Most people who haven't spent a lot of time playing video games may be surprised to find that game soundtracks have come a long way from the undeveloped bleeps and bloops they might expect. Even 32 years ago, the iconic Super Mario Bros. theme music featured a carefully balanced calypso rhythm that's harder to perform than it sounds (take it from someone who printed off the piano sheet music).
Cultural institutions have taken notice. Over the past few years, I've attended performances in Salt Lake City's prestigious Abravanel Hall where I've heard the music of franchises like Mega Man, The Legend of Zelda, World of Warcraft, Sonic the Hedgehog, Halo, Castlevania, and--of all things--Tetris. I can't wait to go back in June for a Final Fantasy concert.
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| Here they play everything from Pachelbel to Pokémon, Mahler to Mario. Image credit: Broadway World |
I've written quite a bit on classical music. The works of great composers spanning the ages between Bach and Gershwin inspire me in a way few other things do. But if you asked me for my favorite music genre, I'd answer in a heartbeat: video game soundtracks.
I don't even call myself a gamer. I've never beaten a Legend of Zelda game. I have a high score of negative seventeen in Halo multiplayer. I've spent years chiseling away at Chrono Trigger--not because I don't adore the beautiful storytelling and mechanics, but because I only actually sit down to play it once or twice a year.
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| You'd think I had the time, though. Image credit: Donna Vitan |
But I have to appreciate video games as the unprecedented art form they are. And if I could only choose one aspect of video games to prove their artistic quality, I would choose the music.
As with film scores, video game soundtracks turn visual media into a more sensory, immersive experience. Composers in both genres employ leitmotifs--place and character themes--to help viewers and players form emotional connections to a story. But video games add another factor to the equation: interactivity. Gamers don't just watch characters on a screen; they become those characters.
That's why, for example, my heart still breaks whenever I hear "Aerith's Theme" from Final Fantasy VII. Playing as the game's protagonist, Cloud, I talked with Aerith, fought with Aerith, and traveled with Aerith. But in the end, I couldn't save her. If Aerith had died the same way in a movie as she had in the game, I wouldn't have been as devastated. But in the game, I was there. And so was the music. You only need to hear it once to be convinced that Final Fantasy is art.
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| If you played the game, you can't picture this scene without the sad music. Image credit: Final Fantasy Wiki |
Game music makes an argument that goes beyond video games, though. In a society where arts programs increasingly face defunding and neglect, video game music makes a strong case for the relevance--and necessity--of the arts in general.
I can illustrate my point with the Utah Symphony's Pokémon: Symphonic Evolutions concert, which I attended with my wife last Saturday.
As one might expect from a Pokémon concert, we encountered a variety of colorful characters throughout the night. On our approach to Abravanel Hall, I pointed out a giant, yellow, bobble-headed figure outside the doors.
"Check it out," I said. "They've got a Pikachu statue!"
Then it moved. It high-fived passers by. It posed for photographs.
We found more costumed fans inside. As we waited to enter the auditorium, two kids passed by as Charmander and Squirtle. A man in line ahead of us sported a Magikarp hat. A woman in the foyer had stuffed her vest pockets with all the evolutions of Eevee. And when a couple came in dressed like the nefarious Team Rocket, I'm sure everyone prepared for trouble.
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| Image credit: Rubie's Costume Company (Costume designed by my sister-in-law; it was fun to see her product at the concert!) |
The crowd inside the auditorium buzzed with energy. As the Utah Symphony tuned their instruments, I envied and adored them for having a string section more than three times larger than my own community orchestra's. Flanked by lights and backed by a screen that displayed appropriate scenes from all the different Pokémon games, the orchestra made an impressive sight.
The crowd's excitement surged when the concert hall darkened and the orchestra commenced its Pokémon journey where so many of us started on our Gameboys twenty years ago--in quiet Pallet Town, with a homey flute melody. The audience cheered as the visuals took us into Professor Oak's lab and Charmander, Squirtle, and Bulbasaur in turn appeared onscreen. Then the crowd laughed as the weird high strings and menacing low strings, brass, and percussion sneaked through Team Rocket's secret headquarters. From scene to scene, the audience responded with nostalgic enthusiasm as the Utah Symphony replayed the favorite memories of all our childhoods.
Soon--too soon--the orchestra had traveled over all the regions of the Pokémon world. They enchanted us with the soothing clarinet and piano themes of Ecruteak City, the dancing oboe lines of Mount Chimney, the intense drumbeat of the Kalos gyms.
And for a grand finale, over two thousand voices in the audience sang along as the Utah Symphony played the beloved theme song from the Pokémon anime:
I wanna be the very best,
Like no one ever was. . . .
In an auditorium full of people who had never met--people whose beliefs and lives and backgrounds varied like the different types of Pokémon--magic happened. Together we sang a song we'd all grown up with--a song that meant something to each of us. My heart swelled with the music. My skin tingled with the energy. A lump formed in my throat.
I didn't know the people sitting in my row. But I felt a sense of brotherhood with them. I didn't know the folks behind me, or on the terraces, or on the stage. But we bonded. Every one of us.
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| Image credit: TV Tropes |
We came from different homes, different circles, different income brackets. But no matter where or when we played the games, many of us had chosen our own starter Pokémon. We had fought Team Rocket. We had trained to battle in the Pokémon League.
We came together over video games. Over favorite characters, a beloved story, music tied to common memories.
We came together over art.
And for that one evening, for those two thousand people all together, raw humanity emerged. What we shared was stronger than our phones, stronger than our fears, stronger than our differences. You could feel it in that concert hall.
That's why we need the arts. Our understanding of the universe could multiply tenfold. We could eradicate disease, build more efficient roads and homes, clean up the oceans and the air. And I hope that all happens. But if we don't have each other, what do we really have?
The arts connect us to each other. The arts remind us who we are.
And if a night of music from a video game can do what I described, imagine what can happen on a trip to the museum. Or at a community theater production. Or at an open mic night at the local coffee shop.
Imagine what can happen if we give the arts the value they deserve.
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