I was born in the 1970s, enjoyed valuable formative years in the 1980s, and became a man (or at least a legal adult) in the 1990s, so my musical DNA comprises soul, disco, cheesy pop, and hip-hop. Rock music (or anything other than the aforementioned genres, for that matter) wasn't on my radar, as my ears weren't trained for the wailing guitars. My household was filled with Motown, Stax, and Bob Marley vibes, a far cry from the shrill screams, solos, and the ridiculous hard rock and metal aesthetic that dominated MTV at the time.
I eventually learned to love new music genres, but that appreciation wasn't born from tuning into the radio or watching music videos. Video games did that job.
The 1990s are fondly and somewhat ironically beloved for their extreme nature, best represented by the X-Games, Rob Liefeld and Image Comics, and Poochie. It was an in-your-face era, one in which subtlety took a back seat to a pulsating edgelordiness that crept through youth culture. Video games fell prey to this attitude, too. Though it's easy to point the finger at Duke Nukem, Sonic the Hedgehog, and Bubsy, it was the "extreme" versions of traditional sports and racing games that bottled that energy, shook it up, and sprayed rock music directly into my face.
My rock music journey began with Sega's gone-too-soon Dreamcast, the one console other than the company's Genesis system that best represents 1990s 'tude. The box's library is stacked with entertaining titles, but its extreme games grabbed ahold of me in a way that traditional sports and racing games did not.
That's due to their natures: Sega was an arcade giant, and its noisy, flashy games—cabinets designed to attract eyeballs amongst a sea of quarter-munching uprights—helped define the era, not just with visuals and gameplay, but also with music.
Crazy Taxi is a fine example of this, a game that seemingly predicted Uber and the ride-sharing explosion. In it, you play as a cabbie driving regular-ass vehicles in urban environments, picking up passengers and dropping them off at locations marked on the in-game map. For sure, Crazy Taxi is a thrill-a-minute experience, but its music may have left an even bigger mark on an entire generation.
Bad Religion and The Offspring's punk power carried the Crazy Taxi soundtrack, with a selection of high-energy songs that are the perfect audio companion for picking up a fare, blazing through traffic, hopping over hills, and pulling up to a Tower Records.
Though Bad Religion may be best known for the marvelous "Infected," the band, at least in my eyes, is forever associated with "Them and Us," a lyrically weighty song that has pounding drums, a sing-songy chorus, and wild guitars. I've come to really dig Bad Religion over the years, and have purchased several of the band's albums. This likely would not have happened without video games.
The Offspring, on the other hand, is a band that I sorta-kinda despise, but I must admit that their trashy tracks work within Crazy Taxi's silly confines. After all, that "Yayayayaya!" opening vocal in "All I Want" perfectly encapsulates the game's wackiness.
Although I didn't get into The Offspring, the music the band supplied to Sega helped expand my music interests. After all, those tunes blasted through my TV speakers for hours on end. And for that, I'm thankful to a band that somehow got one over on America with the atrocious "Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)."
Jet Set Radio, a blade-and-tag Dreamcast game later ported to PC, further opened my ears by exposing me to a mad mix of genres, including Japanese rock. Video game composer Hideki Naganuma roped Guitar Vader into signing off two songs from its Die Happy! album for use in Jet Set Radio: "Magical Girl" and "Super Brothers." The former is driven by a heavy, head-bobbing riff, while the latter is a bit of a cloying mess that carries an odd charm in its Super Mario Bros.-inspired lyrics.
Of course, Guitar Hero and Rock Band (and their many sequels) played a major role in my music appreciation. These titles appeared in the 2000s, when the 90s edginess began to wear thin. Still, they kept the musical discovery spirit alive by introducing me to "Frankenstein," "Gimme Shelter," "Maps," and "Spanish Castle Magic," popular songs not in my purview. I could probably draw a direct line from playing those songs with fake instruments to playing those songs on my bass, thanks to the instruction given me by Rocksmith.
I've thought long and hard about why video game soundtracks mean more to me and my friends than radio in regards to introducing us to new musical genres. Then it hit me: video games, particularly those in the sports and racing categories, are the ultimate mix tapes. Tony Hawk Pro Skater 3 has The Ramones ("Blitzkrieg Bop"), Motorhead ("Ace of Spades"), and Rollins Band ("What's The Matter Man"), as well as the hip-hop acts I know well, such as Del Tha Funky Homosapien, KRS-ONE, and Redman. Traditional sports carry this musical mantle, too. NBA 2K18, for example, mixes Sammy Hagar and Def Leppard with Mobb Deep and OutKast.
Radio—be it traditional, satellite, or streaming—is incredibly segmented, with different genres living on entirely different stations. New York's hip hop-focused Hot97 isn't going to play the newest Imagine Dragons joint. And WPLJ, a rock-pop station, may only play adult-contemporary tunes, not classic tracks. Blame it on massive consolidation, blame it on the lessened impact of the disc jockey, but radio has failed us in regards to music discovery.
Radio's folly and diminished role has left an opening that video games have filled since the rise of disc-based formats that packed enough memory to house well-curated playlists. I wouldn't say that video games are the ultimate way to discover music—that title still belongs to word of mouth from reliable friends with common tastes—but it's certain better than the once-strong alternative.