That Sixties Game
Back at the beginning of February, Narcolas fired a beast-sized shell across my bow, proclaiming a declaration of noise on Brixton Academy courtesy of post-hardcore cats, ATDI. In the event that you are not familiar, that’s actually not a variety of disorder. It is absolutely a band and they are absolutely, wonderfully deafening. They are also entertaining, as entertainers are wont to be.
I would not describe either myself or Her Most Imperial Darkness as informed aficionados. I mean, I like loud noise and I skimmed over a bunch of stuff both old and new in preparation for submersion but would by no means consider myself an ‘all time number one fan’. As it turns out, neither is St Nic. He just glanced at the assorted music sheets for the first quarter of this year and saw a dearth of high intensity experiences. As such, he leapt on the promise of The Drive In and was quite right to do so. They were teeth-shakingly good, wryly lapsed political and master of ceremonies, Cedric Bixler moves much like a young Morrison, wreathed in smoke and dancing with shadows. It’s energetic stuff.
Unfortunately, Bassface found himself quite altered come gig time, able only to mutter increasingly weak entreaties to whatever ancient gods he keeps a shrine to via the porcelain telephone. I did try to explain that the whole affair had been his idea but could discern only what was either a plea for never-ending sleep or the unearthly sound of a hippogriff giving birth to a garage.
It was, so they say, the best of times. It was also the worst of times. Shakespearean even. The very royal ‘We’ were bombing the ever-loving daylight out of whomever we pleased. Much in the way we are now. Somehow, we look back on it and say it was different. It was a new kind of sexy. I feel radically under-equipped to deal with that extremely broad and yet particular blindspot. The sixties were a time with such a peculiar grasp on the unreal draft of an end, a middle and whatever might have even resembled a beginning.
That makes it all that more difficult to talk about or even phrase in retrospect; how does anyone parse the past when it was so keenly aware of its present? I can barely conjure the prestige for pasta in a pot most evenings. There are some very familiar faces in here and Avedon was a wonderful photographer. There are also some less obvious interviews and the whole thing is captivating, at times devastating and always informative in a unique way that cannot fail to impress.
Pat picked up Tak very quickly and I couldn’t be more pleased, proud or happy for my friend. Mostly, I just want more games to assimilate into my matrix. At some point, I expect my game to become self aware and I may actually understand some of what we’re doing with these stacks. The urges are not helped by the all too tempting existence of these stupidly exquisite metal peices.
We played a few games yesterday after I’d been for lunch and he was complete in his seizing of the situation, beating me quickly and easily on two occasions before I could formulate a half decent plan. Our third game was slower and more insidious, with a series of win condition attacks that culminated in his merciless execution. As I said last time though, that’s all kind of besides the point and that is what makes it beautiful.
JD - TACOCAT