I can’t verify this claim too easily, gentle reader, but there are some of us who argue that televisions didn’t always exist. There was a time when families gathered around big, hulking devices that bore a slight resemblance to TV’s, except these gizmos didn’t have screens. And instead of calling them “TV’s,” people insisted on calling them “radios.”
I wasn’t one of those people. The complication of not being alive back then will have to serve as my lame excuse, and that’s just a damn shame. You see, I’d wager we still have an inborn desire to listen and, more to the point, to eavesdrop on people. I sat spellbound yesterday as I enjoyed these clips, such was their appeal.
If you click on the link, you’ll likely accuse me of recycling material. It’s true I’ve mentioned this site before, but recent developments warrant your attention. The site is the storefront, as it were, for an elaborate marketing scheme by Microsoft, a reality game that involves answering real phones and piecing together a story. Since I’m plenty occupied with playing the “pay your rent” game and its fantastic sequel, “clothe yourself and don’t starve as well,” I’m not inclined to embrace any other amusements. That doesn’t mean we can’t reap the fruits of these reality gamers, though, so by all means check out the audio drama. Listen to any one of them or, hell, listen to them all. They intertwine as only stubborn shoelaces could, which is a compliment.
This is narrative in its aural glory: no colors, no flashes, no computer-generated graphics, just some good old fashioned inflection and imagination. Those things we call pictures? Mercy be, we’re going to have to invent those suckers.
One of the topics we discussed earlier last week made a surprising return, gentle reader, when Neatfreak pointed out that Ben Lee resembles a hobbit. I suppose the subject of foot fetishes in The Lord of the Rings didn’t resurface per se, nor was I going to bring it up at a concert hall, but the very mention of the word “hobbit” got the cogs turning.
Ben Lee is a fantastic indie from Australia who, in addition to having hobbitesque hair, possesses an accent similar to Peter Jackson’s, at least to my untrained ear. As he rocked out and succumbed to the throes of music, I wondered if he would fall off his seat. If he hit the floor, I concluded he would shake his hobbity head, regain his composure, and say, “Watch me backflip onto this stool!” Having done so, he would proceed to smoke weed and consume multiple breakfasts.
Around the fifth song, Yoko Ohno whispered, “Claire Danes?” Indeed, if a hot actress who graduated from Yale once saw something appealing in Mr. Lee, then perhaps I wasn’t looking hard enough. There definitely was stage presence, perhaps a little too much, and his lyrics were certainly clever at parts. His entire act merely opened for Rufus Wainwright, however, and if nothing else the concert proper was relaxing. I’m no fan by any stretch of the imagination, a disability compounded by the fact that I couldn’t make out 90% of the lyrics, but there was a mellow vibe to be had. Song after song settled over the audience in a barrage of notes, and it felt like I had repeatedly bonked my head with a fluffy pillow. All right, a fluffy musical pillow.
Driving downtown is a headache-inducing exercise that promises to shave a few months off my lifespan, gentle reader, so I need something relaxing every time I return from the city. I headed straight for my little red and yellow friends today, but that doesn’t mean you should as well. I’ve heard that this site will do in a pinch, at least until you punch a hole through your monitor.