It’s been a while since my last Maya Goes to a Music Event post, but I promise there’s a reason for it: I just don’t go to concerts. At least in the traditional, what’s-hot-on-the-radio-right-now-stadium-spectacle sort of way. So, you may be wondering what’s driving me to write this. If you read my last post, you may have some idea of the one thing that can drag me to a concert (or more specifically, Roy Thomson Hall). Film and video game orchestra performances, ah, my literal siren’s song. Does this give me a capital G on my geek card? Yes, yes it does. But does it really bother me? No, no, it does not. What can I say? Good music is just good music.

Though I apparently did not do a good enough job of bothering the absolute daylights out of my friends (as cooperative gameplay, for some reason, has the ability to turn me into a chaos-loving gremlin), as I got invited to go hear all of our favorite Stardew Valley tunes played live. I don’t know how all of the delightful, chipper retro-inspired tracks will sound with a full orchestra and not only as the work of a one man band (or army, really, considering Eric Barone is, for the most part, the singular hand behind the fan favorite farming simulator), but it’s something I’ve been looking forward to all year.

Now there’s something that might be surprising to hear. Tickets had to go out a whole year in advance for this show. Not only that, but the Toronto concerts sold out so fast that two extra dates had to be added. Which brings me to my real reason for this Maya Goes to a Music Event post. I’m about to propose a theory: video game soundtracks are the modern equivalent of classical music (and more specifically opera) and what is most likely to keep bringing new audiences to classical concert halls. Of course, I don’t mean to make such a proposal without anything to back me up, so with the help of our video game collection here at VPL, let me show you what I mean.

To start, I think we need a definition of what opera is. According to Merriam-Webster’s definition, an opera is “a drama set to music and made up of vocal pieces with orchestral accompaniment and orchestral overtures and interludes”. For an even simpler explanation, on their website, the English National Opera defines opera, coming from the Italian word for “work”, as “an art form that tells a story through music and singing”. Nothing brings that more to my mind than Nomada Studio’s debut game, Gris.

Gris is a puzzle and platformer game without dialogue. Its story is told solely through its music and the colors associated with it, creating a visceral, cutting experience that gets to the core of the beauty and ugliness of loss (which feels very operatic, in my humble opinion). The soundtrack, composed and performed by Barcelona-based band Berlinist, is filled with the dreamlike echoes of classical and digitized instruments, like the organ, pipes, flute, and violin, creating music that reflexively builds and grows in intensity as you continue to play. Our protagonist, a blue-haired girl, starts the game by losing her voice after being thrown down into a world of dark but stunning hand-drawn, watercolor whimsy. From there, you and the girl journey together to find her voice again as you slowly start to understand what made her lose it in the first place. Every bit of Gris has an intense level of creative care put into it, and I’d argue that because of that, it isn’t just a game, but a work of art. But I know those are some pretty big words, so after you check out the first two minutes of the game, you should probably just pick it up for yourself. And a little pro-tip from me: you’ll probably want a tissue box handy. If you were looking for something with a bit more action in it though, Nomada Studio’s second game Neva, which released last year, takes all the highlights of Gris (including the music-centered story) and weaves it into a tale about a rapidly decaying world where a girl named Alba must raise her companion, Neva, from a cub to a fully-grown giant wolf. If the music doesn’t grab you (which I’ll be surprised if it can’t), then I’m sure the chance to run around with a fluffy pal will be far too hard to pass up. Plus, you can sic Neva on some goopy shadow monsters. I rest my case.       

But maybe you aren’t yet convinced that video game music is opera. Sure, fine. Those are just two video games, anyway. So, let me tell you about Unravel. This puzzle-platformer (and I promise this is just a coincidence, puzzle-platformers just have very good music these days) also lacks any significant amount of dialogue, instead relying on music to tell the story and transport you to the landscapes of Northern Sweden. You play as the aptly named Yarny, a little figure made of a singular thread of well… unraveling yarn, formed from a rogue, rolling ball that’s escaped a grandma’s knitting basket. Ever curious, you and Yarny explore your larger-than-life surroundings, eventually coming upon a bunch of family photographs that you can jump into to re-experience the memories and environments inside them. The music by Frida Johansson and Henrik Oja does most of the heavy lifting. It’s the emotive storyteller and takes you through time and place by using traditional instruments found in Swedish folk music (like the nyckelharpa and Swedish bagpipes) and sticking to older, less modern melodies. It’s a big whiff of culture, and, dare I say it, opera (as “an art form that tells a story through music”). But, hey now, three games, that’s just a coincidence, right? Of course not! I wouldn’t be doing my job right if I left things to mere coincidence.

So what if I told you that the beloved Legend of Zelda games also count, by definition, as opera? Link, in whatever adventure he’s in to stop the inevitable rise of Ganondorf, an evil moon, or other big bads is always silent (minus the huffs and grunts of climbing a mountain or trying to bonk a Bokoblin over the head). Even the NPCs (non-playable characters) for much of the franchise are voiceless. They use textboxes for their important must-know info, leaving the soundtrack (and a few signposts) to tell you about the stories behind ruins, magical forests, and the always rage-worthy water temple. As mostly open-world, explorable experiences too, things would get pretty awkward and boring in the Zelda games without the music to keep you company on your long treks through deserts, up mountains, and wherever else your little Hylian legs can take you. Think of the music like another character. It’s your invisible but faithful companion, the bard at your side recording all your deeds as you go from zero to hero (and now that I think about it, what Zelda game isn’t just another way of retelling the classic Hero’s Journey? But that’s another blog post for another time. All I’ll say is… how very opera of you, Nintendo). 

“But these are all older games”, you might be thinking to yourself. Maybe this whole operatic video game music thing was just a phase. Well, let me tell you about Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, the turn-based French RPG released in April of this year. Every year in the city of Lumière (a fantasy version of Belle Époque France), the Paintress, a giant figure that sits at the edge of the Continent, paints a new number on a monolith, counting down from the year before it. When she does, the people are affected by a phenomenon called the Gommage, and every year Lumière sends out an expedition in the hope to put an end to her reign and the cyclical nature of their existence. While I am breaking the pattern of dialogue-light games told through music, I’m giving Expedition 33 a pass because the music, above the action and adventure you’re desperately trying to parry your way through, is telling a different story than what you’re seeing (if you can decipher the Frankensteined language of Latin, Occitan, French, and English that form a large portion of early tracks, that is) and obscuring it until you’re ready (see what I did there?). As you discover and begin to unravel the nature of the world beyond Lumière, the music follows suit, using a lyrical shift to modern French to provide context for things you don’t understand yet, but will. It adds a sense of impending tragedy to the whimsical backdrops, impossibly large monsters, and other charming (and very, very stupid) creatures like the Gestrals. I also can’t think of one bad track in the over 8 hours of music that newcomer composer Lorien Testard, lyricist and main vocalist Alice Duport-Percier, and arranger Daniel Sicard have created. It’s so well done that only a few weeks after the game’s release, its soundtrack skyrocketed to the top of Billboard’s classical music charts. You read that right. Classical. So, is video game music opera? Well, I think there’s a small, teeny tiny possibility that there are a few who might agree with me.

I’ll leave you with a quote from the creator of the little indie game that started this whole post off. After a performance of the Stardew Valley concert in New York City, Eric Barone came on stage to give a small speech, saying: “no one ever wanted to listen to my music. So after many years of failure, I’ve finally discovered the secret: all I had to do was develop an entire video game from scratch.“

But maybe, after everything, I still haven’t managed to convince you of my little theory, in which case… well, maybe this is an argument better won with your ears and a controller in your hand. So, sit down, get comfortable, and go play some opera. Until next time!