Chameleon

An article I read a while ago began with an analysis of a particular person (whose name and job, alas, I do not remember), and described his greatest trait as adapting himself to bend to other people's tastes. That sounds rather odious, perhaps, almost like a salesman, but the way it was expressed was stronger, and definitely positive. I instinctively understood the sentiment, but on reflection it seems his gift must have come in his nuances, because I'm sure we all engage in this sort of camouflage in varying degrees. Interactions with family are vastly different to those with friends, for example. But I wonder whether, in my case, I have gone too far. I've been aware of this for a while of course, but when it struck me again that everyone only knows a small part of me, I felt the shock much more than usual. The full me, the "true" me, is well hidden except to myself. And quite baldly, I don't know if that's common or instead cause for deep concern. One would think that at least a few people would have a broad view of the person I consider myself, so why is that not the case? Am I simply too complex to be pinned down easily? I'd like to think that I have some depth and breadth, sure. But am I sure it's not because of the way I act? No. And hence my worry.

I should address what I'm assuming to be obvious, namely, whether this state is bad. At the very least, at moments like these it makes me feel quite isolated. I sometimes think to myself that personal realizations are in the same ballpark as human interaction in terms of importance, and while I'm not too fussed about the former (though we could discuss that point forever), simply ignoring the latter seems dangerous. Implicit in "human interaction" is the qualifier "deep": being merely content with the facile, playful ones (though they are essential and very fun) is not enough, I think. So it comes down to the question: how can we call a relationship deep? Does it require the other party to know more than a snapshot of me, however detailed that particular snapshot may be? If that is the case, then every relationship I have ever had has been an utter failure.

As much as I like ending with such a bang, let me offer this bit of consolation. For one, I think I can do better, that I can open up on occasion and let a discerning soul know a bit more about me. Even more optimistically, I think the answer I offered in the last para might be wrong, or at least incomplete. Perhaps another mark of a deep relationship is me learning something about the other party. It would fit in with my nascent belief that a lot of my personal crises can be assuaged, if not resolved, by moving focus from the self to the other. Solipsism to humanism, I'd like to say. With this point of view, let me rephrase my (still pending) concern: is it just emotional insularity on my part that most of my relationships are forged and essentially based upon a niche passion of mine? I will have to ponder on this.

Big questions being thought out loud in post-form. You'd think it was 2004 all over again.

Recommendation systems for music are very popular, and I've used a few of them. But, as with seemingly everything, I don't like a lot of the culture surrounding it: it appears so flippant. There seems to be a constant, blinding desire to find new music to listen to rather than acquiring deep appreciation of any single piece of music. While there's no doubt that there is probably more great music than we can listen to in a normal lifetime, an obsessive quest to devour it all seems against the very spirit of the music. There should be time interjected between major discoveries, so that we can take pause and really think about what we have already experienced. Otherwise, even if you end up liking everything along the way, it really starts to become a game of keeping up with the rest of the world, which is quite devaluing to all involved.

(I accept some guilt in this state of music-as-a-game, by the way: I get into this mode when I sometimes try to plow through my backlog of unheard CDs. So this is really directed as much at myself than this (possibly imaginary?) community of recommendation over-users.)

I'm recalling the pleasures of catalogues, and especially the special powers of well-crafted lyrics, of rock music aspiring to importance through the lyricist's command and contrast of the personal and the external.

I don't mind if you forget me

I've written about being on the wrong (pathetic) end of relationships before. S recently suggested that this is bound to happen if one doesn't make sufficient attempts to be noticed by acting a certain way: essentially, how people expect, or if you like, want, others to act. Among other things: suppress naivete, be open, and at least seem to be like everyone else. According to this theory, emotional distance is inevitable when you are seen as being either willfully naive or simply unconcerned with what constitutes the "real" world. Its suggestion isn't so much forsaking individuality as forsaking a type of individuality, one should note. And as luck would have it, it's not the way of living I've been perfecting all these years.

These sorts of life philosophies and theories are all unverifiable, and so I can't definitely say whether it's right or wrong: one can only go on experience or instinct. The latter is difficult, because this theory seems to suggest that people are generally narcissistic, and don't care enough to try to imagine things from other people's point of view. Distrust of humanity I'm always down with, and so there is a biased appeal. But who wants to believe such a thing? The bleak consequences of not following this dogma are, frankly, depressing. My initial reaction was, of course, to say "To hell with those people!", the ones who un(?)consciously reserve their memories and emotions for a certain type of person. But...it is difficult to muster the inner strength to believe such things; as I've also said before, keeping beliefs that contradict the majority is not always easy. In things as mundane as politics and the like, it is simple enough, but this is life! Think of the stakes! In sum, I can't say with confidence that I will not regret changing myself so that I'm more palatable. We might need human interaction and understanding more than personal conviction. As a pair of young songwriters wrote in a moment of clarity, "What's the sense in arguing / When you're all alone?"

Does life have meaning? Oh, certainly yes, I very much think so. Is meaning only sensible when it's outside the self? I don't know - quite possibly. This uncertainty is why I worry it is not just socially awkward to lack sustaining relationships: being unable to relate to tales of lifelong friendships is one thing, and I can live with it like many other things I suspect I will not experience. But if that is to mean that it makes for a weak life too, then that goes beyond the merely uncomfortable into the frightening. That is why it is unsettling to think about whether such a fate is unavoidable, and if not, whether it's worth making changes to that end. What do you give up and what do you keep? What, essentially, is the ultimate point of existence? As much as I believe in personal accomplishment and awareness as being someway towards giving life meaning, like I said, it is a game with high stakes. Who is to say if it all means nothing if you leave no footprints in the process?

I do not wish to come off as totally gloomy, however: the silver lining, the one consolation is that my problems aren't as dire as perhaps I've made them sound. My existence isn't completely bereft of meaningful relationships; it's only the majority of them that are that way :-) The ones that burn on are extremely important to me, and I hope they continue as I (we?) travel through the uncertainties of the world in years to come. The best ones occasionally make one wish to be a better person: that is change I am ready for. Essentially, my hope is that the quality of the few trumps the quantity of the many. I hope I am not wrong.

I seem to have a love/hate relationship with Xgau. The good, first: what I like about him, compared to most other music writers, is his interest in looking beyond the mere surface of things, and putting things into some historical context. Fawning praise is definitely not his most common reaction, and even when he does praise, it's usually quite measured. This is good, because it makes it clear that truly great material (A/A+) is released quite rarely. Related to this, he's also really skeptical and near immune to hype, sometimes seeming actually hostile towards towards those he perceives as doling out unquestioning or insincere praise. These are good qualities in a reviewer, but the most essential is of course the writing: without it, opinion counts for naught. Stylistically, Xgau has it down: pithy and to the point, moving away from the obvious and trying to say something that helps frame an album in a larger context. All this I really approve of, because it's tiring to read reviews that merely list tracks and say whether they are individually good or not. His reviews don't try to be comprehensive because they see no need to be: information like the context of the band coming into the album, picks for the best songs on the album, and definitely the details of individual songs, are easily discovered from innumerable other sources. The reviews take it upon themselves, as I see it, to provide the one unique thing they can: namely, offering a critical judgement on the work. And he's definitely capable of writing the occasional classic line, which sometimes becomes intertwined with my mental map of an album; for example, his reviews of Moondance, Grievous Angel, and The Velvet Underground.

I say all this to make clear that when I sometimes say I hate him, it's a hyperbole, foremost, but it's also not blind distaste. Indeed, I find that the reasons in the first para somehow pronounce the faults I list below. With that disclaimer in mind, there are at least two things that get on my nerves. First, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way, it's hard to figure out what his reviews mean sometimes. For all my praise of the style and philosophy of his reviews, there are times when they tell me very, very little about the records in question. Obviously this might be because I haven't read or thought enough about music to decipher his references, and so this isn't really an "objective" criticism; nonetheless, it's a pretty serious one! With the positives from the first para in mind, I don't want to join the legions of people who claim he is intentionally obscure to show off or to seem superior; my sense is that he assumes the audience is smart enough to understand him. Still, slightly more guidance to the reader would go a long way towards making his reviews must-read. As you might expect, this point is especially frustrating when the album is rated poorly, yet I think it's pretty good; I'm very curious to find why his view is so different, but sometimes I am just left puzzled. Which brings me to point two.

The second issue is that we sometimes have a profound difference in tastes, pure and simple. Why this riles me up sometimes is because the criticism comes from someone given to critical thinking, and cannot be readily dismissed as idle ranting. Maybe worse yet, one gets the awful fear that the fellow might be right. But fundamentally, I just disagree with some of his judgements of what makes music good. There's no point being coy about specifics, so let me name some: Henry's Dream, for a start. To weaken my case, I should say that it's not my candidate for Cave's best album lyric-wise. But the condescension in his quotes of Cave admirers is unwarranted: come on, you can't paint us all as an insipid mob who would swallow anything with shades of high-art just to appear sophisticated. At least in my case, admiration of his ties is only in addition to the quality of the songwriting. And yes, fans and critics do have this odd distrust of high art except when one of their own has a connection to it ("classically trained" is frequently cited as a badge of honour), I'll admit. But I doubt that any Cave admirers are suggesting that his lyrics are poetry in the classical sense of the word, and if they are they're hardly any different to the legions of fans of Bob Dylan or Paul Simon or Leonard Cohen (oops! :-)). If one digs further, there is the unflattering portrait of Cave as a "death freak", which is too simplistic, and so on and so on. In short, I think he's simply wrong on Nick Cave. Most recently, there is the review of an AR Rahman best-of. Doesn't make much sense, but if it implies what I think it implies, namely that it's just pleasant schmuck...it means war. (Marginal kudos to him for reviewing the thing, though.) And finally, there is the infamous A- review of SouljaBoy which I don't feel knowledgeable enough to comment on too much. (My instinct tells me it's bogus, but you never know.)

Of course, one might ask what the alternative is: the legions of reviewers on Web 2.0? I prefer Xgau. I like having people who, first, definitely know more than me, but also have a verifiable and consistent take on popular song over a long time period. I like reading people like myself to give suggestions on what to purchase, say, but for analysis that goes beyond what CDs are worth buying, I would go with a good journalist. Which I would have to say Xgau is, despite the criticisms detailed above. In summary then, while there are times he leaves me fuming, I see him as a very important critic; should he influence an upcoming music journalist whose writing avoids my subjective criticisms, that would be simply wonderful.

(By the way, on reflection, the moral that I seem to have derived from writing this piece is: perhaps it's wise not to get too worked up about music reviews. Music fills that role quite nicely.)

To answer the first part of the last post, one reason for the relative paucity of music is my irritation at how I've used it as a crutch for a long time. The healing power of music is well known, as is its ability to serve as an escape from the outside world. Both noble things...in moderation. By deifying music, I've sought to shirk from tough issues, I suspect. The cure isn't to stop listening to music, of course, it's to face up to those unpleasant things. But once again, I seem to have chosen the easy option.

5 months since the last one? And I'm still worshiping that Boognish?

1) Ween, "Flutes of Chi". When I hear it, I think it might be their finest melody. And can I say, imitating music sonically is one thing, but it is Ween's lyrical capacity that is doubly amazing. These later period songs also make me wonder what on earth prompted them to not release more singles. Could the charts really deny this on the basis that it doesn't sound like the competition? I think that if anything can take us slightly in the direction of the monoculture, it is singular talent, and asking for more than this is a bit too much.

2) Captain Beefheart, "The Floppy Boot Stomp". I could've sworn I'd discussed this: it feels like it's always just been there. One of those too-good album openers that is thankfully cooled down by "Tropical Hotdog Night", it demonstrates two things about the Captain's famed weirdness. One, it's rooted firmly in musicality, not dissonance: this is the blues, albeit framed in a more unusual way than one might be used to. Two, he's good enough a lyricist to not fall on simple beatnik or obscurist lines. It's what makes thing song so triumphant.

3) Cockney Rebel, "Hideaway". It's a pretty brave opening track, if you think about it. I instinctively liked the "dirty" vocals from the beginning, because while they did sound a bit exaggerated, it seemed appropriate given what's being sung about. Which is...well, I'm not sure entirely. Isn't that true of all great songs?

The download dilemma

My opposition to music downloading has been an interesting barometer to measure my changing perceptions of music. I'm still a staunch CD-buyer, but even I admit being tempted with the prospect of modern indie artists, for whom the risk ratio is much higher than what I am used to. I once placed enormous value on the tactile qualities of a CD, especially when I actually used the CD directly to listen to the music. It gave an opportunity to flip through the liner notes, and even when the music finished it was nice to look at the CD's place among its brothers on the shelf. Lately of course, my CDs have been in pristine condition because they're only opened once, to be converted into digital form, and subsequently sit quietly for months on end. I hardly ever read liner notes as a result, and longing gazes to the shelf are pretty much the only reaction their physical presence elicits.

Things become greyer when I think of CDs that lie in a house overseas. Not only my old collection that lies undisturbed, but the new CDs that family have added. It might be years before I see them, and so effectively the digital form is the only proof I have of their existence. Is this dramatically different to simply having the music in a digital form? Much as I'd like to argue that the knowledge of their physical presence counts for something, even I see that that's somewhat weak (even if not completely indefensible).

As for the "try before you buy" school of thought, I can't argue with it, really. What offsets this for me is that I really like hearing an album fresh; especially so, as you might expect, if the album turns out to be really good. This lies outside the music itself, sure. But when I say I like music, I think what I mean is not just the sounds themselves, but these "meta" pleasures as well; I don't think I can claim that my love of the sounds is greater than many people, but the meta pleasures, maybe. (The same, of course, applies to a stroll around a good record store.) There's nothing preventing me from downloading the entire album and listening to it in entirety, but there seems to be an implicit sense of it not demanding serious attention. I haven't parted with money, so there's no emotional reason to persist with something that seems initially puzzling.

What CD purchasing also prevents is overconsumption. Part of the allure of downloading is that it makes so much available instantly. I can imagine that once you get into the habit, quitting is close to impossible. When everything is available with no effort, it's pretty tempting to try and listen to everything in one go. In other words, persisting with a single album and letting it define one's world for weeks/months on end requires conscious effort. (It's possible, sure, but difficult.) I don't know if we can say that this is an objectively better mode of listening - probably not - but it's what makes me quite uneasy about downloading culture. I fear that our nature makes overconsumption natural (whether we realize it or not), and that means a devalued musical culture.

It goes without saying that I could be wrong about everything. The positive of this possibility is that it means I can listen to Bon Iver within a decade.

My initial problems with Neverwinter Nights 2 gave way to the realization that, no matter how undeniable the faults, the fact that the game is sufficiently reminiscent of Baldur's Gate 2 makes me want to forgive it. "Reminiscent" can be taken to mean aping unsuccessfully, if you like, but recalling BG2, which I first played a good 8 years ago, was a meta-pleasure that I will associate with the even otherwise still good NWN2. My character of choice in BG2 was (and still is) a spellcaster, and I still shiver when thinking of some of the higher level spells. I don't know if I will call it the best RPG I've ever played, because there is some very strong competition for that title (and that's only games that I know of). But it is the game that introduced me to the D&D system, which appears to be the de facto setting for almost all modern fare, and as such it's the first comparison for any game in that mould.

(Spoilers in this para) There were a couple of things I liked in the endgame, both of which were incremental novelties. First, the turning of some party members to fight against you was an interesting way to incite emotions in the player. After travelling for hours on end with some people, having them turn on you at the end can really hurt. In my case, I was especially shocked because I had almost exclusively used Qara the whole way through the game, and a betrayal at the very end made me really angry. Angry enough to unleash a WoTB on her :-) Second, the ability to control all your party (save the traitors!) in the final battle definitely makes sense for me. There's no sense in fighting an evil that threatens the fate of the universe and suddenly deciding that beyond four people, control is too difficult. I think that this again lends to the epic feeling of the end fight, because you have a large group fighting in unison against an ominous enemy.

Another thing that NWN2 made me realize is that, contrary to whatever protests I might have about being offered something new in games, I'm at a stage where I'm very happy just chugging along with things that I'm used to. Effort in learning something new is looked upon with great suspicion. NWN2 has a crafting system that lets you create special artifacts, a la Morrowind I suppose. "I suppose" because I spent zero time investigating this, being wholly focussed on getting Qara that Wail of the Banshee so that I could defeat that dratted King of Shadows. (Spoiler: Turns out Shadow Reavers are immune to death magic. Ah.) From memory, even KOTOR might've had this, and there too I completely ignored the undoubtedly enjoyable side-game. Heck, in this game I didn't blink when the area-of-effect spells left party members completely unscathed; no purist would stand for such a thing. (Do you know how much easier boss fights are when you can cast Meteor Swarms with impunity?) I should feel guilty about all this, but to be honest, the mere fact that I was able to enjoy a game after such a long time was good enough. None of which is to say that I've changed my mind about the whole issue of the future of gaming. No, I think I just I don't particularly mind if this is the height of gaming for me. But the medium as a whole ought to try to do better, just so a larger audience can figure out what exactly makes games interesting, and worthy of one's time.

I've noticed that at least three times now, I've been unable to summarize my preference in music. Not because it's amazingly eclectic or anything, but because (a) I don't really listen to that much of it, and (b) I don't detect a coherent thread connecting most of my library, which, aside from a few outliers whose catalogues I am deeply familiar with, is a slew of artists where I have at most two or three albums. Now that I have time to mull over the question, I'd call my library by and large the tried and true branch of rock music; "classic rock" without the connotations that that term carries. (I'm really not completely familiar with the Who & Floyd, say.) Reason (a) I've already discussed several times. What of (b)?

As I pointed out at the start, I instinctively don't want to call (b) eclecticism as much as I do laze. Yet, while laze might play some part, I think the relative lack of depth is best explained by my extreme propensity to saturation. With that claim in place, why is it the case? Certainly a quirk of personality to an extent. But what vexes me is the following: could it also be the relative lack of quality in the artists I pursue? Are most of them just worth two good albums? If so, we might all be doomed. I naturally think the things I like are objectively pretty good, and I can say that most have been received fairly favourably among the critics. But somehow, I haven't managed to find more than a handful whose catalogues have provided a slew of satisfying albums. My hope is that the fact that I know about relatively little music, and have been operating on a small section of it, means that I might be missing out on some artists who have released, say, five or six good albums. Off the top of my head, I can think of two artists immediately whom I would never have guessed, prior to listening to them, were capable of as much good material as I've discovered. My personal inferiority complex might be transferring to the music I listen to, then.

I suppose the tiny drops of classical fall outside, and remain unscathed. But I still wonder if I will ever be able to fully appreciate the genre. I am fairly confident that popular song, and its "emotional complexity", will be the primary form of music for me; classical provides a nice foil, a sense of scale and balance. I hope I can continue to find resonant music in popular song.

By the way, what I really don't want to say my catalogue is, although I hate to admit it might be as good a description as there is: Starostin's music. Although, if I think about it, there are worse things for a catalogue to be than a subset of a reliable reviewer's recommendations. The uncertainty I have is whether it means I display sufficient individual thought when it comes to music, but then I start wondering about the objective quality of music, and all that. Let me quit while I'm ahead and think about how good my last 3 non-Starostin albums are.