The story goes like this; any old bad trip up the strip leaves your head dizzy, wobbling to and fro like a ball on a wire stuck to an old tennis racket. Neon signs fly by, bad hangovers, and regret filled nights flash in your mind as you’re trying to sweat the liquor out of your veins; one more bad trip down the rabbit hole. Here comes a pop, and not the top of the pops, but a bang- The big one, the biggest bang, the shot heard ’round the universe.
This little number is Genesis Noir– It’s a doozy of a love story with legs like you wouldn’t believe, and you better put em to use on this gumshoe walkabout, searching in a vivid whiskey haze of questions until you find some answers.
You take the last night train down memory lane, is it Chicago? Maybe New York? Could be Philadelphia, who knows, who cares. We’ve all heard the story before, haven’t we? Long lost love, lost for good: good riddance, shake off this day dream, but you can’t seem to find the cosmic momentum to run away, you get sucked in like gravity, that unbelievable pull, the train’s taking you for a ride and it’s a bumpy one at that, figures. Stay a while, listen, that heavy voice is no man’s, but a beautiful bass line, like mist that hangs in the air, your saxophone gives heave to a heavenly reprieve.
The curvature of her space time wraps around you like a bass player’s fingers ’round a bridge, deep twangs reaching into your head like a ray of cosmic sensation, what a relief. That’s jazz for you, an ever loving complicated mess of mathematics, the kind you use to scope out the route for an interstellar interstitial, the trajectory and velocity for something far outta this world.
The kid was a whizz- we painted the town with the kind of radiance you’d expect from the serenade of a dying star, the tall kind of fellow with a reach that seemed to hit the very stars themselves. We took a sip of whiskey together like it was fine wine- a little too fine, uninvited taps of improvisational percussion left his frame limp on the vine, and it was time for someone to answer for this crime.
Just like that, you have to go back, find where it all began, unwind the strings in your hand and find out just who was responsible- A trio of glum bums, sad sorry sacks with no appreciation for the fine arts, with hearts of lead that leaned heavy on his chest. When sadness like that wells up inside you, there’s nowhere else to go but down, down, down.
Honey, they say video killed the radio star, but when you’re done weaving this tale they’ll have another thing coming.
Emily Rose is an indie developer who writes for rebind.io and resides in the pacific northwest. She’s often seen in the local VR arcade and developer community participating in pushing the medium’s horizons. You can find her on twitter @caravanmalice