Before the transformation, I wasn't particularly computer-savvy. Not that I stumbled over basic operations, but I didn't have a clue about anything that required working beneath the manageable facade of the system software. Then, while thumbing through the New York Times' Book Review, I saw a piece about Inventing Software for Dummies in which Harold Bloom insisted the book would "make Gateses-- nay, Einsteins of us all." How could I resist? So, I bought it, read it, and was thereafter a brilliant man. But as I also remained a music critic, I insisted upon first inventing something that would take music to a new level.
Here's what I came up with: a program that creates images inspired by music. With an instantly accessible Internet database of trillions of images and videos, the program could be used by anyone, anywhere. What's more, you could play the same album as many times as you please, and the visuals would never be the same. Legitimate art on your very own desktop! And, if you think about it, I was the creator of all of it. I would be the most viewed artist of all time.
When I finished the program a few months ago I wanted to test it with something really out there, to witness its full potential. So, I put in Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica. Do I need to tell you what happened? The screen displayed a bubbling, vomitous mess of every color imaginable, each one appearing beside the least compatible color (brown against pink, and so on). It was the most beautiful rotten mess I'd ever seen. Then, the program crashed. After recently fixing it, I was still hesitant to run it, so I chose an album I thought wouldn't require as much range: Black Heart Procession's Three.
The opening track confirmed my suspicions. Responding to the simple, ominous beat that begins "We Always Knew," my computer screen flashed consecutive images of a lone soldier's stiff legs as he marched down a narrow stone corridor. The stroboscopic effect warped time, further slowing the soldier's progress. Once an equally deliberate bassline entered, the images turned into a fluid video, the camera panning back while other sounds unfolded-- drums, metallic scrapings, classical organ chords, falling piano bars, blasts of mechanized fuzz, and parabolic guitar pickings.
Just as the soldier's face was about to be exposed, Pall Jenkins' low voice began singing, "You want to know/ Where the truth is found/ We try to breathe/ But life was never found in you." The camera stopped broadening its scope until the vocals rose in pitch, peaking with "Did you come back from the fires?/ Did you come back from your quest?/ Was it all to see the blood was on our hands and say I guess I knew." At that point, the screen burst into a blinding, radiant whiteness that dissolved into black-and-white catscans of fidgety brains, melting as seen through tears.
For the next song, "Guess I'll Forget You," the program stuck with the idea of human organs. This time it focused on the heart, starting with pictures of oversized ones, descending to that of a premature baby, and ascending back again. It repeated this process with such rapidity as to mimic a beating heart, but a horribly grotesque one. Black swaths drifted across the screen, and occasionally, when a trumpet sounded, the program showed a bull goring a Spaniard. A bit overt, but wrenching nonetheless.
My computer fell asleep during "Once Said at the Fire," but quickly awoke to "Waterfront (The Sinking Road)," with its frightening whirs, guitar strokes like sonic axes, heavy drums, and vengeful piano. A silhouetted figure on the screen maneuvered large, slippery rocks. Heavy rain obscured detail-- even the time of day-- and eventually concealed the man. When the clouds receded, only footprints in the mud remained.
The entirety of "Till We Have to Say Goodbye" was accompanied simply by a very accurate sketch of Leonard Cohen that I could have sworn I'd seen earlier, perhaps buried beneath the ruins. Over the next three songs, the program returned to the visual themes of "Guess I'll Forget You," yet with enough variation to keep the experience fresh, as all heartbreakings are. And with "The War is Over," the program offered a continuous video of a sweeping bird's eye view of ravaged hillsides.
For the seven-minute closer, "On Ships of Gold"-- a thematic reprise of the opening track-- the screen returned to the lone soldier, marching to the familiar beat. As the song slowly built up, the camera pulled back and rotated to show the back of the man as he walked toward a legion of ships. His pace picked up, and he began running until he neared the shore, at which point it became clear that all the boats were sinking.
