RESIDENT EVIL 5 : A SOCIAL COMMENTARY

"I'M CHRIS REDFIELD, I'M HERE TO KILL YOU WHETHER YOU'RE BLACK OR NOT"...Would be a great way for Capcom to have kicked off the storyline in their fifth installment of their ever popular zombie genre. This subject has been covered somewhat tirelessly across the interweb in recent months but I wanted to stick my oar in, because I'm a tosser like that. Oh and I've had a go on the game.

That's more than can be said for Kym Platt, reactionary writer for a black-rights blog called Black Looks. Reactionary certainly is the word I'd use in this case, as the game hadn't even been released at the point of this post hitting the electrowaves.

"The new Resident Evil video game depicts a white man in what appears to be Africa killing Black people. The Black people are supposed to be zombies and the white man’s job is to destroy them and save humanity…

This is problematic on so many levels, including the depiction of Black people as inhuman savages, the killing of Black people by a white man in military clothing, and the fact that this video game is marketed to children and young adults. Start them young… fearing, hating, and destroying Black people."

Hmmm. I fear that if the writer of such overtly ridiculous remarks was faced with a horde of zombified white middle-class folks in a quaint Wiltshire hamlet and armed with a fully loaded Hekler and Koch, then her reaction might be akin to that of Resident Evil's main protagonist. Simply put, Capcom based their (coincidentally shit) zombie survival game in AFRICA, which (again, coincidentally) is full of Africans. Yes black people are killed, not only by the white character that you control, but your African counterpart Sheva also.

Oh and furthermore, there's a crapload of other monsters and WHITE OPPRESSORS similarly affected by the same gastric-flu pandemic or whatever it apparently is they're all going crazy over.

Its worth pointing out that a strikingly similar yet infinitely more realistic game came out with not even a whiff of anyone crying racism. Either way, the only thing in this video-game that upset my stoic sensibilities was its main character's inability to stop being the most buff person (computer generated or not) I've ever seen.

Alas, it wouldn't matter if the main character was Oswald Mosley and that every single person in the game that you killed looked like Barack Obama, because the games shit anyway.

IN FOR THE ONE-TRACK LOVER.

Has anyone else noticed striking similarities between La Roux's (Larooxs, Larouks?) new video for In For The Kill and Sanchez from Garth Marenghi's impeccable 80's synth-love tune? I have, and I'm here to tell you all about it. There, done it.

CRYSTAL FLAME WOLVES ON FIRE

Finding an edgy name for your wafty nu-electro-rave band can be difficult in this day and age, not least because most of them have been taken. Its gotten to the point now where its acceptable to utilise a flavour-of-the-moment word, pre/suffixed by a similarly cool variant word which augments its hipness. I've knocked together some much used ones to exemplify my point...

- Wolf/Wolves; We Are Wolves, Wolf Parade, Bummed by Wolves(made that one up)

- Knife/Knives; Penknifelovelife, Young Knives, The Knife, No Knife

- Fire/Flames/On Fire/Burning; Amusement Parks on Fire, Arcade Fire, Set Fire to Flames, Comets on Fire (one of the few here worth checking out), Friendly Fires, Burning Airlines, I Would Set Myself On Fire For You (hrhr), Fireman Sam (snigger)

That's to name but a few. Now here comes Chris Sansom's HOT TIP CORNER. There's currently only about 4/5 bands at the moment using Crystal in their names (Crystal Stilts, Crystal Castles, Mums Expensive Crystalware, Crystal Antlers). So if I was you and as unoriginal as you probably are, I'd get on the Crystal related name bandwagon before its as fully exhausted as the aforementioned Fire/Flames variant. Or if you want, give me twenty quid and you can use "Crystal Flame Wolves On Fire, Burning Knife Blood" I reckon that'd fit on a sticker to put on your Korg?

Anyway, special mention to the frankly Herculean efforts of multi-purpose band name prefix "The" - its been used loads and to be honest its still as fresh as they come yall!.


(Popular t-shirt design for hit electro outfit "Mums Expensive Crystalware", stolen by Crystal Castles I hear)

Where The Wild Things Are (usually nestled between my pubic hair)

Not content with blasting the shit out of the skate movie genre which he was instrumental in defining, Spike Jonze seems he's added another dimension to his already bulging (fnar) curriculum vitae. Where The Wild Things Are looks like its going to be a veritable cockle-boiling cutesy classic, well at least thats what I'd imagine looking at the trailer below.

Lets be fair, a movie adaptation of this immensely acclaimed book written by Maurice Sendak and directed by Jonze will struggle to suck. The story follows a young boy named Max, when punished by his parents envisages a dream world to pass the time, a world seemingly inhabited by Chewbacca's overweight half-cousins. These monsters crown young Max as their willing leader (as its in his imagination) and all hell breaks loose, including some bat-shit crazy fur suit wirework. I'm excited.

CLICK...CLICK.

So this was originally supposed to be a review of Mono's show which I attended at Nottingham's Rescue Rooms last night. Unfortunately a 'review' in the traditional sense of the incredible Japan-based post-rock/noise outfit was rendered impossible by the vast number of bellends in attendance. In particular, I'm referring to the two 'photographers' which persistently infuriated throughout to a degree that could be matched only by being poked in the back of the head by Joe Pasquale every second of every day for 2 weeks, all the time singing. It went like this:

The lights dimmed (not as much as I'd of preferred, but they dimmed) and Mono take to the stage along with their tactful air of humility, probably innate for most Japanese people. They spoke not a word (they wouldn't of been heard if they had as there was no mic) and assumed their positions behind their instruments. The dishevelled guitars of Takaakira "Taka" Goto and imaginatively named Yoda began to feed waves of electricity through their Fender amps, and the familiar tone of this formiddable ensemble filled my ears, promising another aural journey enraptured by, and at the mercy of their music. The guitars swell and echo through a not yet convinced group of rowdy youngsters, who are audible just above its haunting mood. But not for long. The crowd is thrust backwards by a wall of sound akin only to the sound of a collapsing mega structure, and the rumble that accompanies it makes for a fitting emulation. Raging drums thunder through the cavalcade of calculated noise, from Yasunori Takada's robotic percussionism. All the time, the wraith like figure of Tamaki Kunishi loomed, dwarfed by the weighty four string which she wielded but not the sound it produced.

Around this time I closed my eyes with a grimace on my face as my eardrums began to clatter around in their moorings, immediately engrossed. My sight was then drawn to a camera which had been switched on and pointed at Taka, who was thrashing away at the strings of his Jaguar and generally being a prince amongst men/badass. My vision then returned to him, only to be drawn away by digicam's flash. Now, it doesn't take a lot to get me aggravated so you can imagine my dismay when this event occurred well over 150 times (I'm not even exaggerating) throughout the show. Furthermore, every single picture taken was of the same band member.

Now I don't know whether you would agree, but there certainly can't be that much to be gained from taking a shitload of grainy (which they will be) pictures of a band which have an already stunning array of promotional and live-action shots of themselves accessible by any half-educated idiot with a computer. Especially of the same fucking person in said band. I mean what could an individual possibly do with all of those photographs of the same thing? As I was embroiled in this bitter mental battle of meta-physics and my attention taken almost completely away from Mono, my gaze was once again averted. This time a balding yet spiky haired nu-metal bellend positioned literally at my side had produced from what could only of been a camera bag with the physical qualities of a fucking Tardis, the biggest digital SLR surely known to humanity.

Click. He'd gotten a brilliant shot of the back of somebodies head and possibly a bit of the bassist's shin. I know this because the SLR's giant aircraft read-out screen showed me so. Click. Oh man, that photo is definitely going to make this cunt famous, I think you can just see the a guitar as its held aloft as the dying embers of an effect peddle rings out.

I could go on but I think you get the point. I suppose what I'm saying is - is there any actual fucking point in taking pictures at shows? I mean sure they serve a purpose to an extent, but if a band was photographed at just one show per year for instance then wouldn't that be enough? Save up all that money you spent on a ridiculously overcomplicated SLR and use it to buy tickets to shows you can enjoy without one. Or better still get yourself a small handgun and shoot your useless fucking brains out.

Anyways Mono were, as ever, absolutely incredible. Their set offered up many of their more accessible tracks which work great in a live environment. Most of which were in the vein of the formidable COM(?), with relatively short build-ups before thundering walls of bass-energised air crashes into your lungs with guitars whining and screeching audibly in the midst. They neglected to play 15-minute epic, Yearning though which left me a little sour, and their score a little lower than perhaps necessary.

4/5



PHOBLOGRAHPER

ITS BACK - AND YOU'RE STILL NOT READING IT. GOOD

Yes, yes I've succumbed to mild late-of-the-peer-pressure and returned to the blogwriting fold after a long and unexplained hiatus, because I had no real reason to stop in the first place. Well thats a lie, I've been busy of sorts. I've visited several countries, decided to have a girlfriend, got angry at banks, put all my dogs squeeky toys on him while he's asleep, and have vouched to get rid of the large fleshy donut that is my stomach.

Heres how it is. You follow Willis's blog as well as this one if you ever somehow got to be here, alright? Find it here - and read him getting angry about all sorts of different stuff and review obscure 1960's Italian films that even the people who filmed it in the first place haven't even heard off.

But if you don't come here as a one-stop shop for sporadic/sketchy music reviews (both live and otherwise) along with some real edgy 21st century banter, then I'll find you personally and make you look through a sketchbook full of pictures of Bono's horrible little miniscule joke eyes throughout the last 30 years.

BLOG TO THE FUTURE