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Tastes, that inevitable human condition that condemns the species to an evolution not always necessary and often deleterious, which more than anything else highlights the concept of mutability of (and in) time.
At five years old, I liked Ken Shiro. The first broadcast, the one that after the kicks with Raul ended the story. In Italy. I never knew how the story actually was nor how it ended back then. Because Raul, with his trident and his exaggerated ruthlessness, for me, a little one, personified more than pure evil, pure Fear.
Today, Ken Shiro disgusts me quite a bit, I like being scared in front of the screen now. A lot.
Tastes change, a lot, significantly. And objectivity which, let this statement become the emblem of the human race: does not exist.
There are those who, just before throwing the cobblestones amidst smoke bombs and anarchists suicided by others, were playing the Beatles on the stereo. Today, after many moons and eclipses, he threw away his vinyl records, but as soon as he gets in the car, he connects the Bluetooth to his cell phone and plays Texman.
Sometimes, one thinks of objective beauty, and ends up believing in it.
I believe it too, the Beatles are not my generation, my generation is in 4/3 in color. A damned instrument, it was said to be harmful. They changed it with 16/9; it seems it still causes problems.
That damned instrument was the heroin of my generation, what came out of that box subliminally tattooed itself onto the inner cortex of every peer of mine, and it conditioned him. We don't have soccer games in the streets at the base of our being: we have colors, little tunes, jingles, and a lot of garbage (we know it, you from before don't: you had the Beatles, we have conscience, quicumque suum).
Ink machines, needles, the first chips, processors, bits, cartridges, joysticks, ink on the brain, the needle piercing, win a life "bibibip" die badly "bururburup", the drawings moving like cartoons, but you move them, Sega, Nintendo, the Atari 2006 Olympics and dislocate the wrist 6 years before discovering masturbation.
The needle comes out and leaves a point. A set of points for a line, a mark. Indelible. "Biribirip buruburup".
We've been listening to 8-bit music since mom and dad decided that all things considered, even if we fought at the oratory for a game of dodgeball, if the teacher had confiscated 3 mini4wd during grammar hour, all things considered, if they had bought us the console, yes, maybe we would stop being a pain. Side note: by asking for the Nientendo I learned to take it, stand up and continue. Caracas, I'm coming!
Stop playing with it, or at least turn off that damn stupid music!
That music, that music was the needle of the machine, I can hum every single jingle of every game I owned, from Golden Axe to Castlevania. I don't remember how they're spelled, but I remember how the music went. Most of the time it was very brief stuff, and maybe that's why I remember it. But the sound, that "fake" yet tremendously real nature in its operation of synaptic condition and cerebral drilling, oh, a brainwashing in Vorkuta wouldn't be enough. Not even two would suffice: it's ink, ink doesn't wash away.
Twenty years later micromusic returned first, then 8-bit, chiptune followed, and who knows, now I don't even know what it’s called, they’re still the little tunes from 8/16 bit video games played with the same childish spirit. They were liked before, they are liked now. Maybe it’s an insult to all others to call it music, maybe the Beatles turn in their graves, but anyway even Claudio Villa was upset by the Beatles, and so who cares about the opinions of dead or dying rock stars, their opinion only matters if sung, for the rest, they're circus performers. Like the 8-bit or 16-bit chiptune that now for convenience I might call micromusic. Because I rediscovered it with this name, micromusic, ten years ago, maybe more. And I liked it, they blended it with ultra-minimal video art, wonderful. A tattoo to reapply. Ten years later, micromusic in my being continues to be the pea that makes those poor cockroaches sleeping on kilos and kilos of mattress stuffed with pounds uncomfortable.
And in a universe where objectivity could be an absolute value, they would be right.
But here, it’s the wild west, if you get shot it's 200 lire to come back to life, dragons shoot bubbles from their mouths and there’s a princess to save, but she’s in another castle.
Tastes change, times worsen, but two or three hinges on which to pivot our being remain fixed. One of mine is here and Astroskeleton last year with a collection of old pieces brought out to push a decent EP with two or three modern ideas alive 30 years away from us now. In the eight-bit past, where curves cannot exist and the circle squares by necessity.
Things that I can’t help but care about. Not whether I like it or not, it's genuine affection.
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