As published in DENATURED Issue 3: “Don’t You Think It’s Dangerous To Have Money In The Bank?”

The dead wait in limbo. The rain ages all that it touches. A militant separatist organisation is engineering the annihilation… and Norman Reedus spends hours delivering packages with a baby in a fish tank during the apocalypse. Firstly, Death Stranding is a difficult thing to conceptualise. Through a uniquely unconventional approach to gameplay and story, the team at Kojima Productions are able to confront the human obsession with mortality in an inhuman space. Hideo Kojima, creator of Death Stranding and director of Kojima Productions, has consistently experimented with video games as an art form. Though highly recognised as the creator of the Metal Gear series, a collaboration with filmmaker Guillermo Del Toro on a “playable teaser” for a cancelled Silent Hill installment showcased Kojima’s prowess in interactive psychological horror. The abandonment of Silent Hills, and Kojima’s departure from Konami, allowed for Kojima to claim his own independence and focus on original projects. In Death Stranding, Kojima questions the player’s potential for kindness when working in a collective, while staring the void in the face. To fans of story-driven, single-player games: the austere culture of post-apocalyptic society is familiar ground. The success of Naughty Dog’s The Last of Us and Bethesda’s Fallout franchise have proven this genre as one of the most popular.

Naively dismissed by some with a lack of patience as a ‘walking simulator’, Death Stranding and the journey of Sam Porter Bridges across a regenerated American terrain, plagued by ghosts and terrorists, are gorgeous from a purely aesthetic view. Yes, some of the gameplay is spent on foot — but the portrayal of this as a negative is lazy and a misunderstanding. The slowing of pace during open-world travels allows for reflection on this new world, an environment familiar but strange. For an apocalypse, the ecology is surprisingly beautiful. The pastoral landscapes are believed to be inspired by Kojima’s journey to Iceland in 2014. Nature that surrounds the Knot cities and stations resembles the elegance of Icelandic glaciers and fjords, a foreign concept to the highly industrial and corporate prominence of the American setting.

Opening with a passage from Kōbō Abe’s Nawa, Kojima sets a precedent for the game’s thematic odyssey. This is a story about connection; about relationships. But how are these relationships influenced by this altered domain? This is immediately followed by lengthy establishing shots of a pastoral terrain warped — brought to life by the high dynamic range imaging of the Decima game engine and the art direction of Yoji Shinkawa. Blackened strands descending from above, golden crystals in the shape of hands reaching outward, inverted rainbows. The world of The Beach has bled through to the world of the living, introducing its environmental properties. A land of the others that presents both threat and promise. The Beach is firstly a liminal space. It rests on the boundary between life and death, a space of suspension between the two states. It does not obey the laws of time or adhere to them. Due to human perception of death existing in individual forms, The Beach is unique to each inhabitant and manifested by their beliefs. The world of the living holds humans in multitudes, porters and consumers alike. The Beach is its direct antithesis: lonely.

Beached Things (known as BTs), creatures whose soul is trapped within the world of the living, roam the United Cities. A hostile and existential threat to the player, BTs now form a part of this unusual ecosystem. The path that you choose is dictated by your choice for avoidance or conflict with them. Interaction with BTs does not only add to the environment; the preexisting world is also physically altered. Timefall soaks the ground, aging the plants and package containers it comes into contact with. Chiralium, matter originating from The Beach, occurs in highly dense BT areas. The collection of this substance can be used to cultivate infrastructure to aid your courier odyssey. To traverse this new land, Sam must touch on growth through industrial means. Timefall damages cargo, and must be protected within safehouses and shelters. Structures like rope, ladders, and ziplines have to be constructed in order to travel between cities and waystations, especially those locked in mountainous regions. Sometimes the best course is on foot. It is in these moments that the game’s soundtrack elevates something new, underscored by music from Low Roar, CHVRCHES and Silent Poets. Especially during the climax of Kojima’s dabbling in third-person shooter territory — the boss battles with giant tentacular BTs add an interesting and nightmarish Lovecraftian element to the gameplay.

While the growth of infrastructure is beneficial from a purely material perspective, Kojima presents an idiosyncratic form of social cultivation through positive interactions and affirmations. Through delivering packages to Bridges members and preppers, Sam’s community grows. He is gifted with new technology to aid him on his travels by some, and given space to rest by others. It is Sam’s altruism that opens an emotional capability in the customers you deliver to. The act of courier service becomes secondary to the intention to cultivate happiness, in a world in which it is scarce. As Sam’s connection with his customers increases, so too does the player’s with other players of the game. From a parasocial perspective, Death Stranding is about a genuine human connection, growing relationships through altruism and selflessness to others sharing the screen. Kojima’s self-described ‘strand’ genre is built on a shared gaming experience, affecting the world and experience of other players. Through engaging in deliveries, there is a reliance on structures built by other porters. Through connecting to the chiral network, players’ structures become visible. Watchtowers, generators, postboxes, and bridges appear within your path, and appear in places which are needed most. Signs can be constructed to warn of BT sightings or rough terrain ahead, or to wish others well on their journey. That is the most important aspect of Death Stranding’s social component: there are only positive interactions towards other players. Hideo Kojima stated in an interview that, “I designed this for people to take a step back and by connecting, relearn how to be kind to others”. The art form of gaming has been draped in controversy, surrounding its relationship with violence and the influence of such. Through reassessing our relationship with this art form and the real world consequences, Kojima deconstructs what makes us happy. Not gunning down civilians in a Moscow airport but encouraging kindness and compassion in an environment opposed to that. This creative ethos of the ‘strand’ genre transcends the screen, the controller and the console. As a player, it forms a wholly unique approach to how ideas are translated through gameplay. While narrative can communicate through exposition or suggestion, the physicality of interacting on a purely positive level speaks just that much louder.

As publishing in DENATURED Issue 2: “As We Go Up, We Go Down”

After American feet had left the capital of Afghanistan following the signing of the Doha Accord, the republic collapsed. Following an insurgent offensive that lasted just over three months, the Taliban-led Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan had been restored. This particular event resulted from numerous conflicts succeeding the significance of the region during the Cold War. Soviet invasion and occupation had bred guerrilla groups, such as the Afghan mujahideen, which would form into the first emirate. The fundamentalist attitudes of these groups and their alignment with Osama bin Laden led to a US invasion, which established a democratic state. On August 15th 2021, the Taliban invaded the city of Kabul, reclaiming territory lost after the establishment of a presidential republic in 2004. The restoration of the emirate also arrived with the familiar ideology of Deobandi jihadism. Political opposition was void, LGBT+ and women’s rights were completely eroded and freedoms were stolen, with Amnesty International reporting civilians being subjected to “enforced disappearance, unlawful detention, arbitrary arrest, torture and other ill-treatment”. Through the bloodshed and misery of the current situation, a unique image of Taliban rule escaped through the borders of the Herat province, a blazing inferno with instruments for fuel. Considered a vice under Taliban ideology, amongst the burning pile of guitars and speakers lay indigenous instruments, native symbols of Afghan cultural identity. The rubab, an ancestor to the lute, was not spared from the cultural cremation. Presumably our collective enjoyment of music transcends our appetite for violent endeavours. It is in this naivety that we truly understand the harmony between culture and conflict. That the erasure of such artistic freedoms and expressions are paramount in the forceful implementation of authority.

The history of the traditional folk music in the graveyard of empires is one of emigration and worship, ethnicity and tradition. The traditional classical music of Afghanistan descends from Hindustani classical music of the Indian subcontinent, when virtuoso musicians known as ustads were invited to the region by Amir Sher Ali Khan during the mid-19th century. Klasik, as this traditional music is known, adopts the familiar terminology and harmonic structures of Hindustani. The previously mentioned ‘rubab’ is integral to the culture of klasik music. The father of the Indian sarod, the rubab is a wonder of multifaceted design. Holding around twenty strings on Mianzanai and Loy rubabs allows for defined tones, ideally designed for improvisation. One distinct feature of the rubab is the inclusion of sympathetic strings, strings that create sounds through the tones of other strings. This resonance is the epicentre of where the droning features of these instruments exist.

No conversation of the history of the rubab or the klasik genre would be accomplished without the mention of Ustad Mohammed Omar. One of Afghanistan’s most recognisable and popular musicians, Omar’s controlled and dynamic playing of the rubab invites a listen. For those interested in discovering the diaspora of Hindustani music, this would be the perfect place to open the door. Start with a piece so gorgeously unfiltered and undisturbed such as “Classical Composition in Raag Sohni” from the album Robab: The Soul of Sound Vol. 2. A raag, also known as a raga, is purely a musical framework that bestows rules for improvisation. Ragas evoke these melodic senses that Western musicians would most likely identify with modes. Afghan raga’s tend to be more rhythmically focused and dominant than their Indian counterparts. The inclusion of the tabla, hand drums with such unique versatility, gives the piece this authentic percussive value that grasps the Afghan klasik identity so strongly. The tabla follows this melodic, almost tremolo-like sequence played by the rubab in ascending and descending scales, known as arohana and avarohana. A genuinely beautiful and transportive piece to hear.

For those looking for visual examples, a video of Omar’s own “Raag Bihag” is available. A solo performance, the percussive picking pattern of Omar’s playing supplements the lack of the tabla. Subsequently, this internal rhythm of the piece is on full display, countered by the dissonance of the melody. Omar’s success was not limited inside of the Afghan borders. Apart from teaching at the University of Washington, the first Afghan musician to do so, Omar’s contribution to West German krautrock group Embryo is his finest contribution to the Western music scene. Appearing on the 1979 album Embryo’s Reise, a melting pot of world music with the jazz and psychedelia of the krautrock sound. Fellow musician Aziz Herawi is another notable genius of the rubab. His adoption of the instrument as his own feels quite magical with this poetic musical origin of practising within the loneliness of the woods, relying solely on touch while in the shadow of the night. On Cry Of The Mountains, released in 2002, Herawi’s compositions truly delve into the rhythm of the Afghan raga form. The opening piece, “Roe Roe”, is unbelievably active from the opening, honing this warm yet constantly moving sound that the rubab exhibits, while pieces like “Amanai” seem to brood more and allow for fleeting moments of reflection.

Though the sound of the rubab is isolated from its native land and indigenous culture, Afghan and Hindustani classical music breathes elsewhere. Over forty years since the death of Mohammed Omar, current rubab players reveal the extent to which this music has thrived overseas. Afghan-born and American-based musician Homayun Sakhi, a certain musical successor to Omar, continues to champion the instrument throughout the Western world. His album The Art of the Afghan Rubab brilliantly respects and adapts the designs of his forebears. The Afghanistan National Institute of Music, outlawed in its home country, lives now in the Portuguese capital of Lisbon. Continuing to perform and preserve the national cultural identity through the all-female Zohra Orchestra and the ANIM National Symphony Orchestra. This is by no means a complete and comprehensive study of Afghan music, but an insight into how the sound and culture of such a genre has an impact on an individual originally unaware of its existence, such as myself. Although the situation of the music scene in Afghanistan has received notable attention, be aware that this is not an isolated incident. War and conflict will strip cultural identities and expression to their bones, eventually losing them to the passage of time. As a community of musicians and artists, we can not allow for this to happen. There is one solution to the survival of these sounds: let them breathe.

As published in DENATURED Issue 1: “Well, You Know What I Say About Scenes”

A discourse surrounding the works of the late Steve Albini would seldom attract the concept of subtlety. Explicit in both theme and noise, Albini’s abrasive sound pierced a hole in the punk genre, opening doors for a unique sonic experience with his bands Big Black and Shellac. The music in question can be visualised as an encounter with a sledgehammer, first to your ears and then to your soul. The first Big Black EP, entitled Lungs, was recorded on a friend’s TEAC tape machine in exchange for a crate of beer. Each physical release was accompanied by a selection of condoms, nosebled tissues and trading cards of Bruce Lee, drawing the line a razorblades for fear of getting sued. With very limited usage of effects or plug-ins, Albini’s music has a wholly raw aesthetic, relying on the limits of instruments and how they can be manipulated physically. Harmonics have never sounded as unique as on the opening of the track “Kerosene” from the album Atomizer. Punchy and grinding, the guitars bite at the ears and do not let go. Lyrically exploring the alienation of many young people from their rural existence, with the only alternative to the banality of small town culture being self-immolation, very much a collective experience of disgruntled youth.

His accomplishments as an audio engineer started with Surfer Rosa, the debut album from Pixies. Again yearning for an organic listening experience, Kim Deal’s haunting echo vocals on “Where Is My Mind?” came from moving the microphones in the studio bathroom to achieve such a sound. After a collection of producer credits for artists such as The Jesus Lizard, Slint, Don Caballero and PJ Harvey, it was likely that Albini’s visibility in the mainstream music scene came from his production on Nirvana’s In Utero. Refusing to accept any royalties from the album due to his ethical concerns, Albini worked only on a flat fee. Comparing himself to a plumber in a letter to the band, as he states: “I do the job and you pay me what it’s worth.” In a discussion with chef Anthony Bourdain, a punk of his own industry, Albini describes his “healthy suspicion of capitalism as a method” from which, “everything is crappier and crappier and people are more and more exploited”. Music for Albini was not a product, and certainly never about the money, but about the honesty of artists and their sonic vision, representing a genuine counterculture against the capitalist fetish of the modern music industry. A solemn reminder that the music industry is a business and with all forms of business, exploitation manifests. As with all remembrance works, we unfortunately must resort to the cliche of legacy. As a musician, Albini’s influence on punk was prodigious. The coarse and harsh tones routinely achieved continued throughout his career until To All Trains, Albini’s recent posthumous release with his band Shellac. As an audio engineer, Albini exhibits how insular and claustrophobic the studio can be, traversing beyond the four walls to explore how the environment changes sound. Though never to handle a recording desk again, immortalised forever in noise is where Steve Albini remains.