I question my sanity sometimes, I really do. A couple of days ago, I stumped up eight quid to buy Dragon Age II: Legacy, an "add-on" to the PS3 title that I reviewed some time ago. Previously, I'd also chucked a fiver the way of Bioware to get The Exiled Prince extra content.
A quick word on Dragon Age II: since I first played it (I'm on my second run through now), I've played the original Dragon Age: Origins and in my mind, the original had a much stronger story and character development. Perhaps having a more clearly defined "big bad" (or bads) from the start helped. The ending of the second game felt a bit tacked on, as if the writers had written themselves into a corner and desperately need an exit plan for the storyline.
To start with The Exiled Prince, I was somewhat annoyed with this one, as it turned out that the Prince in question, Sebastian, is actually pretty fucking vital to the plot development at a crucial point. On my original play, without Seb, the point in question passed with a curious sense of something missing. Now I know what it was. Bit of a rip-off there, lads and lasses.
Not that this is anything new, even to this century. Going back to the early 1990s, I can remember Origin bringing out "Expansion Packs" for their Wing Commander and Strike Commander games. I was lucky enough to find the versions that bunged in all the content into one handy package (as I did with Dragon Age: Origins), but it's become an increasingly common practise in recent years, especially in the RPG genre. Fallout 3 and Fallout: New Vegas are the biggest culprits, but I noted that L.A. Noir has been doing the same, which is more disappointing given the brevity of the original game.
The latter point was pretty much what put me off handing over thirty of my hard-earned (alright, not that hard) pounds: 15 hours of gameplay? Fuck right off. I'll wait till they bring out the "Ultimate Edition" in a year or so.
I fully understand why this happens - developers are playing on our emotional attachments to characters in games we love and are giving us more of them. But I, for one, would much rather they spent the time making a proper full-on sequel: I wouldn't be surprised to see one or two more Dragon Age II packs in the future, when what I really want is a Dragon Age III.
Is the price worth it? Probably not. So why did I pay? Simple - because I'm a complete fucking idiot, and that's why they'll keep getting away it.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Should It Have Been Pelican Vest...?
... preceding Monty Burns with his gorilla vest that he was so keen on us seeing?
In a further example of "Pulling My Thumb Out" syndrome, I've written a piece for Noripcord.com paying tribute to an album I think rarely gets the props it deserves. Have a mooch.
http://www.noripcord.com/features/perfect-pop-3-haircut-one-hundred-pelican-west
In a further example of "Pulling My Thumb Out" syndrome, I've written a piece for Noripcord.com paying tribute to an album I think rarely gets the props it deserves. Have a mooch.
http://www.noripcord.com/features/perfect-pop-3-haircut-one-hundred-pelican-west
Monday, 15 August 2011
A Question of Time and Place
Context is everything. What can sound dangerous and subversive in one lifetime comes across as anything but in another. For instance: can you imagine a song like Relax causing as much fuss today? It’s about gay sex? Oh, that’s nice, dear, pass the corn flakes.
What got me thinking of this was writing a couple of short articles for a No Ripcord playlist on favourite cover versions. My selections included Al Green’s take on the Beatles’ I Want To Hold Your Hand. As a 16 year old, I’d dutifully picked up the 1962-1966 and 1967-1970 double albums, finding myself unimpressed with the early stuff up until Ticket To Ride. It all sounded so twee and nursery rhyme. But to someone like my Uncle (16 in 1963), it probably sounded like the beginning of everything, the same way Relax may well have done (sonically as well as in any lyrical meaning it may have had) in 1984.
(Of course, years on when I heard the Please Please Me and With The Beatles albums and their versions of Twist and Shout and Money, I realised they did have keep some of the bollocks they’d grown in Hamburg after all.)
Going back to whatever the point I was trying to raise – context. Music being old doesn’t always dilute impact. It depends where you’re coming from, and when I first carefully placed Joy Division’s Closer on my folks’ record player in the summer of 1997, I’d never heard anything like the screech of Atrocity Exhibition. Then unaware of Ballard, I thought the title brought up images of someone going mad with a chainsaw in an abattoir, which is what it sounded like, in the best possible way.
I’ve spent a lot of the subsequent 14 years chasing that feeling again. I envied the people who must have had their socks blown by the Sex Pistols in 1976 – after all, Never Mind The Bollocks just sounded like a very well produced rock album to these ears. Yet it and Joy Division were only separated by a couple of years, but sounded light years apart. It wasn't until he got Public Image Ltd together and made Metal Box that Lydon really dabbled with the extreme.
There have been times I’ve caught up with my own ambitions. My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless sounded like the sexiest thing in the world, far, far beyond the groin thrusting machismo of more mainstream rock. Slowdive managed similar feats, principally on their astounding She Calls. On another level, I remember being insanely jealous when I first heart the Chameleons and realising somebody else had done that kind of music before I could.
As I clock on into my 30s, I worry I’m reverting to type as a grumpy old git. When I’m played music by new bands, I’m prone to saying "sounds like". Maybe it’s a genetic predisposition to stop being excited by things, so that we do the sensible thing – settle down and have kids. But when the idea of that gives you a cold sweat, what’s there left to do but keep looking?
What got me thinking of this was writing a couple of short articles for a No Ripcord playlist on favourite cover versions. My selections included Al Green’s take on the Beatles’ I Want To Hold Your Hand. As a 16 year old, I’d dutifully picked up the 1962-1966 and 1967-1970 double albums, finding myself unimpressed with the early stuff up until Ticket To Ride. It all sounded so twee and nursery rhyme. But to someone like my Uncle (16 in 1963), it probably sounded like the beginning of everything, the same way Relax may well have done (sonically as well as in any lyrical meaning it may have had) in 1984.
(Of course, years on when I heard the Please Please Me and With The Beatles albums and their versions of Twist and Shout and Money, I realised they did have keep some of the bollocks they’d grown in Hamburg after all.)
Going back to whatever the point I was trying to raise – context. Music being old doesn’t always dilute impact. It depends where you’re coming from, and when I first carefully placed Joy Division’s Closer on my folks’ record player in the summer of 1997, I’d never heard anything like the screech of Atrocity Exhibition. Then unaware of Ballard, I thought the title brought up images of someone going mad with a chainsaw in an abattoir, which is what it sounded like, in the best possible way.
I’ve spent a lot of the subsequent 14 years chasing that feeling again. I envied the people who must have had their socks blown by the Sex Pistols in 1976 – after all, Never Mind The Bollocks just sounded like a very well produced rock album to these ears. Yet it and Joy Division were only separated by a couple of years, but sounded light years apart. It wasn't until he got Public Image Ltd together and made Metal Box that Lydon really dabbled with the extreme.
There have been times I’ve caught up with my own ambitions. My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless sounded like the sexiest thing in the world, far, far beyond the groin thrusting machismo of more mainstream rock. Slowdive managed similar feats, principally on their astounding She Calls. On another level, I remember being insanely jealous when I first heart the Chameleons and realising somebody else had done that kind of music before I could.
As I clock on into my 30s, I worry I’m reverting to type as a grumpy old git. When I’m played music by new bands, I’m prone to saying "sounds like
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Never Been In A Riot
I admit it: I couldn’t help but gawp at BBC 24 and Sky News last night at the constant coverage of the apparent riots in Manchester city centre, just a few miles from where I was sat. I’m nowhere near qualified, wise or sussed to comment on the reasons why all this is happening. But what I can write about is how it was covered.
The summer months aren’t called “Silly Season” for nothing: generally, bugger all of any news value happens, which is why the sports pages are covered with stories claiming a “source” has stated Lionel Messi will sign for Man City, as the guy who cleans the bogs at the stadium thought he heard the manager say something, when what he actually said was “sure is messy in here”. (This may not have happened)
So when we get events like those in London, Manchester and the West Midlands, the bored staff at the rolling news stations fill their boots. Platforms were given to any would-be-frontline-reporter with the right phone number. One guy claimed there were 2000 rioters in Manchester. A few them may have been born in the year 2000, but all the cameras could show was a group maybe 200 strong running away from the police until they had a few minutes to smash a window in.
Living in the age of instant digitial information, the footage also showed the voyeurs stood watching, cameras at the ready to quickly upload to the net, to be then replayed on the news stations. Hey, I include myself as part of this, slumped in my sofa when I really should have been trying to polish off Dragon Age: Origins.
Naturally, the media also loves to feed and gorge on the extreme reactions such events bring out. Some Tory MEP demands looters should be shot on sight. That fills up a good 30 minutes or a page of a newspaper. Bring in water cannons, bring in the army, what is to be done, etc etc etc. Mind, it’s amusing to see politicians slating people for taking something for nothing so soon after the expenses scandal and let’s not get started on bankers who needed a taxpayers bailout awarding themselves nice bonuses anyways. With the latter, I suppose they do it because they can. Just like the looters, then.
But the angle that never seems to be brought up is that all this is nothing new. We can all point to the apparent breakdown in morals. The far-right will blame it on various ethnic groups or the “failures of multiculturalism ”. But let’s not forget much worse happened in and around football grounds in the 1970s and 80s. Certain teams had fans that were known for their sharp style of dress, helped by the fact they looted hip stores on their trips to Europe. You also don’t have to search far to find stories of looting after cities were bombed in the Second World War, but perhaps that doesn’t fit in the accepted narrative of the “Blitz Sprit”.
For now, I have my own fears about the reaction to these events. Rumours of gangs of “vigilantes” gathering to confront looters may seem positive at first, but can soon turn nasty when the wrong people are thought ‘guilty’. The next few days and weeks could show just how interesting the times we live in will be.
The summer months aren’t called “Silly Season” for nothing: generally, bugger all of any news value happens, which is why the sports pages are covered with stories claiming a “source” has stated Lionel Messi will sign for Man City, as the guy who cleans the bogs at the stadium thought he heard the manager say something, when what he actually said was “sure is messy in here”. (This may not have happened)
So when we get events like those in London, Manchester and the West Midlands, the bored staff at the rolling news stations fill their boots. Platforms were given to any would-be-frontline-reporter with the right phone number. One guy claimed there were 2000 rioters in Manchester. A few them may have been born in the year 2000, but all the cameras could show was a group maybe 200 strong running away from the police until they had a few minutes to smash a window in.
Living in the age of instant digitial information, the footage also showed the voyeurs stood watching, cameras at the ready to quickly upload to the net, to be then replayed on the news stations. Hey, I include myself as part of this, slumped in my sofa when I really should have been trying to polish off Dragon Age: Origins.
Naturally, the media also loves to feed and gorge on the extreme reactions such events bring out. Some Tory MEP demands looters should be shot on sight. That fills up a good 30 minutes or a page of a newspaper. Bring in water cannons, bring in the army, what is to be done, etc etc etc. Mind, it’s amusing to see politicians slating people for taking something for nothing so soon after the expenses scandal and let’s not get started on bankers who needed a taxpayers bailout awarding themselves nice bonuses anyways. With the latter, I suppose they do it because they can. Just like the looters, then.
But the angle that never seems to be brought up is that all this is nothing new. We can all point to the apparent breakdown in morals. The far-right will blame it on various ethnic groups or the “failures of multiculturalism ”. But let’s not forget much worse happened in and around football grounds in the 1970s and 80s. Certain teams had fans that were known for their sharp style of dress, helped by the fact they looted hip stores on their trips to Europe. You also don’t have to search far to find stories of looting after cities were bombed in the Second World War, but perhaps that doesn’t fit in the accepted narrative of the “Blitz Sprit”.
For now, I have my own fears about the reaction to these events. Rumours of gangs of “vigilantes” gathering to confront looters may seem positive at first, but can soon turn nasty when the wrong people are thought ‘guilty’. The next few days and weeks could show just how interesting the times we live in will be.
Monday, 8 August 2011
City Life
Being a small-town boy, it never fails to amuse and/or amaze me the variety of life you get on the streets of a city on a Saturday. As a kid, I was just used to nothing else but a drunk trying to scrounge 20p off you.
Manchester is no exception. Wandering around in a desperate (and so far failed) attempt to find suitable attire for a wedding in a few weeks, I saw all manner of sorts desperate to gain my attention for whatever end they desired.
I'm sure it's the same across the country and probably Europe too. There's always the religious nutters, for starters. Market Street in Manchester has a couple to choose from. First, there was a couple of fellows taking turns standing on a chair and ranting at all and sundry. To give them their dues, they seemed to have garnered the attention of quite a crowd, though how many were there from amusement rather than hanging on every word as if they came from Jesus himself is up for debate.
Up the road there was another, though he'd taken the trouble to put up a stand of some sorts informing us that the bible is the word of the lord. I managed to resist the temptation to go and tell him that Alex Ferguson hasn't got that honour yet, and in any case, he uses the match day programme to spread his good word.
It's not all folk telling me I'm set to burn in the pit for all eternity, though. Outside HMV there was some young lassie belting out what I imagine are the top pop hits of today. You get a few of these sorts trying their best since whoever that breakdancing kid who started out on the same patch did well on TV. However, it seemed her setlist was a bit on the limited side, as passing by over a couple of hours seemed to show her repeating the same three or four songs.
Elsewhere, we had a very earnest looking duo of lads (one singing, one bashing out chords on his acoustic) trying their hardest to emote how depressed they are. Or something. Plus there's the obligatory "living statue" trick, though this one was at least polite enough to offer lollipops to those who threw him some small change.
It's all part of the character of a city - and much as I find most of these acts/preachers/lunatics a bit trying, I wouldn't want them out of Manchester. Just a shame that guy with the out-of-tune guitar who stood outside Boots is long gone. I miss his weird interpretations of glam rock.
Manchester is no exception. Wandering around in a desperate (and so far failed) attempt to find suitable attire for a wedding in a few weeks, I saw all manner of sorts desperate to gain my attention for whatever end they desired.
I'm sure it's the same across the country and probably Europe too. There's always the religious nutters, for starters. Market Street in Manchester has a couple to choose from. First, there was a couple of fellows taking turns standing on a chair and ranting at all and sundry. To give them their dues, they seemed to have garnered the attention of quite a crowd, though how many were there from amusement rather than hanging on every word as if they came from Jesus himself is up for debate.
Up the road there was another, though he'd taken the trouble to put up a stand of some sorts informing us that the bible is the word of the lord. I managed to resist the temptation to go and tell him that Alex Ferguson hasn't got that honour yet, and in any case, he uses the match day programme to spread his good word.
It's not all folk telling me I'm set to burn in the pit for all eternity, though. Outside HMV there was some young lassie belting out what I imagine are the top pop hits of today. You get a few of these sorts trying their best since whoever that breakdancing kid who started out on the same patch did well on TV. However, it seemed her setlist was a bit on the limited side, as passing by over a couple of hours seemed to show her repeating the same three or four songs.
Elsewhere, we had a very earnest looking duo of lads (one singing, one bashing out chords on his acoustic) trying their hardest to emote how depressed they are. Or something. Plus there's the obligatory "living statue" trick, though this one was at least polite enough to offer lollipops to those who threw him some small change.
It's all part of the character of a city - and much as I find most of these acts/preachers/lunatics a bit trying, I wouldn't want them out of Manchester. Just a shame that guy with the out-of-tune guitar who stood outside Boots is long gone. I miss his weird interpretations of glam rock.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
Revolution In The Head
Fan of comic books that I am, one of the most amusing little items I've found in recent years was a re-imagining of Tintin called Breaking Free.
As a pastiche goes, it's incredibly faithful to the original artwork, which makes it all the more odd when we see Tintin not as a idealistic young journalist but as an unemployed young thug who likes nothing better than smashing up the staff at a wine bar when they ask him to leave. Captain Haddock (referred to as "The Captain", even by his wife, strangely enough) is a committed family man rather than chronic alcoholic seadog. No sign of Snowy though, sadly.
Set in 80s Britain, it sees our intrepid duo secure work on a building site. However, when a lack of good old Health and Safety sees a tragic accident, so begins an unlikely series of events that see the tufty haired one emerge as a potential leader of the revolution.
Believe me when I say I'm not making this up - you can read the whole thing for yourselves here: http://tintinrevolution.free.fr/pages/image001.html
It's amusing stuff for the main part, once you put aside that it was probably written by some young Herbert with an 'A' level in Sociology and a few too many copies of Socialist Worker in their paper rack. It kind of reminds me of why the Left hasn't been taken too seriously in this country for a while and we ended up with Tony Blair: always that element honking on about revolution, Marx, Trotsky etc etc while failing to see that the goalposts haven't just moved since old Karl was around, they've been dug up and put in a different stadium.
Yet I digress - take a look and prepare to chuckle at the sight of Tintin looting a branch of Tescos.
As a pastiche goes, it's incredibly faithful to the original artwork, which makes it all the more odd when we see Tintin not as a idealistic young journalist but as an unemployed young thug who likes nothing better than smashing up the staff at a wine bar when they ask him to leave. Captain Haddock (referred to as "The Captain", even by his wife, strangely enough) is a committed family man rather than chronic alcoholic seadog. No sign of Snowy though, sadly.
Set in 80s Britain, it sees our intrepid duo secure work on a building site. However, when a lack of good old Health and Safety sees a tragic accident, so begins an unlikely series of events that see the tufty haired one emerge as a potential leader of the revolution.
Believe me when I say I'm not making this up - you can read the whole thing for yourselves here: http://tintinrevolution.free.fr/pages/image001.html
It's amusing stuff for the main part, once you put aside that it was probably written by some young Herbert with an 'A' level in Sociology and a few too many copies of Socialist Worker in their paper rack. It kind of reminds me of why the Left hasn't been taken too seriously in this country for a while and we ended up with Tony Blair: always that element honking on about revolution, Marx, Trotsky etc etc while failing to see that the goalposts haven't just moved since old Karl was around, they've been dug up and put in a different stadium.
Yet I digress - take a look and prepare to chuckle at the sight of Tintin looting a branch of Tescos.
Monday, 1 August 2011
Streets of My Town
If anything makes you feel your age, it's showing somebody around your hometown when they're a stranger to it. You can't help but say things like "that used to be the shop where my granddad bought his shirts" where there's now a poundshop.
Though in mitigation, my own birthplace does seem to have changed beyond recognition in the 25 or so years of my living memory. In a positive light, the harbour now looks fab, thanks to a healthy injection of cash. The huge grey concrete silos knocked up as part of a big chemical plant that loomed above the town are gone, as are the rusty old cranes, replaced by a shiny marina and town museum. The town centre itself has always benefited from some work - the horrific brown brick motif street furniture of my youth has long gone, somewhat mercifully. To anyone visiting, it must look very picturesque and on a sunny day (rare as they are in West Cumbria), it can warm my twisted old heart to know I'm from there.
As with anything, though, scratch below the veneer and you get the fuller picture. Driving around, I realised I was saying a lot of things like "there used to be a textile factory there". The chemical works that used the aforementioned silos have also gone, along with the few thousand jobs it provided. The story is the same up the road in Workington, with the decline and closure of a steel works that provided high quality rail tracks around the world.
If my cynical nature
concerning politics comes from anywhere, it's from growing up where I did. Though deep in the heart of 18 years of Tory rule, it was clear that the decline had begun long before and that Labour hadn't given a toss in their years of rule either. Who blamed them? We were a provincial backwater of a town in another provincial backwater of a county. Labour had a safeseat anyways, so why bother doing work to win votes that were already won?
I always considered that my childhood ended at the age of 11, when I entered the big, bad world of secondary school after the relative innocence of the primary years. From there, it's a big gap of pretty much nothingness until I was 16 or so and the finishing line (being 18, leaving home) was in sight. In between was just finding ways of killing boredom, be it endless sessions on Championship Manager or forming my first band. It seemed a better option that standing at the bus shelter, drinking piss-weak cider and trying to look a bit menacing to younger kids.
At that time, I probably hated my hometown. It just meant boredom and a bunch of people I perceived to be small-minded. It meant having to take a 70 minute train ride to get anywhere with a record store.
(I'm aware there's people in, say, North America, Australia or Russia who may live a days travel from anywhere even vaguely interesting who would scoff at that last paragraph, but I'm talking from the context of a 16 year old desperate for some kind of stimulation beyond the top 40 records played in the crappy local nightclub. That's closed down now, too, which made me feel old in a good way, to quote Julian Cope.)
Since leaving, I feel protective towards it - sure, I'll make jokes that Cumbria is where "men are men, and sheep are afraid", but I'll not take any lip off any Southern jessie who tries taking the piss.
Though in mitigation, my own birthplace does seem to have changed beyond recognition in the 25 or so years of my living memory. In a positive light, the harbour now looks fab, thanks to a healthy injection of cash. The huge grey concrete silos knocked up as part of a big chemical plant that loomed above the town are gone, as are the rusty old cranes, replaced by a shiny marina and town museum. The town centre itself has always benefited from some work - the horrific brown brick motif street furniture of my youth has long gone, somewhat mercifully. To anyone visiting, it must look very picturesque and on a sunny day (rare as they are in West Cumbria), it can warm my twisted old heart to know I'm from there.
As with anything, though, scratch below the veneer and you get the fuller picture. Driving around, I realised I was saying a lot of things like "there used to be a textile factory there". The chemical works that used the aforementioned silos have also gone, along with the few thousand jobs it provided. The story is the same up the road in Workington, with the decline and closure of a steel works that provided high quality rail tracks around the world.
If my cynical nature
concerning politics comes from anywhere, it's from growing up where I did. Though deep in the heart of 18 years of Tory rule, it was clear that the decline had begun long before and that Labour hadn't given a toss in their years of rule either. Who blamed them? We were a provincial backwater of a town in another provincial backwater of a county. Labour had a safeseat anyways, so why bother doing work to win votes that were already won?I always considered that my childhood ended at the age of 11, when I entered the big, bad world of secondary school after the relative innocence of the primary years. From there, it's a big gap of pretty much nothingness until I was 16 or so and the finishing line (being 18, leaving home) was in sight. In between was just finding ways of killing boredom, be it endless sessions on Championship Manager or forming my first band. It seemed a better option that standing at the bus shelter, drinking piss-weak cider and trying to look a bit menacing to younger kids.
At that time, I probably hated my hometown. It just meant boredom and a bunch of people I perceived to be small-minded. It meant having to take a 70 minute train ride to get anywhere with a record store.
(I'm aware there's people in, say, North America, Australia or Russia who may live a days travel from anywhere even vaguely interesting who would scoff at that last paragraph, but I'm talking from the context of a 16 year old desperate for some kind of stimulation beyond the top 40 records played in the crappy local nightclub. That's closed down now, too, which made me feel old in a good way, to quote Julian Cope.)
Since leaving, I feel protective towards it - sure, I'll make jokes that Cumbria is where "men are men, and sheep are afraid", but I'll not take any lip off any Southern jessie who tries taking the piss.
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