year when Dorsett was awarded a respectable sum in scholarship funding.
Of course, being crew of punk-minded pals, there was no way that money was going to be spent on school supplies, so when discussing their investment opportunities (“scum beer and acid being pretty attractive choices,” Johnston admitted), the idea of releasing a proper 7” record came up. After some deliberation, Dorsett agreed with the idea, and the two recorded the album Operation: Chris Clavin – and with it, Johnston’s stage name was set in stone.
“Sam, God bless her, fronted the money for the entire printing process. It was totally worth it, but Jesus, those 7-inchers were hard to sell.” After a series of shows, a few favors, and more personal discounts than they’d like to admit, they miraculously managed to sell the whole stock. For a small local band selling music of a then-nonexistent genre out of the back of their truck, the numbers were pretty impressive.
After that initial victory, they decided the time was right to make a full length CD. They were a good deal cheaper to produce than cassettes, so the people behind Plan-It-X decided that more should be offered to level the cost margin: “First off, they were five bucks instead of ten, ‘cause ten would just be bullshit. We threw in two stickers instead of just one, as well as a patch. And we wanted a shitload of songs on there because, to be honest, they weren’t of the best recording quality, so we tried to compensate with a pretty crazy quantity.”
After undertaking the challenge to sell this comparatively enormous stock of CDs, Johnston realized that they would have to step outside of their home counties if they wanted to clear out inventory and legitimately spread their sound.
“We packed up our stuff and went on tour, taking a thousand CDs with us.” Touring was different back then, however: without internet access, they had no way to get out word of their performances en masse. Something as simple as finding venues to play at was a challenge, too, as their main marketing strategy involved flipping through phone books and cold-calling club owners.
Johnston aimed to book sixty shows, eventually pinning down only forty-five… twenty-four of which fell through. “Some would call that a bad tour, a terrible tour, and it was. But we loved it.” Though they only made enough money to self sustain, selling a meager 180 CDs, they managed to make connections and find a small – but incredibly devoted – audience.
While on tour, they met the band The Bananas, who agreed to release their next album under Plan-It-X. “This was a huge deal,” Johnston explained, glowing with nostalgic exuberance, “because they were the first guys signed to the label had who didn’t go to my high school!” It took two years for them to record the album, but when the label received it in 1998, it was well worth the wait. “Forbidden Fruit is a badass album and it was, like, really ‘real.’ If that makes sense.” As redundant as that may sound, it definitely did.
After that, Johnston took control of Plan-It-X, which Dorsett was had been managing since its inception. He now had the responsibility of signing new bands, printing new albums, and adamantly defending the five-dollar price point. “Look at the people who identify themselves as punks. Like, really do – not this mall punk bullshit but those who are the real thing. They don’t have a lot of money lying around, so it just didn’t make sense to try and squeeze some extra dollars out of people that couldn’t afford it. If we don’t live in luxury, that’s fine – the music, the integrity… it’s all we got, really.”
FINDING YOUR INNER FOLK SINGER
As running the label became an increasingly complex responsibility, Johnston’s own projects (Ghost Mice, The Devil is Electric, Operation: Chris Clavin, and Captain Chaos) fell by the wayside as newer acts emerged. Among these were the politically active punk group, This Bike is a Pipe Bomb. They released their first Plan-It-X album, Dance Party With… in 2001.
“Chris just came up to me after a show in 2000,” remembered TBIAPB’s front man, Terry Johnson. “We saw each other around at things before, but this was the first time we really ‘talked.’ He just told me how much he liked our energy and I think he was trying to feel out where our priorities lied. Like what we were trying to make, where we hoped to go with it, that kind of stuff.”
The two hit it off, and Johnston proposed the possibility of This Bike is a Pipe Bomb signing with his label. “I thought about it - I mean, we all heard about what Plan-It-X was doing. It wasn’t like ‘huge,’ but it sounded really fucking cool. But Fab Records wanted us to do one more with them, and we were already locked in. And they were great [at Fab Records], too, so we didn’t want to just abandon them.” Johnston gave Terry his card, and they didn’t see each other again until about a year later.
After releasing a 7” with Arkam Records, a sister label to Fab, the members of TBIAPB were considering their next move. “I totally forgot about the Plan-It-X thing, actually,” Terry admitted. In fact, it was complete happenstance that their paths crossed again. “I actually found that card that Chris [Johnston] gave me way back, and figured: ‘fuck it.’ I gave him a call, and he was still down with everything. So, literally, the next week we were on our way to their studio.”
While recording, Johnston let the band stay in his basement. They began recording Dance Party With…, but something wasn’t quite clicking. “We knew about half the songs we wanted on there, but we needed to fill out the final 4 or 5, y’know? But we didn’t want them to be just ‘filler’ either.” Terry figured if they were ever going to reinvent themselves, now would be the time, when signing to a new label and everything.
“I actually remember Chris [Johnston] blasting [The Pogues’] ‘Dirty Old Town’ when he was cooking and shouting along to it. It ended up getting stuck in our heads that week and just staying there. That song was just so dirty and honest… Real unpolished, but we all related to it.”
So, inadvertently influenced by the genre’s frontrunner, TBIAPB began an internal campaign to “roughen up” their focus into something that – like the song “Dirty Old Town” – could simultaneously be a love letter and a call to action.
Following the completion of that album and brief tour, they went on to release their most successful album, Front Seat Solidarity, in 2002 with Plan-It-X. This time, their sound was cemented, and they were much more confident in their niche.
“Folk Punk was something real now, and we knew that at this point. I mean, we were it. We decided to talk more about politics and shit in the world that was making us so fucking mad. It was like a ‘bigger’ album.” This album called attention to the farcical belief that we lived in a “post-racial society” with songs referencing '60s civil rights sentiments, like in “The Argument” (And 40 years ago it took the National Guard/ To let the black kids in public schools) and “This is What I Want” (This is what I want,/ Black kids and white kids sharing all the songs that their grandmamma taught ‘em).
The band was more distinctly “Folk” in this album, as well, covering traditional ballads such as “We Shall Not Be Moved.” This iconic work became one of the poster children of the Folk Punk genre, inspiring future Plan-It-X acts like Defiance, Ohio and Andrew Jackson Jihad. Terry remembers it warmly: “The genre was real, the music was great, the people were awesome, and the audience was just kept getting bigger. Good fucking times.”
COMPARTIMENTALIZING “FOLK” AND “PUNK”
Folk Punk was truly legitimate now, and the breadth of its artists exploded across the East Coast: out of Massachusetts came Bread and Roses, in Connecticut were The Can Kickers, and Against Me! was gaining a huge following in Florida. Both extremes of the Mason-Dixon were representing the scene, but the mid-Atlantic didn’t really have a genre icon of their own. That was until 2001, when The Max Levine Ensemble worked with Fight the Octopus Records to release Chach, Cops, and Donuts.
David Combs, the lead singer of the band, took a great deal of influence from traditional American folk: “A lot of people said I reminded them of Woody Guthrie, mainly because I sang about social issues, about individuals I’ve met, and how kind of crazy nasal my voice can get sometimes.” But, like Guthrie, people found his singing technique – often referred to as the “high lonesome style” – charming and, more importantly, incredibly sincere. Combs did not try to embellish his self-image for his audience, but instead made fun of his frailties and called attention to his dorky demeanor. Audiences responded.
“People really like the music I make not because it’s crazy polished or well-produced or, I don’t know, even ‘cool.’ [They like it] because they agree with the message I’m trying to get across or they identify with the issues I’m talking about.”
However, the other members of his band preferred to stay focused on the kinetic Punk sound they started with. Torn over this, Combs created a solo alter ego: Spoonboy.
“With ‘Spoonboy,’ I’m able to have smaller, more personal songs. Don’t get me wrong, the band’s amazing, but I guess the solo work I make feels a bit more vulnerable and poignant.”
Combs and Chris Johnston from Plan-It-X became fast friends when meeting on The Max Levine Ensemble’s tour. Combs discussed his solo ambition, and Johnston was encouraging. Fast forward a few months later: the two were housemates, and Spoonboy was putting the finishing touches on his first standalone album: I Love You, This is a Robbery.
“With Plan-It-X, I just had so much freedom.” Combs expressed, “They never really told me how to sound, but rather just provide with possible influences. They never forced anything on me; we all basically were just friends bouncing ideas off one another. And the most important thing is that they aren’t trying to ‘sell X amount of records,’ because they know that they can’t really make those goals. It’s not the point. It’s about making the best music you can and making something that matters to you.”
“I feel like there’s such a… I don’t know, ‘heritage’ to the scene. One of my friends called Folk Punk artists ‘electric-acoustic Robin Hoods.’” Combs laughed, “That’s a bit melodramatic, but, I don’t know, I like it.”
THE CURRENT STATE OF THE SCENE
David “Spoonboy” Combs, like the other Folk Punks I interviewed, is completely enchanted by the music and culture he’s a part of. These ragtag groups and soft-spoken, oft-swearing artists remind me of a slightly more abrasive take on the Carter Family: collecting their grandparents’ songs and personalizing them to resonate in a new age… albeit an age where it’s appropriate to explicitly mock specific politicians, openly discuss your struggle with drug addictions, and basically say all the things older folk songs did, but without all the the parabolic ambiguity.
The genre Folk Punk provides a perfect venue to do this, where songs that spark sympathy rise above those that are catchy – where an audience is less critical on the quality of a singer’s voice, but rather the honesty of it. It’s almost a renaissance of modern road poets, and with media outlets like Juno (whose soundtrack was led by genre-darling Kimya Dawson) and Away We Go embracing this music, the movement has only been gaining momentum.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll see a resurgence of Folk on the Top 40 sooner than later. Or maybe it will fade back into semi-obscurity as a brief and fiery fad, only to be rediscovered by wandering alien archeologists who’ve traveled from some far-off Planet X… but I suppose some things only Samantha Jane Dorsett and her extraterrestrial acquaintances know for sure.
Either way, this stepchild to Folk genre, this warm-hearted rapscallion of the DIY scene – Folk Punk – will be sure to leave a unique and charming mark on this country’s musical mosaic.
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[1] Sweers, B. Electric Folk: The Changing Face of English Traditional Music (Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 197-198.
[2] Climeck, Chris. "Performing Arts - The Pogues."Washington Post (2008): 2. Web. 21 Jan 2010. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/03/10/AR2008031002990_2.html
[3] Ibid.
THE HARDER THEY FALL
HOW A VIDEO GAME LED A SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER TO SECULAR HUMANISM
Opening scene to the video game "Shadow of the Colossus."
Grey, crinkled clouds swathe the sky in a shifting monotone; an imposing game bird haunts overhead as an otherworldly choir swells with melancholic exhaustion; amidst a stark and lifeless landscape, mysterious stone buildings loom lonely, and a solitary young man trudges forth in reluctant duty.
Sorry, I should probably start this article off by saying something about the opening scene in the game Shadow of the Colossus – I was reminiscing on a memory of heading to teach Sunday School with a hangover a few winters back.
I used to teach at Ashton United Methodist Church, centered smack dab in the middle of desolate, mid-Maryland suburbia. Despite my station, I’ll be the first to say I wasn’t the greatest example of a religious scholar – far from it: I admit I’d often have late nights on Saturdays and would show up with a few slipshod Christian history crosswords to take the pressure off. I may have even worn sunglasses to class a time or two to dull the unpleasantness that processing residual alcohol and the flickering of fluorescent lights tend to conjure. But I thought those things as forgivable, since at its core, I was doing “God’s work.”
That lackadaisical attitude didn’t last long, however – that was the year I played Shadow of the Colossus, a game that not only forced me to reflect on the role of my avatar in-game, but also my role as a physical embodiment of my eternal soul.
Pretty heavy for a PlayStation 2 game.
A quick catch up on the plot of the game for those of you unfamiliar with it (and brace yourself, spoilers are coming): a young man, Wander, brings a deceased young woman, Mono, to a temple in a forbidden land. A god in that land, Dormin, makes a bargain with Wander, and will resurrect the fallen Mono if he slays the sixteen colossi that populate the otherwise barren kingdom. Outside of these sixteen giants and the direct instruction to slay them, the game has no other enemies, characters, dialogue, or items during your first play-through. It is just you, your horse, and these sixteen unique boss battles.
The game has an overwhelming weight of nihilism towards your actions. The first pangs of existential dread come from details well-discussed by other writers: the eerie atmosphere, the sense of guilt after beating each boss, and the ending which turns you into colossi yourself all combine to create a dissonant role reversal on the usual “good vs. evil” presumptions that infect most video game narratives. The moral ambiguity even is even embroiled in the soundtrack; every time you slay a colossus, this is the tune that accompanies their passing – a far cry from other iconic videogame victory anthems.
And those details were already unsettling enough as a gamer, believe you me – moral relativism and your own blind corruptibility as an autonomous, interacting conduit of the story are tough pills to swallow for gamers weaned on Crash Bandicoot and the simple moral black-and-whites of The Legend of Zelda.
Being an involved Sunday School teacher with a faith waning in enthusiasm, Shadow of the Colossus provided a cathartic way to step out of the presuppositions that plagued my upbringing and shocked me by forcing me – as a player – to play devil’s advocate against my own convictions. It challenges the things I lazily defined as good, evil, and “God’s work.”
As in the video above, the game begins by following the protagonist, Wander, as he approaches a skyscraping structure in an under-saturated landscape. According to the game’s manual, the structure is known as the “Shrine of Worship” – but it bears a striking resemblance to another significant structure:
The Shrine of Worship.
The Tower of Babel.
The multiple stories, the ersatz design, the open-air ground floor, and its sense of being perpetually “under construction” are shared between both of these spires. Not only that, but extra-biblical descriptions of the Tower also include waterfalls and entire gardens tucked away in its highest ledges – features that the Shrine of Worship also shares.
According the Judeo-Christian mythos, Nimrod the hunter built the Tower of Babel in defiance of God. Many believe he wasn’t doing it out pure blasphemy, however: Nimrod was a descendant of Noah, who survived the genocide of The Great Flood, so it is argued that Nimrod wanted to provide an elevated safe haven in case of another catastrophe of that caliber.
Whatever his intentions, after God interpreted the building of this grand construct as symbolic of man’s impertinence and decided to destroy it, separating humankind both geographically and linguistically so they could never band together to create as sacrilegious of a structure ever again.
The parable of the Tower of Babel is a poster boy for moral ambiguity in religious doctrine. Neither Nimrod nor God saw themselves as doing anything wrong, but merely reacting to the other side’s transgression (i.e. Nimrod to The Great Flood and God to Nimrod’s hubris).
In the last chapter of Shadow of the Colossus, both Wander and Dormin are attacked by an interloping religious leader, Lord Ermon. Lord Ermon believed that Wander, by making that black bargain with the forbidden god Dormin in exchange for his lover’s life, was now a blasphemer and had to be smitten. Wander, however, was only reacting the sudden death of his beloved Mono. Dormin, the God who commands your quest, only proposed this contract because the colossi acted as a living cage, imprisoning him in the forbidden land.
Both gods and men can find ways to rationalize their wrath.
It is also worth noting that “Nimrod” backwards is “Dormin.” But I suppose we can call that a “happy accident” for now.
The story of Nimrod isn’t the only biblical tale that depicts God’s sociopathic retribution. After reflection, the fables of Noah, Lot, Abraham, and Job all seemed much, much darker than a Sunday School teacher normally presents when explaining them alongside word finds and sticker sheets.
All of these characters were trialed and punished, and I accepted these judgments with a sort of lazy logic under the assumption that “God knew best.” But if he did, he wouldn’t kill a man’s family to prove a petty point to Satan or demand that a man to kill his own son as a gesture of his blind devotion. In Shadow of the Colossus, I similarly thought that slaughtering the titular creatures was an admirable undertaking because, well, I knew best.
And then that’s when it hit me – this game makes you, the player, God.
I suppose many games do that, but few do it in a way that begs you to be aware of that responsibility.
With this focus, Shadow of the Colossus goes a step further than making you question your morals – it makes you question the foundation on which your hold them. The game faces you with the realization that most of your beliefs come out of a sense of entitlement as a unique, thinking being in a world of automatons: on earth as a Christian in a world of hedonists, in the bible as a deity above disrespectful mortals, or in a video game as an player amongst programmed NPCs.
Much of how we view “right” and “wrong” comes from this solipsistic entitlement, because we identify ourselves as entitled enough to make that moral distinction.
Despite realizing that I was doing more harm than good to the game world by slaying these colossi, I still kept playing. It was a morbid endeavor, and I realized that I could stop committing “evil” acts by simply turning off my PlayStation 2 – but it’s hard to fight the curiosity that the game’s atmosphere piques. There was no explanation or back story given, the world was just there, and I had to learn or deduce my own logic for its creation, for its existence, or for its meaning.
The game was essentially challenging me to -define it, to make up my own history for it to satiate my personal curiosity – to make answers where there are none and to give further meaning to my actions when there were none.
Just like we humans did, in biblical stories.
Or rather, just like humans still do.
And that is the genius of Shadow of the Colossus: the brilliant mechanics, poignant minimalist plot, and melancholic aesthetic are parts that make a whole, a sum that crafts a playing experience allegorizing man’s desire to believe in something greater – even when faced with evidence to the contrary.
The game fills you with the same curiosity as the first man who wondered about forces greater than himself, and made conclusions regarding forces outside of his immediate sensory experience – just as the player deduces a game’s story and message outside of the confines of game’s explicit exposition.
Shadow of the Colossus ends with the protagonist’s lover, Mono, revived and relatively safe. The game also ends with the protagonist, Wander, reincarnated as a baby and branded with horns, and with very few questions answered – concluding that the player must answer his own.
“Mono” and “Wander.”
“Theism” and “pilgrimage.”
More “happy accidents.”
The resonance of themes like these are why a game so stark has such a thriving Wikia page and hundreds of message boards debating its meaning to this day. This is why so many players continued killing the often gentle and vulnerable colossi, even when it made them uncomfortable to do so. This is why Shadow of the Colossus is so often cited as one of the greatest games ever made.
And this is also why so many holy books exist answering the same questions, why so many conflicts have taken place over religious dominance, and why almost every leader in the world has been informally required to be a theist (well, outside of a select few Scandinavian countries).
We, as humans, want answers – not just answers, but answers that make us feel secure in our past and future choices.
Without those answers, we’re just floating automatons waiting to die – NPCs waiting for the PlayStation to power down.
It’s scary reality, and Shadow of the Colossus capitalizes on this fear of the unknown and embraces this existential insecurity. By forcing me – as a player and a Sunday School teacher – to face these hard truths, it wrestled me into a mindset of critical thought I had never considered up to that point.
In a way, the game’s designer, Famito Ueda, was a bit of a prophet to me, and this game is his doctrine… and at the end of the day, if I can follow a dogma of thought while earning a few PlayStation Trophies, well then, it can’t all be heresy.
THE POLEMICS OF PRE-PLAYED
IN DEFENSE OF USED GAME FEES AND DIGITAL OWNERSHIP
It’s been about a week and a half since the official Xbox One reveal, and gamer response has been tepid at best… and borderline accusatory at worst. The Xbox One – though, in theory a versatile and powerful device – didn’t give the impression that playing games were its primary focus, which is somewhat disconcerting for a $500 video game console.
Though Microsoft has tried to temper those fears with an up-front $1 billion investment in games for the system, some believe that the damage may have already been done; by announcing its identity as an all-in-one living room entertainment center, Microsoft has inadvertently convinced many gamers that their needs and expectations will be secondary to the company's interest in appealing to a much broader “home entertainment” market.
The most controversial rumor about Microsoft’s new system is the unconfirmed claim that gamers will be required to “link” games to their account and pay a predetermined “entry fee” before being allowed to play a purchased, physical copy of a used game. This speculation immediately had gamers foaming at the mouth, hungry for Steve Ballmer’s sweet, sweet neckblood.
Meanwhile, the PlayStation 4 is practically being sanctified across internet forums, especially in Reddit’s /r/gaming and more formal /r/games subreddits (even if some have claimed that the sources of its reverence on the site are somewhat dubious).
Though my knee-jerk reaction to the “used game fee” was one of disgust and my hand was halfway to my torch-and-pitchfork drawer, after considering the issue, I actually got to thinking that the concept “account linking” to one’s game library is not such a terrible idea. As a matter of fact, I think it’s a pretty good one; one that could improve the next generation’s online dynamic, lead to more affordable games for gamers, and better finance independent game development.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO “OWN” IN THE DIGITAL SPACE?
What does it mean to “own” something? Usually when you buy a product, be it a car, book, or piece of clothing, you are given free reign to utilize it as your choose. Peanut butter can be spread on sandwiches or on the soles of your fetishist feet – either way, you have to right to do with it what you will.
You’re usually able to resell those items at your discretion – albeit usually at a reduced price. Almost all physical objects you can purchase will inevitably degrade over time (unless they’re, like, I don’t now: diamonds?). Cars get worn down against miles of pavement, clothing get stretched, stressed, and embedded with your armpit funk; and, heck, even books lose that “new book smell.” So, if you own a physical product and later choose to sell it, you’re normally selling what is agreed upon to be a lesser, degraded version of the product – which is why it’s sold at a discount.
Digital products are inherently different, however: unless a disc is terribly scratched – in which case it shouldn’t be sold at all – the experience the next owner will not be a degraded one. Rather, the experience will be arguably identical to the one the original purchaser had. There is no “degrading” that takes place, so an immediate price cut due to previous ownership isn’t as economically logical as it would be for pre-owned physical products, since both the “new” and “used” consumers are having indistinguishable experiences with them.
So, the nature of what it means to “own” something is a little more finicky for digital products. PC software has wrestle with this ambiguous issue for years – oftentimes, you’re not “buying” a program as much as you are purchasing a license to use it for a period of time. As lower-priced, digitally distributed games become more and more common, I wouldn’t be shocked if license purchasing or a Netflix-style rental model become emulated in the video game market.
WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO “MAKE” IN THE DIGITAL SPACE?
The definition of “production cost” is generally pretty different between the creation of video games and, well, just about anything else. When a film or book or piece of clothing is put on the shelf to be sold, that’s the end of the cost for the company that manufactured said product. It’s already developed, crafted, and sold to a distributor. There’s no more manufacturing or shipping or troubleshooting that needs to be done – that burden is now placed on the store that purchased it wholesale and has the responsibility of selling it.
Video games, however, are unique in this way: they can still “cost” the company well after their release – and well after most of their sales have been made. A game must obviously still be patched for potential bugs and user issues; beyond that, there are add-on modes and updates that are made to reinvigorate player interest in the game. For multiplayer games, servers must still be maintained and moderated, hackers have to be removed, and other measures have to be taken to make sure the game remains both fair and fresh.
For videogames, the cost of production is ongoing, oftentimes for half a decade after the game’s release. So, if you sell a copy of a video game, its continued use is still costing the developer and publisher, even though they are receiving no further revenue for their prolonged services. I don’t want to compare that exchange of goods and services to indentured servitude, necessarily, but it’s a flawed model nonetheless.
It is also worth noting that the only substantial money that the videogame industry earns is from the purchase of games themselves. Music and film can rely on a variety of revenue streams: tickets to performances, the sale of CDs and DVDs, and royalties for contents’ use. Videogames, however, only truly make money off of the original sale, making the purchase of a game that much more vital to its creators.
The increase in both used game sales and piracy are why many recent games have been using less conventional revenue methods: many are going free-to-play, like League of Legends and Lord of the Rings Online, and the rise of expanded downloadable content (DLC) has also helped financially support games whose “core game” is no longer selling new copies.
Both the “free-to-play” and “DLC” methods rely on purchases being associated to a personal account. Both of these approaches can be done clumsily (“Horse Armor” in The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion) or in a way that’s downright manipulative (like Super Monster Bros. and other sketchy mobile games).
To sidestep these issues, a golden rule for expansion content exists: no optional purchase should be required for “full” game experience. If this was kept universally in mind, such a system could ideally expand the lifespan of games, reduce the piracy of these games by providing a more community-driven experience, and encourage developers to keep their games fresh and fleshed-out, in order to maintain and grow a fanbase that will help support the game over a broader length of time through smaller, more digestible transactions.
WHAT MAKES USED GAMES SO DANGEROUS?
Used games are damaging to the industry because they don’t help support developers or publishers at all, and the only parties who receive any profits from the sale of these games are the stores selling them. When you use shops like GameStop or GAME as a middleman, you’re buying a game that was purchased from it’s own for a borderline offensively low price – offers so merciless that they make Rick from Pawn Stars look charitable. However, they’ll sell you that same game for only a few dollars below the full price of a brand new one, usually making 70% – 80% profits!
Last time I checked, the gaming population wasn’t very fond of these game retail stores, and I think we’d all rather support the handful of creative and passionate people who made the games we play over than the corporate chain stores that distribute them at unreasonable prices.
For those pessimistic about the implications of having your purchases linked to a “gaming account,” take a moment to consider all that’s changed in the PC gaming world over the past 5 – 10 years. Not too long ago, used games used to be bought and sold in the same format that consoles are currently subject to. However, when Steam came along and provided a more convenient service with more competitive price points, gamers finally moved past their apprehensions and embraced the new definition of “digital ownership.” Despite a few hiccups along the way, PC gamers have never looked back – it’s now created it’s own private culture, economy, and elitism that that no other currently competing service can touch.
Console-based digital game distribution services, like Playstation Network, Xbox Live Arcade, and the Wii Store unfortunately cannot match the level of affordability that Steam does – outside of free Playstation Plus offerings, Xbox 360’s recent sales experiments, and the recently (and blissfully) affordable retro WiiWare sales, you’ll be hard pressed to find anything remotely competitive with the “75% off” sales that Steam offers on a near-weekly basis. This isn’t due to any lack of trying, however.
Console digital distribution services are unfortunately stilted due to the consoles’ reliance on the GameStops and Best Buys of the world for physical game distribution. If digital copies of games are offered on these networks for less than the store-mandated prices, many of these stores will no longer carry those games – or so they’ve threatened, at least. This has been a huge issue that has stitled the console gaming economy, and is something that people hope Sony’s PS4 will address with its rumored developer-chosen price points (though please note that this is still distinctly a rumor at this point).
The same challenge also faced PC gaming several years ago but was completely steamrolled by the slow-building success of services like Steam , Good Old Games, and the philanthropic Humble Bundles. Though it forced PC gamers to give up the concept of “physical ownership” and the ability to sell their purchased games, it came with a plethora of perks. Beyond the vastly improved pricing, Steam also allows game owners to re-download their games anytime, anywhere, on any number of machines – as long as they are signed into their account.
This makes lost, stolen, or damaged games a thing of the past – and makes it much, much easier to bring your game collection with you on the go, since it doesn’t rely on a bevy of discs and registration keys. And as much as I love the aesthetics of physical game boxes, it no longer feels like I’m giving up very much for that increased convenience; now that physical games more often than not come with slips of paper with a web address in lieu of the tome-like manuals of older games, there are fewer and fewer reasons for one to purchase a new game on a potentially damageable blu-ray disk.
STEPS IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
There are a great deal of reasons why these account-based services will do good for the console gaming world: they will likely reduce costs and improve convenience for consumers down the line, they will more directly support the developers making these games, and they will help reduce both developer-damaging piracy and gamer-damaging, store-mandated overpricing. I think that Sony’s movement to have all games available as a digital download is a step in the right direction, and I imagine that Microsoft probably has similar plans for the Xbox One, as well. That’s only the first fight in a long and complex battle, however.
Though I do feel like account-based game ownership is the best-of-all-possible-worlds solution, there are further changes that need to be made before that is attainable. First off, backwards compatibility is a must – if a game is digitally purchased, then it needs to be purchased forever and potentially available on any technologically capable device in which your “account” is applicable. Microsoft has recently announced that the Xbox One will not support old XBLA games, which, though a gnarly issue, completely negates the entire argument for digital ownership: an important draw is that the game can’t “disappear.”
Secondly, requiring annual payment to access these game distribution services needs to stop, period. Companies using Microsoft’s method of requiring gamers to pay $50 a year to access features that other game systems offer for free is simply insulting. Maintaining that business model in this upcoming console generation, after adding all these other unprecedented (but understood) “used game” costs, would make them no better than Moneybags from Spyro 2. And if you haven’t played Spyro 2, that is one of the most cutting capitalistic insults I can possibly conjure.
Lastly, the gaming industry should go the way of the much-loved Kindle and adopt real-world sharing of digital content. For example, a Kindle owner can “lend” their e-book to another account, during which point the original owner is locked out from reading it. This seems like a manageable compromise, and they could get away with a tolerable, one-time entry fee (somewhere in the realm of 5 dollars) for a shared party to access the lended game. I’m certain gamers would find that philosophy and price point agreeable.
This whole argument is incredibly complicated and has more sides than a D&D die, but I believe that encouraging console games to go the same route that Steam has would ultimately be a good idea, both for game developers and for the gaming public. Though I don’t want to spend the whole article vilifying GameStop, in the end, they would be the only suffering party in this situation, so I don’t have much apprehension in supporting a change that will provide better prices for gamers, better financing for publishers to put towards future projects, and better support for independent game development. Supporting developer control of used games isn’t anti-consumer; on the other hand, when deconstructed, it’s very pro-gaming industry and pro-gamer.
Edit: I understand that this article could come across as extremely pro-Sony and anti-Microsoft, and the last thing I want is to be accused of is fanboyism. I am just working with what information has been released and rumored so far, and I pray that things will look more balanced after this year’s E3. And I won’t lie, I don’t underestimate Sony’s ability to utterly shoot itself in the foot at the last minute. So in the meantime, take this article for what it is, and let’s all enjoy our popcorn as we watch the early drone strikes in this generation’s console war.
PEACE & QUIET
THE FESTIVAL OF PARYUSANA PARVA AS AN ADMITTEDLY IGNORANT AMERICAN
I can hear sounds from inside: the clinking of plates, the rushed pummeling of children’s feet on hardwood, the rapid whispers of planning parents.
The front door is closed. I knock on it – no answer. It’s noisy inside, and I imagine it would be difficult to hear my sheepish tapping over the festivities at hand.
I look up at the building: it’s a modest one. The red colonial brick makes the place appear closer to a poorly-funded elementary school than an exotic place of worship. I doubt one would ever guess its function if it wasn’t for the hand-painted sign facing the suburban street, reading “Cloverly Jain Center.”
I knock again and wait, with mild impatience – Forge Press should have let them know that I was to arrive at 5:30. I wonder if they told the members of the center what the story was supposed to cover; they barely even told me, to be honest. “Write a narrative about the festival of Paryusana Parva,” they said, Anglo tongues tripping over the syllables (not that I could do any better).
So, here I am: shoulders hunched in the rain, penning a mental narrative about the importance of doorbell installation. I knock again to no avail, and decide to simply step inside.
The front room is dark, lit only by the gray September sky filtering through the thick bottle-glass windows. I have to tiptoe on the few exposed islands of white tile floor – the rest is camouflaged by canvas sandals of various sizes. I begin to untie my shoes: my black steel-toed combat boots in stark contrast to the surrounding footwear. I suddenly feel very aware of how aggressively chic I’m dressed compared to example set by these humble shoes, each pair barely distinguishable from the rest.
But that’s what Jainism is about: the experience of being humbled. It’s a religion that some would say makes Buddhism seem positively “laid-back.” Similar to Buddhists, Jains believe in the accumulation of karma and the lack of a cosmic creator, but their celebrations, dogma, and internalized logic differ greatly.
Jains, for example, don’t rank a creature’s physical form on any sort of totem pole. Buddhists believe that there is a linear progression in reincarnation that will eventually lead to an inevitable end goal: enlightenment. Jains, however, maintain that all species are equal: people, animals, plants, bacteria, and even elements have souls and the capacity to both experience and cause suffering.
This takes the pacifistic lifestyle portrayed by Buddhists and Hindus to astounding extremes: many Jains refuse to eat fruit until it has already fallen from its tree, by which point it is truly “dead.” Others wear surgeon’s masks to prevent the inhalation of microscopic creatures and constantly sweep a small broom in front of them to safely push insects out of harm’s way as they move through the world.
The determination of Jains is often described as superhuman. I’ll admit I am intimidated to be dealing with such a self-controlled and self-affirmed collection of human beings. This is a group of people who preach complete detachment from even the vaguest hints of materialism, yet here I am taking my iPhone out of my skinny jeans to set it to “silent.” Before I can fully comprehend my spiritual inferiority, my subconscious monologue is cut off by a booming, amiable voice.
“You must be Mr. Turner!”
I turn around, and before I can even respond, a heavy hand grips mine and pulls me into a handshake and half-hug. I answer that yes, that’s me, I’m him – my syllables stuttering in sharp staccato in response to his hearty pats on my back.
This was Ajay Advani, one of the organizers of the Jain Center and the leader of today’s celebration in the eight-day festival of Paryusana Parva.
“Come, come! Please, get dry!” he enthusiastically draws me from the dark gray of the shoe sanctum into the warm orange light of the prayer quarters. A long table is set up, with aluminum serving trays filled with steamed vegetables and aromatic breads. Small children in traditional dress chase each other under chairs. Their parents shovel food on to wooden plates, laughing and gossiping between each other. This is not the clan of ascetics I expected.
I ask Advani if the center has any of the broom-wielding worshipers I read about. “There are very few ‘orthodox’ Jains here,” he explains, “but we still believe in the same basic tenants. And our diets are strictly vegan. But it can be almost impossible to live in that way in this day and age, you know.”
He describes some of the strange contradictions that arise when being a Jain in modern America. For example, several of the members are doctors and veterinarians, and though they are helping heal humans and animals, their jobs often include killing parasites and malignant cells.
“Some would see that as a sin, if you looked at it in a very strict sense, but clearly these people just want to help others as best they can. Compromise and understanding are key in this age.” He gazes out the window and across the rain-drenched field, “Good intentions and good efforts can be plenty.”
The entire conversation is undercut by the chatter of the surrounding families. “You must excuse us. Many are eating now, as we fast during the days during this festival, so at nights spirits get very high.”
“Do you know what Paryushana Parva means, Mr. Turner?” I have an idea, but still ask him to continue. “Paryushana comes from two words, which mean ‘a year’ and ‘a return.’ It’s a time where once a year you repent for all of your misgivings and ‘return’ to the arms of the infinite. Where you can wash yourself from your day-to-day problems and remember the true meaning of things.”
Advani goes on to explain the festival and all of its eight days and how he personally fasted, day and night, for four days of it. “You’re lucky you caught me on a day I can eat, however – I tend to have much more energy after I’ve had my wife’s chaat!” He points to a tray of piping hot dough, garnished with chutney and onions. He picks up a plate and fills it enthusiastically, recounting how he and several others had awoken at 5 a.m. that morning to participate it “pratikraman,” a three-hour group prayer for peace and unity.
He invites me to participate in that evening’s pratikraman. I unfortunately have a ride coming to pick me up in an hour or so, and didn’t want to interrupt the service. He waves his hand in a playful p’shaw.
“Any amount of prayer is good for you, that is a fact,” he says with a convivial smile.
After briefly explaining some of the history of Jainism and showing me pictures of his favorite temple in India (Ranakpur Jain Temple – google it, it’s breathtaking), Advani hastily corrals everyone together, leading them to the main room like a street magician preparing for a trick.
The prayer room, like the building’s exterior, is also very simple: folding tables, faded rugs, and oversaturated photos in inexpensive frames adorn the space. What it lacks in awe-inspiring glamour, however, it more than makes up for in the passion and eagerness in its worshippers.
Advani opens the Kalpa Sutra, a holy book that shares the oldest Jains’ biographies, even detailing their ascension into Nirvana. He begins to tell the tale of Lord Mahavira’s birth with the craft of a veteran storyteller, narrating with excited flourishes that leave the children rapt in the same way that I’ve seen other kids on Christmas Eve. But these kids aren’t excited for potential presents – they’re excited for the parables themselves. It is a far cry from the scattered naps my sister and I used to take in back pews during services at our Methodist church.
After finishing the reading, he prepares the sanctuary for pratikraman. We all set aside our folding chairs, place down pillows, and sit cross-legged and to attention. Advani begins speaking in Marwari at a swift and crackling clip, like a subdued Baptist pastor. Some speak along with him, some nod in affirmation, some press their foreheads to the floor intermittently, and I… just try to soak up the ambiance, I suppose. I jokingly wonder if I should’ve boned up on my Marwari before coming out – but it wasn’t as big of a deal as I thought. The texture of the words, the active call and response, the quivering smiles and focused eyes of the followers… all of these things show the sincerity and surrendering humility that these people take to heart.
A surprisingly swift ninety minutes later, my phone vibrates in my pocket, its deep hum like the muffled moo of a sacred cow. My ride is nearly here.
I try to slink out as subtly as possible, silently lacing up my boots in the dark cobalt of the entryway. I slip outside and wait in the gravel parking lot, checking my phone intermittently. I hear the shifting of small stones behind me, and look back: an elderly woman is shuffling towards me.
“Hello, sir. Are you okay?”
I chuckle and say that yes, I am quite alright – she explains that she was concerned that I didn’t have a ride home and was excited to offer one. I thank her for her kindness; she dismisses it as nothing, and heads back towards the sanctuary, bidding me “good night.”
As I wait for the 1999 Pontiac Sunfire to round the corner, I begin to think about how I would have approached that situation. If I offered a ride to a stranger, I’m sure I would’ve been very wary of whom I’d offer it to (and I certainly doubt I’d give me one – me: chain smoking in steel-toed shoes). If I did decide to, I’m sure I’d openly volunteer the story of my Christlike good-heartedness at every socially acceptable opportunity in the coming weeks.
For the members of that Jain Center, however, and for the religions 6 million or so other followers, that sense of “giving” is intrinsic to the point of being automatic. Like the brick one-story house of worship, the collection of well-worn canvas sandals, the wooden plates of vegan delicacies, or the beautifully reserved celebration of Paryushana Parva, a Jain’s life force seems to resonate from that singular enviable virtue of humility.
I consider this and sigh in admiration at the honesty of such an existence.
And then I hear Bad Brains bursting from my friends new subwoofer as his car approaches. I get in and light a cigarette, the ash shaking off from the vibrations of the superfluously overpowered bass. As he chatters on about a house show that night in Baltimore, I breathe the chilled air in deep and contemplate a life without so many trappings, and so much noise.
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Published in Forge Press.