How Theatrhythm helped me ring bells

There is no bigger interest in my life than music. When I’m not actively engaged with someone, chances are good I’ll have my headphones on and cranked to a borderline unsafe levels. I carefully select the music that wakes me up each morning. When considering driving distance, I measure by the number of singles, EPs, and albums that would fit into the trip (my current commute to work is about a half album). And when it comes to videogame soundtracks, I’ll just say that my highest playcounts in iTunes largely belong to the ranks of Shimomura, Koshiro, Mitsuda, Kikuta, and Kondo.


But for all endearment I exude for music, I’m not terribly talented at creating it. Apparently, the skill traveled thoroughly through my older and younger siblings, then promptly skirted around me, as my musical aspirations were quelled after years of fruitless attempts to play the bass guitar. While I’m able to read music decently enough, I have no ear for notes, and ultimately hit the wall when I found that I couldn’t write bass lines. Not wanting to be one of those bassists, I relinquished myself to my high school’s sparsely populated choir, and quietly retired from the world of music not long after.




That said, I’m not anything of a prodigy, and in terms of the game, I still can’t beat any of the battle tracks on Ultimate. But I like to think these two musical fixtures in my life are aiding one another and furthering my extremely limited abilities, sort of in the same way that reading might expand a person’s vocabulary. I’ve never been one to insinuate that videogames are some untapped resource for developing real-world skills, but after this experience I would absolutely contend that their breadth as a supplement should never be dismissed.

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