Art Essay

Conversion to Digital

Whenever I discover something obscure that I think is good, a little obsessive voice inside of me pipes up saying breathlessly, “Yes, yes, this is amazing, the best thing ever! You must keep it a secret to the masses and show it only to your closest, coolest friends! Once they are exposed to it, they will undoubtedly recognize it as amazing and see you as you really are: a true cutting-edge visionary, a genius!” The little imp-voice is usually quite convincing at the time, playing off my desire to be seen as avant-garde. So I end up obeying its dark whispers. I bide my time until I get a friend of mine alone, all alone with nobody else around to interfere. And then I strike.

Forced exposure is really the right term for what I do. I am insecure exhibitionist opening their robe to unwilling eyes, emitting a vulnerable, naked cry: “This is me, world! Love me!” Usually, I will sit someone down in my car, in front of a stereo, or my television. I then make them listen to a piece of music, play a video game, or watch a movie. I spend the whole time while the entertainment is going on sneaking piercing, expectant glances at their face for the slightest sign of enjoyment, or commenting intensely, “did you notice this or that part?” It took me some years to realize that people do not generally enjoy this treatment, and it has not proved an effective way for me to make people like what I am trying to show them.


In the rare few cases someone actually enjoys the experience, I really don't know what to do with myself. So we both like this thing; now what? Does this bring us any closer? Do we discuss it together easily and naturally as friends do? Do I get any satisfaction at all from the sharing? No; my original pleasure in finding it – and finding it first – has by this time turned to possessiveness and jealousy. We cannot share the experience with each other, because I am putting up a psychic block. The song, game or movie cannot be “ours;” it must remain “mine.”


There's really no way around it; I can either enjoy it by myself and only by myself, or I must give it up to the other person so they have just as much claim to it as I do. Absurdly, I am not even the artist or designer, just a fan, but I must be the fan, the biggest fan. This takes a lot of energy, so I tend to only obsess over something for a short while, unless it's something I really, truly believe in.


And here's where my love for the band Underworld comes in. They were really the first band I discovered on my own; my friends, parents, and especially my older sister had almost completely guided my musical tastes until I was twenty or so. My sister, highly passionate about her music, bears partial responsibility for my forceful exposure tactics. She and I would be driving, and over the music she would loudly proclaim that this band (whatever one she was into at the time) is the best band in the world, being so kind as to explain why in exquisitely minute detail. Some of these car rides were rather long, so I guess it worked; later on I would download songs by whatever band my sister had me listen to. When I got my first real job, they became part of the growing library of mixes I listened to in my own car.


However, one afternoon I was clicking away on the computer in the family den. Illegally downloading large amounts of music was what young people did at the time, and I was no different. I listened to track after track of music, casting a wide net into the streams of data. I was looking for something new, but everything I sampled had the same unpolished, lackluster feel. Then, by some divine providence, I was struck by the humming bass of one song. The aforementioned bass and the guitar rhythmically and repeatedly played, with the subtle sound of a muted horn in the background. Like Radiohead, a popular band I was into at the time, the artists seemed to have a light touch which added to the texture of the music without overloading it. But the end of the song was the best part, suddenly dropping to a lone bass before crystallizing to the most perfectly exquisite blend of lyrics, piano, and techno sound effects with the guitar finishing last like an echoing ghost. I, of course, immediately knew I had found a treasure in this song, and the obsessive imp voice cackled with glee.


I next did some serious research on Underworld, the band. And by this, I mean that I typed their name into my Limewire software's search box and ripped dozens of their songs off the internet, none of which I paid a penny for. Listening to more tracks by them led me to a shocking discovery: Underworld was a British techno band. I didn't really go in for most techno, and my sister would be disgusted with me if she found out I was listening to it. But Underworld uses real instruments along with electronic ones. They've been around since the 80's, constantly pushing the envelope while keeping their original sound alive, never selling out or going pop. In fact, their greatest commercial success was the song Born Slippy (which I never really liked) from the Scottish indie movie Trainspotting.


Like other techno bands, the same lyrics are rhythmically repeated throughout the song (sort of like an instrument) to create a rich musical texture. But to my surprise, I discovered that Underworld actually sings their lyrics to the beat rather than using prerecorded samples. In short, these dudes had never sold out, and didn't take shortcuts.


I also noticed a commonality in the structure of their tracks: Underworld's lyrics are hints, never describing precisely what the point of a particular song is. It's not to say that their songs aren't about anything, because they most certainly are. Still, their lyrics without music would look ridiculous and out of place. Again, the wholeness of the music is essential to the effect that the words evoke; they perform a haunting dance around a central thematic maypole, threads in a complex verbal tapestry. They have a talent for writing songs which slowly build and crescendo to a beatific climax, where angels raise the listener out of the grungy gutters and into the azure skies.


So, that evening, in case someone were to discover that I was now listening to techno, I labeled my newly-made mix disc with a caveat: “Highly Experimental.” I wanted to see how the band held up during my long drive to work. I only placed a few of their songs on the disc, as if to deny that I was coming under techno music's spell. However, as the morning drive wore on, I found myself moving past all the other tracks on the disc to get straight to Underworld's songs. They made such great driving music that I was hooked, bouncing my fingers off the steering wheel to the beat in the beautiful Maryland morning.


Cold and Crisp was the first mix I made almost entirely centered around the band, opening with the primal drums and echoes of Mo Move. Like the band's long, epic techno songs, I used every bit of time on the disc for a full 70 minutes and tried to make the album build to a fever pitch. I put in all my favorite songs, from the dreamy blue cellphone cityscape of Jumbo to the grungy, dancy grind of Luetin, to the futuristic journey Mother Earth.


However, my favorite songs of all were the sweet and simple tones of Rez, used in the Tom Cruise movie Vanilla Sky, and the yearning, desperate vision of the Goddess herself in Cowgirl. One day, I found out that Underworld actually performed my two favorite songs back to back in their live shows. When I finally found the Rez/Cowgirl track off their live disc, I could not believe my ears. Even to this day I experience chills, goosebumps, and an upswelling of indescribable awe/joy/sadness every time I hear that song. The singer's voice as he gets to the climax, describing feminine beauty without directly saying it, is so full of emotion, the music peaking so perfectly, the timing so exact, it just gets me. I always saved that song for special occasions as I drove up and down the hills of Maryland, so alive, so grateful.


I could no longer keep possessing the music. I had to share it, and I one day, I tried to get my sister to hear the beauty of the songs as I had. She actually turned off the radio right in the middle of the song, saying it was giving her a headache. I was heartbroken. I even began to doubt the richness of the music, as friend after friend couldn't really “get” what I was hearing. Gradually, after a few years, Underworld was phased out of my musical repertoire, in favor of songs that I could rely that others besides myself would enjoy.


Today, however, since my thoughts were on the band, I had a sudden impulse to check YouTube (which had not been around when I first started my obsession). My first search's results revealed something magical: Underworld's songs are not only there, but there are thousands of glowing comments posted by the users there in praise of the music I had once loved. What I saw (the impish voice screaming as it began to fade) were the same points, the same exact reasons I loved the band mirrored perfectly, as if I was the one writing the words I read. I realized that the band needs no advocate; the music speaks for itself, and those who would listen to it are richly rewarded.