Album Review: Gary Wilson - "Feel the Beat"

Gary Wilson has always been an enigma, but an enigma whose introversion has always seemed purposefully contrived and manufactured for the sole purpose of evading any sort of responsibility for the semi-maniacal, obsessive schizoid pop he's unleashed onto the masses over the past three-and-a-half decades. From journeyman jazz improvisationalist ("Another Galaxy") to New Wave dissident, Wilson has managed to balance that fine line between perpetual irrelevance and historical poignancy perfectly, remaining true to his vision, no matter how constricted or monotonous.

With "Feel the Beat", Gary Wilson might have struck a dead-end on his four decade mission to bring the Gospel of his compelling brand of kitschy, isolationist funk to the general public. The limerent, borderline psychotic lyrics are in full force here ("There was this girl/that lived just down the road/she wanted to be my friend/she had brown hair/that's cool/i dig the scene"), and there appears to be no real progression as a songwriter for the fifty-nine year-old artist. Each song is yet another frenzied trip into the mind of a lone, sexually corybantic loser who enjoys trips (or, in Gary's case, "wawks") through the park in the dead of night, with a voyeuristic penchant for young, buoyant women and a violent fascination with two equally-enigmatic women, "Karen" and "Mary".

The music of "Feel the Beat" is, perhaps, the most commercially-viable, smooth Wilson's has ever been. While great for a mid-town Manhattan dancefloor inundated with hipsters, it only serves to add to the disjointed schizophrenia that plagues this album throughout. "Where Did You Go?" with it's sleazy, but exceptionally catchy, keyboard lead and tight, danceable groove wouldn't be out of place on the cesspit that is modern terrestrial pop radio, and the self-obsessed "Gary Took A Walk" sounds like Gary wanted to pay homage to seventies soul, but something went horribly awry and his inner-demons took hold of him and made for a slow burning dirge that descends into what could only be described as an angst-fueled, alienated madness ("I feel free/I've got my name carved on that tree").

Though certainly not the best of Wilson's catalogue (in my opinion, his apex was the "Forgotten Lovers" EP), it's still a fairly interesting -- and groovy -- entry into one of the more polarizing careers in popular music, and for an artist of this calibre, that's to be expected.

Verdict: *** 1/2

My Two-Cents: The Institution of "eSports" and the FGC (Fighting Game Community): My Take

In an effort to keep the weblog afloat, I figured I'd kick off a series of weekly/bi-weekly editorials detailing my own perspective and personal opinion of situations occurring throughout our society. Some may be fringe issues afflicting few among us, or conversely, on a much larger, proliferative scale which ultimately affect all of us to some extent or another. I understand and accept that I haven't been the best weblogger that I can possibly be, and through these pieces, I hope to reinvigorate this space and, in the process, get something going in the way of fruitful discussion and rapport amongst my handful of readers (which in itself is probably laughable, but I digress).

Over the course of the past several weeks, there's been controversy brewing between the online "eSports" and fighting game communities. What seemingly began in earnest as a discussion regarding the difference between commentary during online broadcasts/streams between the two collectives has ultimately revealed, over this brief period of time, an underlying and long withstanding difference in culture, and ultimately, context of opinion. One side of the coin sees the other as an uncultured, boisterous lot with no real sense of professionalism, ethics or humility. The other fashions the opposite as stodgy, overly pompous and unable to derive any sort of enjoyment from what they purport to "love" doing for a living. What both fail to realize, however, is that talk is fundamentally cheap and until someone or something puts forth an idea that is both profitable and viable for both factions nothing will be accomplished. The baseless assumptions, rampant xenophobia and misunderstandings, and above all else, foolish politicking will continue on ad nauseam until the scenes implode with ignorance.

We all want to make a comfortable living. That's what being a professional is about, in essence. You must thoroughly enjoy that which you've taken up as your chosen profession, but when the work is finished and the smoke settles, you want that payment for a job well done. Anyone who denies this is either a master of false modesty or outright lying between their teeth. What those in professional gaming seem to misconstrue is that one can be "true to their roots", HONEST and still make a significant profit in the process. To expect someone to eschew all that they represented prior to coming to prominence in their chosen field is disrespectful not only to the person who has the burden of professionalism placed upon them, but to the profession itself. Without passion, the person cannot perform to the best of their ability. Without having a reason to "fight onward", there cannot be progression of any sort. Instead you'll fall into the process of the inane and of routine, and that's not good for anyone.

To expect less outbursts or "hype" (excitement) from the FGC would be taking away an essential ingredient to the identity of the movement. Socio-economical issues aside, to demand one to remain reserved and docile during an exciting match up -- be it within the fighting community or elsewhere -- is delusion. Do you attend a boxing/MMA event and expect the crowd to sit on their hands and politely applaud throughout the festivities? No. There's little difference in watching someone play a thrilling match up in, say, "King of Fighters XIII" or "Street Fighter IV" than there is watching a heavyweight boxer smash his competition to bits in the middle of the squared circle. Delving deeper, there's little need to make demands upon the social behaviorism of an audience of a product, particularly if it augments said product or the immediate culture surrounding it. We don't expect affluent Englishmen to represent us as gamers because that's not who we are. It's not who we're going to be tomorrow, it's not who we're to become in the distant future.

Just as we cannot compromise ourselves for corporate interests, it would be folly to think that, if we should choose to pursue a career as video gamers, we're selling ourselves short and abandoning our principals as a cohesive unit. What there needs to be is a joining of the minds -- an understanding that we are gamers first, fighting/RTS players secondly -- and move from there. When I sit down to enjoy myself with a session of "KOF XIII", "Heavy Rain" or "Grand Theft Auto IV", I don't want to be burdened with the stolid compartmentalizations/taxonomies of "race" or "ethnicity" or any other of our society's multitude of ills. Likewise, I don't want to deal with factions of adherents of these idiotic viewpoints bringing these thoughtless and antiquated social processes into my hobby that I embrace solely to ESCAPE the trappings of my reality through the vein of "genre loyalism". I think this is another underlying issue that's at play here. I can see it now: "My RTS is much better than that primitive mashing you call fighting games." "Well, my fighting game is more watchable and 'hype' than your RTS," Not the greatest example, but you can see where I'm leading with this.

People, we need to stop allowing emotion and loyalty to get in the way of what will ultimately allow us to grow financially and, I hope, as gamers. Respect community members should begin a conversation among themselves and pledge whatever resources and time they can offer to every community that falls under the category of competitive video games. Be it finances, streaming equipment, advertisements -- if we can at least respect what one another is doing and offer our support -- even if it's a verbal show of approval -- and get something done instead of incessantly whining and pointing our fingers, we'll all be for the better of it. One solution would be to hold three or four majors a year for our respective communities (with as much support from others as our own, bear in mind, as it would ultimately prove to be a collaborative effort for everyone's benefit): for example, the first-person shooter community would have three or four regionals, a national (think "Evolution/EVO") and then grand finals would be held at one large event held by the competitive community as a whole; the same would go for the fighting, RTS, racing communities as well.

The aforementioned would be the best way to streamline what would at first appear to be separate communities into a cohesive, self-functioning unit and perhaps garner interest into a particular sort of sub-genre from strict adherents of another just by exposing them to something that they may have maligned simply out of ignorance and little to no personal experience. Now, I know this is simply wishful thinking to many, but it can be done if the right individuals come together and, again, get their priorities straight and can come to a rational consensus about the current situation of competitive gaming -- which is, let's face it, pretty dire in the grand scheme of things.

At the end of the day, we can do all of the bickering in the world but it's not doing us any favors. Let's shut up and do SOMETHING.

A Much-Belated Update....

As promised, here's the long-awaited unboxing of what could prove to be one of the biggest boxed sets of the year -- and it comes to us from none other than Chicago's very own purveyor of the woefully obscure, the fantastic (if not cocksure) archival label Numero Group! Due to an unforeseeable delay, the release was pushed back about roughly a week (and it took nearly two after having been shipped off to get into our hands here at Inlands), but luckily, the packaging is impeccable and the music contained within is equally appealing, if not slightly offbeat and packing a bit of sixties kitsch to boot. Seeing as we just received our copy this afternoon, a review will not be posted for at the very least a week, but keep your eyes on this page for when it's published.

Until then, feast your eyes on what could prove to be the biggest feat in Numero history up until this point.

East of Underground: Hell Below Boxed Set/Re-Issue Unboxing and Review

It's been several weeks since my last post, and thankfully "Odd Ryan" has been keeping things afloat with his recent posting of the excellent poem "Hollow Men" by acclaimed author T.S. Eliot -- I'm in your debt, friend -- but now it's time to get back into the business of regularly updating the weblog. As often it does, life has a tendency to get in the way of what we truly wish to be doing, and a great deal has occurred offline since my last true update ("The Rise of the Social Behemoths"). From familial issues to simple procrastination, I vow never to fall in such a slump again. If I do, slap me. Send a horse's head to my doorstep. Anything!

Today's unboxing (and I hope to post more in the future, including Numero Group's highly-anticipated Boddie box due in a week or two's time) focuses on the fairly recent Now/Again re-issue of the cult "East of Underground" LP originally released by the United States Army as a means of boosting morale and garnering the support of troops, their families, and new/potential recruits in the midst of the Vietnam conflict. The result of several Army musical talent showcases held in Europe for those stationed there throughout the years 1971-72, "East of Underground: Hell Below" features albums by the winners of 1971's (the eponymously titled "East of Underground" and "Soap") and 1972's ("The Black Seeds" and "The Sound Trek") showcases, respectively. The latter three (Soap, Black Seeds and Sound Trek) have never seen release on any other form of media, until now.

All three discs/four LPs are chock full of mainly amateurish, plodding, and barely-managed covers of popular tunes of the era. The most musically proficient of the groups also seems to have the best production on their LP....it's no surprise that "East of Underground" is as renowned in some circles as it is. This was a talented group of young men, especially apparent on their fast-paced, paranoia-inducing cover of the Mayfield classic "(Don't Worry) If There's A Hell Below, We're All Gonna Go". The harmonies throughout the record, while not always pitch-perfect, are sufficient and speak of a chemistry that could only be achieved by those who've had a great deal of experience in the business or who performed with one another for several years. What's impressive here is that the members of "East of Underground" played together for mere months and accomplished what many notable bands take years to do: borrowing from a vast array of influences, yet combining these to give rise to a sound and attitude all of their own. Other cuts of note are a moody take on "Smiling Faces Sometimes" and a great, harmonious take on another Mayfield composition, "People Get Ready (There's A Train A-Comin')".

The second album featured in the collection, "Soap", isn't nearly as impressive musically and frankly, the tracks range from mediocre to outright cringe-worthy. The featured vocalists aren't the least bit impressive, and the female singer sounds as though she'd be more comfortable wailing through "La Traviata" than cooing "I Don't Know How to Love Him", a portion of which is featured briefly on a track simply entitled "Medley". Caterwauling wives of soldiers aside, there are some decent attempts at composing something listenable, such as the surprisingly coherent and dare I say soulful rendition of Neil Young's "Southern Man", thankfully sung (though I apply this term loosely) by a male lead with a sense of seventies hip. Most of the other songs included on "Soap" don't bear mentioning, save for the odious "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" which is laughable in its sense of lyrical melodrama.

The final disc/LPs consist of the 1972 Sound Trek/Black Seeds split, which is a studio recording passed off as a live performance. Sounding more like a collective of friends sitting around and having themselves a jam session fueled by copious amounts of hash and wine, they're occasionally off-key, sloppy slices of psychedelic soul. The Black Seeds' iteration of "Go Outside In the Rain" is portrayed here as a hazy, melancholic ditty filtered through the lens of someone strung out on opiates, not regretting the loss of a love but instead jonesing for their next shot of liquid heaven, their bodies wracked with an intense longing, and that nothing short of death will keep them from their next score. Conversely, the Sound Trek's "Walking In the Rain (With the One I Love)" comes across as a far more buoyant affair, employing an orchestra and somehow managing to be more endearing (especially the banter between two bandmates midway through) as a whole than Love Unlimited's version of the same tune. All in all, these two acts are not nearly as musically intriguing, nor do they hold one's attention as firmly as the East of Underground's set, but they are miles beyond the tepid offering that is "Soap".

This boxed set serves not only as a snapshot of a tumultuous, yet musically fortuitous era that many would rather soon forget than to experience again, but of the determination of those dwelling amidst this hell to make something of it, despite the uncertainties of tomorrow, much less the next hour. Though many of those responsible for the music contained on these discs did not see battle directly, there's a sense of tentativeness and paranoia, as if each member were awaiting the next shoe to drop and to be drawn into the frontlines of a conflict that, to this day, remains an ever polarizing piece of our history as a nation. These records are the story of young men and women who stood for something, even if they didn't quite know at the time what that particular something was.

Music aside, these discs/LPs are packaged lovingly within slip cases reminiscent of and true to their original vinyl sleeves, complete with quality cardboard and even plastic inner sleeves for the compact disc version of the set. Housed in an equally sturdy box featuring the ominous cover of the "East of Underground" disc, it adds to the aura of uncertainty and discomfort the music contained therein presents to the listener. Just a terrific deal all around, and highly recommended if you can bear to part with the thirty dollars (at most retailers) that it's going to run you. Definitely worth the money, and more than worthy of more than an initial listen. This is, dear reader, American history -- commercialized in the finest way imaginable.

Unboxing:

The Rise of the Social Behemoths, or "The Propagation of Social Isolation": A Rant

By now practically everyone, including their Grandma Claire, has had some sort of experience with the internet-based behemoth of social networking. Try as we might, there's no escaping its vast and invasive reach into our daily lives, from the workplace to the movie theater to, ultimately, our very own living rooms. Over the past several years, the phenomenon has shown us so much about our virtues as a collective species (from social drives to cure cancer, end homelessness and starvation and recovering missing individuals), and revealed the worst examples of social barbarism imaginable (incessant social "trolling"/baiting, group suicides, "cyber stalking", etc.). One major issue to arise, too, is the isolation of families the world over. Where there was once direct interaction between family members, there is now a rift created by the convenience of logging into our cyber worlds and disconnected from those around us. There is the irresistible opportunity to craft a persona that is what we wish and long to be, but is far from the individual behind the facade.

There's an enabling of the ego, a pandering to self not seen since the perversely decadent era of Nero thousands upon thousands of years ago. A bizarre need to gain acceptance through the most outrageous of behavior, on an epic stage the size of which no man has known before. Sure, there are benefits to these services, chiefly the ability to remain in contact with those who passed out of our lives years prior without so much as a hint as to their whereabouts; organization of (predominantly positive) social/familial functions at the click of a mouse; conversations with old school chums that we've lost touch with due to uncontrollable circumstances in one's life, etc. However, the negatives far outweigh the positives, and if these issues aren't addressed sooner as opposed to later, this entire "social renaissance" could very well blow up in our faces. I'm not above its detrimental influences, so by no means am I trying to put a damper on those addicted or reliant upon these services. Conversely, I'm trying to be a voice of reason.

With the increasing dependence upon social networks, we've also begun to see an inundation of choices: over-saturation and overexposure are never a good thing. They can, in many regards, prove detrimental. The disconnection from ourselves and those around us can be hastened by the constant influx of information, no matter how trivial or inconsequential it may prove. One way to create a social zombie is to overload them with all things social, all things extraneous. Games, music, celebrity gossip. Constantly bombard them with things that interest their "lower selves" and deprive them of that which enriches and empowers them builds the ultimate slave, eternally indentured to their desires. They will give their all to be entertained, forsake their freedoms for the pursuit of instant gratification. This is one of countless reasons that we should, at the very least, allow for a sabbatical from these institutions -- so that we can reacquaint ourselves with our essence, reacquaint ourselves with our humanity.

I had a huge aversion to social networking, particularly during its embryonic period. With the advent of sites such as Myspace.com, StumbleUpon and LinkedIn, I initially perceived them as though they were a strange, twenty-first century take on ego pandering. I'd often jokingly refer to it as "e-Pandering", to the dismay of my contemporaries. I recognized them as a tool for manipulators to further manipulate their prey, and also as a means for those in power to acquire information on those who frequented them on a regular basis. I felt justified in my skepticism, and rightfully so when account after account on Myspace was compromised, either by amateur hackers looking for a laugh or sophisticated scam artists looking for a quick buck. Eventually, over the course of the next four or five years, I noticed that these services were beginning to proliferate into every facet of our existence. From monitoring our travels to how we spent our leisurely time, there was a website or mobile application for socializing and connecting individuals in those situations. It was nightmarish, because I knew that eventually I'd be made to visit and join one of these social media conglomerates. It was just a matter of time.

Fast forward to two thousand and eight. Twitter is gaining steam as one of the hottest social media sites around, and most everyone I knew had created an account on the burgeoning network. My mother, being the avid portable gamer that she is, was even railroaded into creating an account to measure her progress in one particular title. I figured this to be a ludicrous breach of privacy, and I begged and pleaded with her to delete her account, to no avail. She was heavily into the game, and she'd hear nothing of it. She was acclimated to the age of the social network and didn't mind one iota that her gaming information was being sent, by the millisecond, to some data center thousands of miles away, accumulating information on her every virtual step. Then, irony struck. I'd been bitten by the bug. I had betrayed my beliefs, my convictions. I joined the "social revolution". One of my friends, whom I hadn't spoken to in quite a while, sent me an e-mail inquiring as to why I hadn't joined Facebook or Twitter in order to keep up with them. Although I didn't directly allude to my apprehension in providing these services with my personal information, I did oblige them and say that I'd "consider it", and we ended the conversation amicably.

Facebook, even in its infancy, had become infamous for its various maverick policies regarding user privacy, so it was out of the question. Twitter, on the other hand, looked appealing. A "microblogging service for the avid social networker" was how it was being proposed to the masses, and as a weblogger it looked relatively promising. I decided to give it the old college try and found myself liking the simplicity and ease of what I figured to be yet another site that would fold within six, seven months' time. I soon discovered, however, that I was becoming a self-absorbed, blathering idiot who was further isolating myself from the "real" world by posting about my every qualm with life, from my inability to cook the perfect souffle to how my mother and I had gotten into the argument to end all arguments. Personal information that shouldn't be revealed or known to anyone but to the parties involved. Dark broodings that are better kept to oneself. I found myself disconnecting, telling the story of someone that I quickly found unrecognizable. Narcissistic. Brash, without care as to how I was seen by those outside of my inner-circle. I began losing followers because of my emotionally-driven ramblings, some that I grew to know as good friends. I allowed my highly immature, constant need for attention ruin the "fun" of the experience. I, ultimately, permitted the wolves to slaughter the sheep.

It's this schizophrenic dichotomy that gave rise to this editorial, or more appropriately, this tangent. Though social networks are a sign of the times, and given our mile-a-second world, a necessity in some ways, they're also a catalyst for many new ills within our society. Within this sickness, the further isolation of our humanity comes into being. We're losing ourselves within the digital machine, facsimiles of ourselves without face or without origin. A number, a screen name. A voiceless voice. By promoting one of the very things that makes us human, we are destroying and disrespecting our humanity by perverting it into a faux approximation steeped in self. A contrivance that feeds off of our fallacies instead of admonishing them. I still have a Twitter account and I still reveal far too much about myself. I take more caution as to what I reveal, but I think that if we're going to progress as a people -- as a society -- we're going to have to leave our communicative devices and laptops by the wayside, if only for a moment, and begin that long, arduous journey towards reconnecting with one another.

Photographic Interlude

Though I can hardly afford the requisite equipment, one of my countless hobbies is photography. Seemingly everywhere I venture -- which, admittedly, isn't very far these days -- I'm compelled to take a snapshot as a sort of documentation of my travails. I've not had the chance to shoot anything remotely worthy of "professional grade", but these "Hipstashots" are current, personal favorites of mine.

I now gratefully share them with you, cherished reader.

The Dreaded "Writer's Block"

Hold the presses! The weblog isn't dead. Yes, I know that I've not been posting as often as I did over the past three or four weeks, but I've hit a roadblock insofar as what to write about. Nothing fancy here, folks. I'm out of ideas. I was planning on posting a psychological/philosophical overview of Paul Schrader/Martin Scorcese's acclaimed cinematic masterpiece "Taxi Driver", but got sidetracked along the way. I'll still be posting this eventually, but it's taking far longer than expected due to the film being so difficult to pin down; it's a multi-dimensional beast that's going to take more than three or four cursory paragraphs to do justice.

The next post will more than likely be the third edition of my bi-weekly "Sketches In Sound" series, with the "Taxi Driver" article following suit, though that may be within a week or two week's time -- it's day-to-day, so it's uncertain as of the immediate moment. Know it's coming, and know that I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. There's much to write about yet, but until I can latch on to something that holds my interest and that I have a passion for, I'll be taking a hiatus. Until then, friends.

Mario, "Inlands of Inanity"