Xenogears Soundtrack

Xenogears Soundtrack, 1998, Yasunori Mitsuda

During its late-1990s heyday, Square – buoyed by the success of the Final Fantasy franchise – created an astonishing number of new IPs. Yet none of those experiments was as wildly ambitious and head-spinning as Xenogears. Originally conceived as an early idea for Final Fantasy VII, before evolving into part of a planned six-part series spanning millennia, Xenogears delivered one of the densest narratives ever seen in a video game. Its story drew heavily on the philosophies of Friedrich Nietzsche, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, and was almost certainly influenced to some extent by Neon Genesis Evangelion. Add a pronounced anti-religious streak that nearly jeopardised the game’s American release, and you have one of the 32-bit era’s most remarkable works. Sadly, Xenogears was also held back by time constraints and the relative inexperience of its development team, resulting in a notoriously bare-bones second half.

Following his flawed but striking breakthrough on Chrono Trigger, and his place in the star-studded team behind Front Mission: Gun Hazard, Yasunori Mitsuda found himself leading another demanding Square assignment. He first had to overcome director Tetsuya Takahashi’s assumption that music was not especially important compared with graphics. On the other hand, Mitsuda’s task was eased by his continuing close collaboration with Xenogears scriptwriter Masato Kato, who had already worked with him on Chrono Trigger. As on that earlier project, Mitsuda drove himself into the ground, eventually collapsing during the soundtrack’s mastering process from exhaustion and requiring hospitalisation.

Part of what made the Xenogears soundtrack such a challenging undertaking – beyond the game’s hybrid sci-fi-fantasy setting and metaphysical ambitions – was Mitsuda’s decision to incorporate musical styles from around the world. He focused in particular on Celtic influences, weaving them into what he described as “easy-to-listen-to” pop tracks, and in doing so accurately anticipated the imminent worldwide boom in Celtic-inflected music. His initially difficult search for a Western singer ended when he happened across The Book of Kells by Celtic band Iona in a CD shop, after which lead vocalist Joanne Hogg agreed to participate. One choral track was performed by 41 members of The Great Voices of Bulgaria, contributing to a roster of nearly 100 musicians involved in the score. Mitsuda’s efforts certainly bore fruit. While Xenogears is not remembered as universally fondly as Chrono Trigger, the soundtrack still reached No. 55 on Japan’s Oricon chart, spawned two official arrange albums and has remained a firm fan favourite.

However, the Xenogears soundtrack suffers from the same unevenness that already afflicted Chrono Trigger. Once again, Mitsuda struggles to write action material that remains engaging once its initial ideas have been stated, and there is much more of that kind of battle music here than there was on Chrono Trigger. The other group of cues that often disappoints is also the one that ought to have been the soundtrack’s most fascinating: those pieces dealing with the protagonists’ fractured psyches or the game’s metaphysical setting. On Chrono Trigger, Mitsuda produced several mesmerising tracks full of unusual textures, melodies and moods. On Xenogears, their counterparts are often slow-moving, near-ambient electronic cues that function tolerably well in context, but feel stretched and underpowered on album.

That leaves the soundtrack’s most stylistically conservative material to carry much of the weight: its lyrical, warmly melodic compositions, which occupy a far larger portion of the score than they did on Chrono Trigger. Arguably, the truncated ‘best-of’ version of that earlier soundtrack still yielded a solid album arc, whereas distilling Xenogears to its strongest material produces a rather static listen of roughly 70 minutes. The fact that even such a comparatively narrow selection can still register as one of the great game soundtracks says a great deal about Mitsuda’s stature as a melodist.

Many of the score’s best cues radiate an inviting melodic warmth that makes them immediate winners, beginning with “Bonds of Sea and Fire”, whose folksy charm and alternately intimate and expansive melodies are irresistible. Mitsuda integrates Celtic elements and their innately appealing melodic character seamlessly into the lively, ambitiously structured “My Village is Number One” and the lilting, pop-inflected “Emotions”. “Dazil ~ City of Burning Sands” draws on Middle Eastern colour just as effortlessly, while neatly sidestepping the usual clichés. Here and elsewhere, Mitsuda’s often folk-derived writing meshes beautifully with his wider world-music influences. And although contrapuntal writing is not generally his strong suit, he still uses chamber-music-like woodwind textures to delightful effect in “The Valley Where Wind is Born”. Even when evoking ecclesiastical grandeur in the choir-only “The Wounded Shall Advance Into the Light”, the music remains soothing rather than oppressive.

Not all of the soundtrack’s more convincing pieces are so overtly welcoming, however, and these darker shades are badly needed. “Forest of the Black Moon” fascinates through its intricate balancing of moods and materials. Opening with a sudden orchestral discord, the cue unfolds through a surprising number of segments: at times jazz-inflected, at times gliding lucidly on shimmering woodwind or harp figures, then slipping into gently swirling electronica. It is here that the score comes closest to recapturing the elusive magic of Chrono Trigger. “Ship of Regret and Sleep” evokes religious awe in a similarly imaginative way, combining distant choir with an icy, resonant harpsichord line proceeding with aristocratic poise and imperturbable force. And of course there is opening cue “Light from the Netherworld”, a compelling, if not especially intricate, blend of orchestral, choral and electronic elements that establishes the requisite sense of scale for the game’s gargantuan narrative.

Indeed, what makes the Xenogears soundtrack so arresting is its ability to generate an emotional pull and sense of grandeur one might not necessarily expect from what is, in this distilled ‘best-of’ form, often quite a cosy score. Yet it is precisely those more engrossing cues listed above that lay the foundations for the soundtrack’s more overtly affecting moments. “Shattering Egg of Dreams” exemplifies this beautifully, its stately, slightly restrained string lead blossoming in the B section into a melody that finally allows itself full emotional release. “The Treasure Which Cannot Be Stolen” tugs at the heart through the quiet defiance of its peaceful clarinet melody, set against harp and piano. “June Mermaid” is the soundtrack’s most moving cue. Initially withdrawn and introspective, it gradually opens out in its final section, adding a hopeful harp ostinato and warm bass line beneath its deeply expressive oboe solo.

And then there is the one-two punch of “The Beginning and the End” and “Small Two of Pieces ~ Broken Shards ~”, which closes the Xenogears soundtrack with not quite a full album arc, but certainly with a powerful sense of uplift and release. “The Beginning and the End” is the one piece here that truly achieves a convincing aura of religious awe. The female voices of the Bulgarian choir offer an unusual vision of the divine, their borderline abrasive timbres suggesting something overwhelming and fundamentally unknowable. “Small Two of Pieces ~ Broken Shards ~” reaches sensory overload by very different means: as a gloriously overblown power ballad. With its near-operatic dynamics, Hogg’s impeccable soaring performance, and Mitsuda’s unmistakably Jim Steinman-esque arrangement – just listen to the guitar solo continuing under the third verse – it stands as one of game music’s greatest vocal tracks, and wipes away all memory of the soundtrack’s weaker stretches.