Real Life Sims

NOTE: The following essay was recently submitted for a workshop. The names in the story have been changed to remain loyal to my rule of never using names in my blogs.

Located on a private farm about a mile from where Gulf Avenue and 315th Street intersect in obscure Clear Lake, Iowa, there is a small stainless steel guitar, sitting on its side, inscribed with the names Buddy Holly, Ritchie Vallens and Big Bopper. Under the three names, the date, 2-3-59, is etched into the steel, and three records made of the same metal sit atop the guitar’s neck in pyramid form. This monument commemorates the day the three musician’s chartered, single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza, crashed on the same Iowa field.

In 1971, twelve years after the plane carrying Holly, Vallens and Jiles Perry Richardson (Big Bopper) crashed, a man from New York, Don McLean, recorded a song entitled American Pie. Although the song never directly mentions the three men that perished on February 3, 1959, the song does refer to the ill-fated morning as “The Day The Music Died.”
Great music has evolved since then, and Americans eventually forgot the meaning behind McLean’s hit single, but since the crash happened, music has seen complete rebirths and, sadly, many disappointing metaphorical deaths. Unfortunately, music’s newest disease is a hypnotizing cancer that has plagued artistic expression since November 8, 2005. The day the music died…again.

To my knowledge no popular musician overdosed or had their stomach pumped on that day, rather a surprisingly successful videogame, Guitar Hero, hit North American stores, subsequently resulting in America’s self-inflicted gunshot to the creative mind.

Guitar Hero is a game created by Harmonix Music Systems, in which the player(s) can choose popular rock songs that are pre-installed in the game, and strum a plastic controller-like guitar along with the tracks, earning points and unlocking new levels along the way. The guitar, based on Gibson’s SG model, has no real strings and makes no real noise. There is no amplifier, just a PlayStation wire and a plastic whammy bar used to earn more points. Since the first Guitar Hero was introduced, four installments of the game have been released, and it is no longer exclusive to the PlayStation entertainment platform.

The Guitar Hero epidemic that is sweeping the nation was first brought to this writer’s attention the summer of 2006 when my friend, possibly under the influence of various narcotics, called me while I was in Miami, from our Tallahassee apartment, giggling and rambling nonsense.

“Dude, you need to get back up here.”
“Why?”
“Cause these people just got Guitar Hero, and it’s fucking nuts.”
“What people?”
“The neighbors. They brought it over. I got to go, it’s my turn. Later.”

Growing up, I was never a huge fan of videogames. My parents always bought my brother and me the latest console, and we always had a lot of games, but rarely did I spend more than 15 minutes on a game, or beat popular ones like Mario and Grand Theft Auto in later years, like my peers. I played baseball when I was a kid, and I had guitar lessons and band rehearsals to attend; I had no time for Madden. Somehow my best friend managed to play sports and balance a full season of MVP Baseball on “Expert Mode,” but that’s a rarity. The fact he called me and mentioned how he was playing our neighbor’s game, and how I needed to be there, meant that this thing was life changing—religious even—so I did some research.

I went back to my parent’s house that night and asked my brother if he had ever played this game, and how it actually worked.

“Yea man, it’s pretty cool.”
“I don’t get it; there’s no strings?”
“No dude. It was sick, I actually played ‘Woman” today.”
“The Wolfmother song? I can play that on my real guitar.”
“Oh.”

The conversation upset me and I left his room. I walked through the house with my head hung low and into my room. I was upset because my brother, the kid that looked up to me when I learned new songs on my guitar, no matter how simple the chord structure, cared more about his simulated performance of “Woman” at his friend’s house. This was the first inkling I had that Guitar Hero would destroy the undiscovered artistic abilities of many talented musicians because Skynyrd’s Free Bird is a lot easier on Xbox than it is on a Fender.

I mentioned having taken guitar lessons at one point in my life, truth be told I only took lessons for about a year, and really learned how to play the guitar on my own, years later, with the help of the Internet, cigarettes and alcohol.

The introduction of a game like Guitar Hero was revolting, and I assumed other musicians, semi-musicians like myself, and Americans in general, would share my concern for the youth of the nation and rise against the evil technological empire that was slowly replacing guitar lessons with simulated rock star success.

Jared Roth is a Florida State University student and has been playing the guitar on and off for about six years. Like my friend, he was able to balance true artistic representation and videogames as a child, and into adulthood—again, a rarity. Though he prefers sports-themed games, he was open to the idea of tinkering with the newest version of Harmonix Music System’s guitar game, Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock.

I recently accompanied Jared to BestBuy, where a demo version of the game was available in the electronic game aisle. After waiting in line with balding men, young children and a stock-boy from neighboring OfficeMax, it was Jared’s turn to test the game for the first time. His first song choice was Kiss’ “Rock and Roll All Nite.” As the screen introduces the simulated band, and Peter Chris’ simple drumbeat begins, Jared starts fingering the colored buttons on the neck of the guitar/game-controller-hybrid, eight counts into the song. His musical background is evident through the way he taps his right foot and continually misses the simulated chord changes because of their terribly represented pattern as compared to real-life. The digital crowd starts booing and Jared’s first Guitar Hero experience comes to a crashing halt.

“Fuck.”
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Bro, this game is weird. I was playing, but it just kicked me off the stage for sucking.”

On the way back to Jared’s apartment, we have a deep discussion on the impact the game he just played is having on society.
“I get why you’d be upset,” he tells me, “but seriously, it’s not as serious as you make it out to be.”

“Not as serious?” I yell, “a fucking guy with no talent is going to this he’s Jimi-Fucking-Hendrix ‘cause he learned how to play Purple Haze on a Nintendo game. Some kid that could be at Guitar Center buying a beginner’s kit is on his grandmother’s living room floor, on his knees, pretending to be playing at Woodstock. Fuck that.”

Jared takes a hit of the slow burning joint, coughs and as he passes it back to me, says, “I guess I see where you’re coming from. It’s a lot like Dance Dance Revolution. Those people who play at arcades, they can’t fucking dance for real.”

Dance Dance Revolution, or DDR, is a popular arcade game, which now has a home version, where “dancers” step on colored floor lights, as indicated by the simulated nightclub dance floor on the screen. Often times, socially awkward people that wear faded t-shirts with Bob Ross-like nature settings printed on them are spotted jumping, sweating and running in place at various movie theater lobbies. They’re not auditioning for Flashdance: The Sequel, rather playing the annoyingly popular videogame. Rarely will these people be seen at large social gatherings, local bars or popular nightclubs, because (a) people scare them and (b) they’re busy searching Youtube, eager to find footage of new DDR techniques they can incorporate into their own routine.

Thirteen minutes after leaving BestBuy, we arrive at Jared’s apartment. His roommates and a group of their friends, all former high school athletes that have turned to binge drinking, keg stands and water bongs, are gathered around a small glass table. Some stand, other sit and one paces frantically back and forth. There are four or five laptops spread around the room. An egg timer goes off in the background and everyone starts yelling.

“Two minute warning.”
“Fuck, I don’t know what to do yet.”
“Bro, that’s a terrible pick.”
“Yea, you’re going lose for sure.”

It turns out this was the day 12 friends would skip class, the gym and an intramural flag-football game to hold an NBA draft for a new fantasy league. Moreover, they will continue skipping classes, the gym and intramural sports to gather around a high definition television set and watch every basketball game and basketball highlight at any given time. When there is no basketball to watch or relive through SportsCenter, many of these people sit on the edge of their seats, trash talking while passing around a giant bong as they play NCAA Football on Xbox.

“You saw that sick juke?”
“Bro, the game’s fucked up.”
“Oh, yea, cry about it.”
“Look who I’m playing with, of course you’ll beat me.”
“You’re a sore fucking loser, man.”

The trash talking will go on for hours, well into the evening and straight through early the next morning. A few weeks into the NBA season the trash talking is replaced by trade talking and, like those lost to Guitar Hero, society risks losing athletic talent too.

In years passed, parents have complained about violence in videogames, and watchdog groups were boycotting popular shooting games like Grand Theft Auto and others, all while ignoring the fact that games like Guitar Hero, Dance Dance Revolution and Madden were as damaging, if not more so, to the lives of people that play them. Not until a recent South Park episode did the media take note of the increasingly dangerous evolution of Guitar Hero.

A week after the third installment of Guitar Hero was released, the creators of South Park, wrote an episode in which two of the characters sign a record deal because of how well they play the game. One of the character’s fathers, intrigued by his son’s new game, attempts to play Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son. Though he played the song perfectly on a real guitar, he is unable to play the game’s version of the song. Eventually, the father and son turn to a new game, Heroin Hero, which pokes fun at an addiction that has surrounded many talented musicians, and how their lives are subsequently ruined.

On the surface it appears that Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s intentions were to produce another hilarious episode of the popular animated program, but their sarcastic humor and social commentary the show uses to prove a point leads me to believe that I’m not the only person disappointed with society’s current direction; a musician’s talent is now overshadowed by talent-less children unlocking secret characters and socially awkward teens. ESPN hired a Fantasy Sports Editor, and there is even a Madden Tournament Tour for the popular football videogame.

With the advancements in technology and depreciation of talent, maybe Harmonix Music Systems can make a game that simulates tripping on acid so I wont have to actually eat mushrooms to write like Hunter Thompson. Society is living life vicariously through digital characters. Rather than joining friends at a pub for a pint, people spend hours in front of plasma televisions, in their three-day old underwear, eating pineapple pizza in their living room. They do this while trying to earn more points on Guitar Hero and manage their fantasy sports franchise, oblivious to life passing them by. Our digital world isn’t positively evolving, our digital world is corrupting American society and we’re too busy checking our e-mail.

Cheers,
Victor