t doesn't matter how many times I've heard Agaetis Byrjun, really -- though it's undoubtedly many times, the effect it has on me as a listener has remained largely the same. I first heard it in 2001, if I'm not terribly mistaken (or, perhaps, 2002, even,) after downloading it from a friend on what was my musical haven at the time, Direct Connect (though the specific hub escapes me, but I would imagine that it was likely the Saddle Creek Web Board hub, or somewhere members frequented, at least.)

Being in the 10th or 11th grade in high school at the time, I was into a variety of music that I don't touch now -- third-wave ska and early punk springs to mind most immediately -- and was only just encountering music that I felt I really connected with at the time. Sigur Ros, the acclaimed Icelandic post-rock outfit, was a name I kept reading -- the hype was intense, and certainly growing. Something was different from the usual hype, though, which, of course, shifted at the time in a variety of directions, as is often the case.

The focus on Radiohead and Wilco, while both undoubtedly quality bands, presented nothing terribly ground-breaking. While Amnesiac was recognized heavily (an album I didn't enjoy as much as most did, it seemed at the time) and the then-unreleased (in any official form, at least) Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was garnering all sorts of acclaim and building an unstoppable momentum (and with good reason, it's an album that hasn't left my playlist yet, and is vastly superior, in my mind, to Wilco's following album, A Ghost is Born.)

Sigur Ros, though, was different. Spacey, dreamy, and ultimately full of a certain mystique, their music captured something beautiful that I hadn't really heard before. As my first real exposure to the world of post-rock, Agaetis Byrjun was eye-opening. Being into relatively standard forms of music at the time, it presented something relatively alien to me at the time (no pun regarding the album cover, honestly) -- an intense focus on sonic texture and the soundscape presented by the music.

That time of my life was an unusual one, as I'm sure most can find reasonable, considering the awkwardness of being the age of 15. I gave little to no regard to what music was representing or portraying a large lot of the time, perhaps due to my own concious faults or the hormonal peaks experienced by the typical teenage male; Sigur Ros was a welcome change to that pattern. Agaetis Byrjun presented a challenge against my musical tastes and against the very nature of my perception of music. I never really considered that music could be so delicate and beautiful while remaining detached from the form of the music preceding it.

Sigur Ros, along with a handful of other bands, have made an indelible influence on my listening habits, and, I might imagine, my perception of reality. At any rate, it's four or five years later, and I'm still listening to Agaetis Byrjun, and every time I hear "Svefn-g-Englar," I can't help but be amazed.

It's not unusual, in times like these, to see public transporation -- you know, the bus you could take to work (but don't, it's much easier just to drive), the subway train you're afraid to go on -- plastered with images of celebrities enjoying Your Favorite Cola Beverage (TM), the unnatural look of satisfaction on their face as plastered on as the printed advertising on which they reside. Given the non-recession of the medium, it appears the advertising campaigns are, in fact, successful -- but at what cost?

Yes, advertising can help offset the costs of introducing several new buses into a city-wide bus system, or even help with start-up costs; that much cannot be disputed. Public transportation is an important part of metropolitan areas; with our ineffecient gasoline-powered cars, pollution is at an all-time high -- and public transportation is one way we can hope to at least slow its growth.

But as beneficial as public transportation may be, is it really mentally healthy to plaster advertising on it? I would argue otherwise; there's something instrinsically stressful about being constantly hammered with directives ("Buy this product!" or "See this film!") -- and what's more valuable than our mental health?

The advert is rampant in theaters and on DVDs now -- "You wouldn't steal a car," it yells, pumping its fist into the proverbial advertising-filled air. Apparently, you wouldn't steal a handbag, television, or a DVD, either. This is fine, I can reason that stealing is a morally reprehensible action when the objects in question are not used to perform life-saving actions and the like. What's not fine is the line that follows the information on theft (just in case we didn't know what stealing was, I suppose): "DOWNLOADING PIRATED FILMS IS STEALING." Seems they forgot the exclamation point.

It's disturbing, really. The implication -- nay, the very bold, unambiguous statement -- that downloading is comparable to physical property theft is, in a couple of words, absolutely ludicrous. "STEALING IS AGAINST THE LAW," it ends. Gee, really, mister? Their logic here is, well, completely invalid. Their first four premises -- you should not steal cars, handbags, televisions, and DVDs -- provide no logical link to the conclusion, "DOWNLOADING PIRATED FILMS IS STEALING." Why? Why is downloading pirated films stealing?

Yes, downloading "pirated" films is illegal, but not because it is stealing in the traditional sense that they paint. In cases of theft, one party gains something, and another party loses something. It is a zero-sum situation -- the loss of one side is balanced by the gain of another side. In the advert, they commit, thusly, the zero-sum fallacy -- they are treating a non zero-sum situation as a zero-sum situation; they are quite wrong-headed, it seems. If you download a film, the amount of physical copies in the holds of others are kept unchanged by your actions. You have stolen nothing. This propaganda is, quite simply, presenting a logically invalid argument.

Not that I necessarily think that downloading films is a right action, but refraining from the action because a simple-minded commercial venture commands that you not is wholely illogical. Whether you refrain or not, have reason for doing so, please. And if you choose to support a foundering (and, indeed, floundering as a result) industry, go right ahead. Just don't do it because they told you to.

Paul Bartel's 1993 somewhat-post-apocalyptic film Shelf Life ranges from the touchingly tragic to the tragically hilarious in an ultimately bizarre show of a lack of socialization gone horribly wrong.

In the year 1963, three children and their parents, the St. Clouds, stow away in a bomb shelter after the assassination of then-President John F. Kennedy, fearing that arch-enemy of the United States, the Soviets, would send an invasion force to annex the States -- not a totally unusual fear of the time, but certainly an overtly absurd way of acting in a potentially adverse situation. The speed at which the parents seem to have acted is the cause of the situation that presents itself only a few minutes into the film.

Taking this almost-ordinary situation, Bartel illustrates some of the problems of the rampant media involvement in the rearing of children. When the parents of the three children die of what is implied to be food poisoning, they are left alone in the bomb shelter for many years -- thirty or so, to be safe. It is difficult to tell the ages of the "children" -- after all, they have been left to their own devices for years upon years, with only slight bits of television (though, perhaps the images are merely hallucinations) and children's music to aid their socialization.

What follows in the film is a bizarre series of the children's play-time -- from absurd song and dance routines (they've obviously been practiced time and time again, evidenced with the two girls singing as Egyptian slave women, in as perfect harmony as seems possible, and "Pharaoh Ken" (whose real name is Scotty) responding in a practiced manner) to playing "school" (which culminates in an overtly sexual -- though repressed as it may be -- play between Tina and "Troy" (Scotty, again) in which they almost delve into one another's secrets before being interrupted once again.)

With their excessively absurd actions, the St. Cloud children provide an interesting treatise on the nature of the media we've become accustomed to, and the effect it can have on developing youths, all the while providing a humorous, entertaining take on the familiar post-apocalyptic scenario.

Recently, Google announced their intentions to enter into business in China in a way that some have deemed degrading to human rights. By agreeing to block webpages in, essentially, a list given to them by the Chinese government, it seems they are actively attempting to support censorship by an oppressive government.

Of course, Google's stated code of conduct, "Don't Be Evil," has come into issue with Google's recent declaration. Some say that by supporting an oppressive government, Google is supporting degradation of human rights.

However, from a consequentialist perspective, Google's actions are not only following the spirit of their code of conduct, but, indeed, championing individual rights and the freedom of speech in a subtle manner.

What is not often considered is the fact that Google is informing Chinese citizens that search results have been removed from the page -- and for what reason they have been removed from the page. Such will undoubtedly stir curiosity among the Chinese people in ways that would not be explored had Google simply not entered into business with the Chinese government.

Though Google is, indeed, supporting the censorship of information presented Chinese citzens, it seems they are simultaneously working in a subtle manner such as to stir interest, and perhaps even revolution among the Chinese people.

Often it seems that one's initial reaction to the problem of genres is extreme, what with the near constant prattling on about their having caused the downfall of music, or at least being detrimental to music as an institution. Of course, the problems of genres are not to be dismissed as irrelevant, but rather they should be considered and weighed against the alternatives.

One of the problems presented by the classification of music into genres is attempting to define the genre itself. Much like moral and immoral behavior, it is often just said, "You know it when you see it." While this is perhaps a lacking definition, it does provide some light on the processes of classification and overclassification, as the case may be.

Take, for example, the case of the now-ubiquitous genre of music often called "indie". Though descended from the descriptive term independent, which described the approach the band takes to distribution, marketing, performance, and the like, indie has taken on a life of its own. It no longer is confined to independent bands -- in fact, it is often used to describe bands on independent labels as well as major labels, and even bands not signed to labels at all. It has ventured into entirely vague territory, perhaps for reasons of attempts to capture consumers by major labels, or perhaps because it grew into a sound all its own -- it is difficult to say for certain.

One of the problems seen with genres is not really a problem at all -- the complaints of pigeon-holing and restriction are, to my mind, unjustified. It is far too often that genres are used in a mutually exclusive sense, and this is one of the primary problems surrounding them. Indeed, it is not a proble, with the concept of the genre, but is rather a problem with their use. Who is to say that an artist must remain with one clearly defined sound? Certainly not those exercising the act of classification, of placing artist into a genre.

The use of genres also often implies that an artist has little actual musical variation, even across an album or even a set of albums. The genre allows for much breathing room, not unlike genres of painting. By being known as an impressionist and producing impressionist paintings, Van Gogh, Cezanne, and Monet were not inherently the same artist. Rather, this is a demonstration of how widely varied a genre in any work truly is.

Now, there are benefits to the use of genres -- indeed, why would they still be used if they served no practical purpose? One of the foremost examples that come to mind of the concept is my declaration of preference to progressive music. I am not describing a literal characteristic of the music, but rather using a descriptive, wide, and flexible term to attempt to convey, in a few short words, my personal preferences.

Beyond describing my preferences, genres can also be used to describe music that others have yet to experience. This is often where the term overclassification comes into play. However, I do believe that such cries are not only unjustified, but actually harmful to the process of music description. Imagine, instead of describing something as "smooth jazz mixed with a little guitar pop," saying something along the lines of "a combination of light, stacatto drums, smooth, legato saxaphone, and warm, mid-tone heavy guitar." Not only is it unwieldy, but it can quickly become apparent that your descriptions could describe nearly anything meeting the few requirements.

The use of genres allows for easy, reasonable comparison between artists and pieces fitting into the ultimately loose genre guidelines -- and while it may not be the most accurate method of comparison, it does provide a quick judgement as to the possible preference. It should, by no means, be used a replacement for actual listening, but it does provide a genuinely useful function that should not be dismissed.

Thomas Hobbes, in his seminal philosophical work, Leviathan, proposes the following of human imagination:

"[I]magination being only of those things which have been formerly perceived by sense, either all at once, or by parts at several times[...]"

In doing so, Hobbes raises many interesting questions about our perceptions of the creativity certain humans possess. Phrases like "something nobody has ever thought of before" are endlessly parroted as some claim of grandiosity -- yet little actual thought is given to the truth of the matter. Perhaps, then, it is important that we distinguish between these two primary notions of imagination as proposed by Hobbes: that which we have perceived as a whole, and that which he have perceived in parts.

That which we have perceived as a whole, or whole-based imagination, is oft seen as the "common" form of imagination, and is, all too regularly, lambasted by elitists and artists alike. There may be nothing truly negative about such a form of imagination; mental replication, as it were, is an important function of perception, and no less important than its counterpart in imagination. This distinction was explored through mid-twentieth century Pop Art -- artists like Warhol and Licthenstein were noted for their renderings of the mundane (Warhol most obviously with his Campbell's soup can, Lichtenstein with his renditions of comic art) in a way that is not importantly different than the original, excepting, of course, size. These easily slide into our first form of imagination.

That which we have perceived in parts, or, more easily, part-based imagination, is typically seen as a higher form of imagination, regardless of whether or not this is truly the case. Often, this is mistaken for something it most certainly isn't: the ability to create new works of art. This, however, appears not to be the case. Instead, what appears to be a new production is only a re-structuring in such a way that something not entirely similar to its original parts is produced. Hobbes gives an excellent example of such:

"[Part-based imagination] is compounded, when from the sight of a man at one time, and of a horse at another, we conceive in our mind a centaur."

These two notions of imagination -- not the only two proposed by Hobbes, but certainly the most important, and the only ones of any real depth in this matter -- are not mutually exclusive within a person; rather, they are both necessary in a being possessing any sort of goodness. Unfortunately, one side or the other is constantly rejected, at least outwardly. Take, for example, a man -- a musician, perahps -- who is fond of exercising the part-based imagination, and rather unfond of a whole-based imagination. Following his mental guidelines of imagination, he may avoid thinking of anything "whole" he has perceived, merely on the conception that such will distort his personal creativity. At this point he may come to the opinion that existing in society will not allow him to exercise a part-based imagination when there is a constant influx of wholes. From this, perhaps he will lock himself in a darkened room -- one where he will be free from influence of "new" wholes.

What he fails to recognize, and what this example pushes to the surface, is that Hobbes' distinction of imagination is flawed: it seems that either wholes must be created from nothing, or wholes must be imagined from parts, which seems far more reasonable than assuming something so grand as pure, unenebriated creation from nothingness. If the latter is the case, which it certainly appears to be, one must wonder from where these initial wholes -- those which we extract parts in our perceptions -- came from, if not imagined constructs of parts. Of course, this is essentially a parroting of a problem echoing across philosophy: can something, in fact, come from nothing?

It seems, then, that we can come only to one real conclusion: while Hobbes' notion of forms of imagination may seem, at initial glance, clear, distinct, and certainly unrelated, it is not the case. Upon further investigation, it appears that the two notions of part-based imagination and whole-based imagination are not only interrelated, but each is necessary for the other to exist.

One often wonders what the possibility of some of their favorite works of fantasy being more than just fantasy really is -- but it is not something usually examined with any detail, being passed off as "imaginative," which may or may not be the case. This is particularly interesting when the quintessential works of fictional fantasy, the Chronicles of Narnia, as written by one C.S. Lewis are considered.

The primary premise of the first novel, The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, consists of a foursome of British siblings who, at the height of the second World War, are sent to live with a professor in a place more safe than the city, as it was being bombarded by Axis forces. These children, who seem rather simple and plain indeed, end up, in a round-about way, discovering the land of Narnia, through an entranceway placed conveniently in a wardrobe.

How the world of Narnia was created is of little consequence, regardless of how interesting it may or may not be. What is at hand is that the world and exists, and the possibility of its admittedly bizarre construct. Narnia exists primarily as a world aside from our reality, as evidenced through the lack of a passage of time in the primary, perceived reality -- that of the children in the first-written novel, and, indeed, a certainly strange passage of time within the reality of Narnia itself.

The factor of time allows for an interesting explanation and reasoning behind the possibility of Narnia -- it merely is in a different location in the dimension of time, often called the fourth dimension, as proposed in Einstein's theory of general relativity. The theory, interestingly, allows for different rates of time perception to exist, providing a functional model by which Narnian time can differ from that of our own.

It is worth noting that Narnia is only one of countless worlds within a larger sort of multiverse. It is possible that Lewis envisioned this as an allegory for multiversal theory, which normally deals in probability, though whatever his deeper meaning and allegory, if any, he envisioned something that can easily relate, even with important differences in theories. Lewis's multiverse was envisioned with a "Wood Between the Worlds," which linked all possible worlds together through pools of water, or so it seems.

Now, this initially may seem like a farfetched impossibility -- like most fantasy. However, when related to the seminal philosophical, sociological, and scientific work of allegorical fiction, Flatland, written by Edwin Abbott Abbott, it becomes evident that such an existence is necessarily possible. Abbott's primary character, a square, travels from Flatland (a world of two dimensions,) to Lineland (a world of one dimension,) to Spaceland (a world of three dimensions,) and postulates that a fourth dimension -- and, indeed, an infinite number of dimensions beyond such -- must necessarily exist. The square also discovers that in each dimension, a higher-dimensional being can perform any number of "magical," "godlike" feats, simply by moving across the additional dimensions not perceived by the lower dimension's inhabitants.

Suddenly, the existence of Narnia jumps from mere imagination to a dimensional possibility. Simply by moving across the fourth dimension (as those within Narnia and the Earth universe are three-dimensional beings, perceiving a three-dimensional world,) any number of things can happen, the least of which is not some sort of travel across worlds -- whether it be through a mystical wardrobe, a forest, or a hair-clogged drain in the shower. Supposing that something can act as a dimensional transporter of sorts, (which, in the world of probability, is necessarily possible,) Narnia is not just some imaginative work of fantasy, it is, indeed, reality.

On waking up this morning, I realized one thing: how much I would rather be a pirate living in my current situation than who I am: myself. Some notable reasons include:

1. Waking up would be infinitely easier. If I set the alarm clock, but upon waking to its incessant ringing, instead of greeting the new day, I could merely smash said alarm clock with little real repercussion. If I were woken by a person, there are several options at my disposal: A) threaten them; B) stab them with my scabbard; C) growl. The most desirable course of action is option C, of course, as it requires the least effort with, hopefully, the most maximal gain.

2. Even the most rote of tasks would be inordinately more entertaining, merely with a few vocalizations. "Avast, these pretzels are making me thirsty!" suddenly becomes an entertaining phrase rather than a complaint.

3. Coercing through the threat of physical harm is transformed from something laughable to what is an ultimately useful action. Imagine, the average computer programmer attempting to convince an eight-year old boy -- of no relation -- to brush his teeth: "Gyhar, if you don't brush your teeth, I'll make ye an orphan with a peg leg!" doesn't have quite the same force behind it as if a pirate had shouted it with a glint of murder in his eye and a knife along his throat.

4. Two words: puffy shirts. As evidenced in a fifth season episode of Seinfeld ("The Puffy Shirt"), it is evidenced that this pirate-style garb is the ultimate panhandling tool. "Can you spare some change for an old buccaneer?"

Stars of Track and Field
You came here for sunset last year
2005

The latest release from Stars of Track and Field, You came here for sunset last year, is a five track EP that sounds as musically mature as one could imagine; composed of outstanding musical talent and intuition, this Portland three-piece seems to hold their art in high regard. With jangly guitars and smooth, flowing keyboard lines, Stars of Track and Field demonstrate the utmost regard for their unique brand of melodic pop music. They are assisted by highly esteemed producers Tony Lash and Jeff Saltzman in the effort -- much to their benefit.

It is interesting to note the apparent influence of the group's surroundings on their songwriting. For better or worse, You came here for sunset last year does not sound like it was written on a bright, clear day; you will likely not feel like bluebirds are singing happy tunes as puffy white clouds roll by when listening to this EP. Rather, tracks like "Let Ken Green" and "Say Hello" feel fog-laden and overcast, and, without a doubt, heavily atmospheric.

You came here for sunset last year is easily one of the most entrancing releases of 2005; its only major, outstanding flaw is its short length -- expectable for an EP, of course, it's just that Stars of Track and Field leave a lot of questions unanswered that would likely have been more explored in the setting of a full album release. In all, though, this is an outstanding release, and for only five tracks, its impact is immense.

Matthew Montgomery