NEW YORK TIMES: The video, which made its online debut on Monday, depicts the playing of Eschaton, a game invented by Wallace that he describes about 325 pages into “Infinite Jest.” Adolescents from a New England tennis academy are seen ritualistically serving balls on a court onto which a map of the world has been superimposed. The balls, which represent five-megaton nuclear warheads, are aimed at objects labeled as military targets — power plants, missile installations — while a lone child oversees the game from a nearby computer terminal. All in all, it ain’t exactly Battleship. Wallace himself wrote that the athletic skills required by Eschaton separated it “from rotisserie-league holocaust games played with protractors and PCs around kitchen tables.” Colin Meloy, the Decemberists’ frontman, said he was not thinking specifically of “Infinite Jest” when he wrote the brightly apocalyptic “Calamity Song” for the band’s recent album “The King Is Dead,” though a lyric about “the year of the chewable Ambien tab” is a nod to the book. Mr. Meloy, who finished reading “Infinite Jest” a couple of summers ago after a few failed attempts, was drawn to the Eschaton sequence as he thought of a video concept. Yet when he pitched the idea to his management, executives at Capitol Records and prospective directors, Mr. Meloy said, “A lot of people were like, ‘I have no idea how you could possibly turn this into a music video.’ ” Enter Mr. Schur, 35, who had never directed a music video before, but who attended Harvard with the brother of Mr. Meloy’s band’s manager and had more than a little familiarity with the author (who hanged himself three years ago at 46). MORE

PREVIOUSLY: INFINITE MESS: David Foster Wallace’s Archive

RELATED: Celebrating The Life And Work Of David Foster Wallace

PREVIOUSLY: Let’s All Make Love In Jest

PREVIOUSLY: David Foster Wallace Kills Self

decemb11_09c_1_1.jpgRELATED: Amongst people who like that sort of thing, Colin Meloy — ringleader of the Portland-based folk-pop collective The Decemberists –  is the most satisfyingly literary songwriter to emerge from the most recent crop of indie-rock luminaries. Others find his tune-smithing to be cloying and contrived, like an English class apple-shiner who always makes sure his essay question answers always incorporate alliteration and onomatopoeia, and at least three examples of simile and metaphor, just because he can. A bookish, blocky man with an owlish countenance and the physique of chatroom habitue, Meloy writes songs that could best be described as historic pulp-fiction, a faux-remembrance of all things past, usually set in some exotic milieu, an ante-bellum romance here, a sepia-toned Dickensian character study there. The Decemberists are like the kids from Western Civ. class who, when we break off into discussion groups, stage a hootenanny of historically-accurate sea chanteys and cheerful murder ballads. Conventional wisdom asserts that bands like the Decemberists are too clever for primetime by at least half, but in fact they are one of the most popular bands of the Pitchfork/New Media indie-rock era. They sold out the Electric Factory Wednesday night, and the crowd sang along with every exquisitely-penned quatrain.

The Decemberists take their name from a group of 19th-century Russian revolutionaries, but Wednesday night they looked like they couldn’t overthrow a lemonade stand. Performing beneath glowing-orange paper lanterns and a wall-sized backdrop depicting a mountainside monastery in ancient China, Meloy and his merry band ran down the bulk of the Decemberist’s extant full-lengths, the most-excellent Her Majesty and Picaresque and the new and not necessarily improved The Crane’s Wife. The problem with the new album is that it trades the band’s immaculate folk-pop for ill-advised forays into prog and funkiness — never a wise move for whiter-shade-of-pale types like Meloy. Still, you have to give Meloy and co. credit for going their own way. And besides, on the eve of the election, in this desperate, hopeful moment, who better to lead a roomful of twentysomethings through a sing-along of “we will arise from the bunkers…hear the bombs fade away” than an earnest young man armed with nothing more than a smile and a lute. — JONATHAN VALANIA [November, 2006]

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *