Benny Boeldt, a.k.a. Adventure!, brings the human touch to his chiptune creations. Photos by .
I was listening to Radio Lab on NPR the other day, and they had a particularly interesting bit about rats and laughter. To the amazement of the scientists involved, rats emit “laughter” during play at a pitch we cannot hear. Even furthering the scientists’ amazement was the fact that the rats “laughed” when tickled, emitting the same “chirp-chirp-chirp” as before. After hearing the broadcast, I could not shake the image of a lab technician prepped for tickle treatment, hands clawed and hovering over the rat cages.
He wasn’t wearing a white coat, but (the Wham City vet, née Benny Boeldt) seemed born with hands for tickling — keyboards, that is. Equipped with the latter and his silver Mac laptop, Mr. Boeldt prepared by removing his glasses, cracking a beer and lighting a cigarette. He was a tall, boyish dude, with a short, floppy ‘do and wingtip shoes. After the glasses were off, the only hip thing about him was what appeared to be a Martian yeti face on his tee.
He was casual, loose, older-brotherly — if your brother had just come home from his first semester at college, just slightly changed for the cooler. With a calm akin to Edward Scissorhands’ when busily trimming a bush, he began, and the sounds flooded from the speakers in a thousand colors.
Adventure! music is not just music for video games (the older ones) but for bonus levels. With each hyperspeed soundscape, I felt awash in the frivolity of a hundred one-ups. Every bloopy layer conjured up a chorus line of neon anthropomorphic animals, pantless and on their hind legs. Well, for me anyway. Obviously, everyone at Rhinoceropolis on Sunday was dancing hard. Mr. Boeldt, brow furrowed, seemed none the wiser, deftly arpeggiating with one hand while the other one clutched his beer and idling smoke. Every minute or so, he would give pause and do a dorky dance move of the elbow-chuggin’, finger-waggin’ variety. It kind of resembled the victory dance I did, back in 1992 when I discovered the extra-ring cheat for Sonic the Hedgehog.
I couldn’t quite tell if Adventure! was well-rehearsed or just very good at what he was doing. For all the layers of his songs, each transition was seamless, and each touch of his finger was perfectly on cue. Electronic music, for all its robotic precision, is not free from human error; in fact, error is often magnified due to the rigidity of the sound. I garnered from his calm that Mr. Boeldt was familiar with these dangers, and had thus overcome them. I never once had to cringe at a misplaced beep or thump. I was free, instead, to watch the fellow, as he hunched over his instrument and fiddled around with the utmost nonchalance.
The brevity of the set was noticeable, but not soul-crushing. Mr. Boeldt’s presence at Rhino seemed as if he were a busker moving swiftly through a crowd and wowing with card tricks before subtly relocating. When he finished his set, it was as though he had merely spoken his piece. In order to keep the spirits high, he cued up a MIDI “Bohemian Rhapsody” while he inconspicuously disassembled, and the perky crowd responded in kind with exultant dancing. Before folding up his Mac, he put his glasses back on and lit another cigarette. The tickling gig was up, at least for the evening. It was difficult to imagine, for a moment, all the chiptune-y rainbow whorls he had coaxed from the speakers just prior.
In a time when more and more people are experimenting with computer software and electronic instruments, it’s important to consider the role of performance. If an entire song can be executed with the push of a pad, what does it mean to appear in person? For me, at least, it’s everything; seeing a musician move about the setup and engage with the audience fleshes out the act and gives it dimension and context.
I’m thankful, for instance, to have seen Benny Boeldt’s amusing serenity behind his keyboards, and now, when hearing the music again, I have an experience upon which to reflect. I look forward to seeing the creative license taken by future electronic musicians, but for now, I’m content with the memory of a chainsmoking Baltimorean awkwardly wiggling in time to his own beat.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver writer and Reverb contributor.
is a Denver photographer and Reverb contributor.
