Pulp Fantasy Library: "The Music of Erich Zann"

First published in The National Amateur (March 1922), “The Music of Erich Zann” is one of H.P. Lovecraft’s most haunting short stories, and one he himself ranked just behind “The Colour Out of Space” as a personal favorite. It's easy to see why. Unlike his larger, more expansive tales, this story operates on a smaller, more intimate scale and it is precisely this narrow focus that gives it so much of its enduring power. Though not literally derived from a dream, as several of Lovecraft’s stories were, it nevertheless possesses a distinctly dreamlike quality, a quality that, I would argue, heightens rather than diminishes its effect.

The plot is straightforward. A poor student takes a room on the Rue d’Auseil, a street so narrow and steep that it seems scarcely real. Indeed, the narrator later admits to the "singular and perplexing" fact that he has never been able to locate the Rue d'Auseil again. It's within this uncanny setting that he meets his neighbor, Erich Zann, an aged, mute viol player whose nightly music he finds as compelling as it is disturbing.

The tale that follows is less concerned with action than with revelation or perhaps more accurately, with the withholding of revelation. The narrator is drawn to Zann’s strange playing, which he describes as “weird harmonies” and “vibrations suggesting nothing on this globe of earth.” Lovecraft underscores the uncanny not by explanation but by stressing its alienness, evoking a sound beyond human experience. This method of suggestion – describing the indescribable by circling it – is one Lovecraft would refine throughout his writing career, but it's already well in evidence.

Zann himself is an enigma and his muteness only deepens the mystery. He can communicate only by gesture or, in one crucial moment, through a note. He is portrayed as a man consumed by terror but equally by duty. His music is not artistic expression but desperate necessity. As the narrator observes in one of the story’s most chilling lines, “He was trying to make a noise; to ward something off or drown something out – what, I could not imagine, awesome though I felt it must be.” Zann’s nightly performances are revealed as acts of resistance against an unnamed intrusion, his bow and strings a fragile bulwark against the void.

The climax comes when the narrator, finally left alone in Zann’s garret, dares to look out of the high barred window. Expecting to see the city below, he instead beholds “only the blackness of space illimitable; unimagined space alive with motion and music, and having no semblance to anything on earth.” The juxtaposition of Zann’s frenzied playing with this abyssal vision conveys intrusion from Beyond, but Lovecraft never specifies what lies outside. The horror is not defined but suggested, leaving the narrator (and the reader) with only a glimpse into the abyss before the curtain falls.

What makes “The Music of Erich Zann” remarkable is not simply its atmosphere, but its economy. The tale unfolds in a handful of tightly constructed scenes. There are no digressions into history, no catalogs of forbidden tomes, no elaborate mythological scaffolding. Instead, it is a study in mood, memory, and the limits of human perception. Even in its restraint, however, the story anticipates many of Lovecraft’s enduring themes, such as the fragility of the human mind when confronted with the unknown, the inadequacy of language to capture the truly alien, and the inescapable persistence of memory. The disappearance of the Rue d’Auseil when the narrator later searches for it reinforces the dreamlike quality and denies any possibility of closure. Both the place and its terrible secret have been effaced, leaving only recollection, an echo, much like Zann’s music itself.

Despite how early it was written, “The Music of Erich Zann” remains one of Lovecraft’s most polished and effective works. Its imagery is unforgettable: the steep vanishing street, the mute musician, the barred garret window opening onto infinity. More than a century after its publication, it continues to demonstrate that Lovecraft’s genius lay not only in constructing elaborate mythologies of cosmic horror but also in crafting stories where suggestion, atmosphere, and ambiguity achieve the same, if not greater, effect.

The Lord Weird Slough Feg

No discussion of Traveller is complete without mentioning the 2003 album of the same name by the heavy metal album band, The Lord Weird Slough Feg. 

I'm no aficionado of metal (or indeed any other kind of popular music), but I own a copy of this and enjoy it. The album's especially fun for all the references to aspects of the Third Imperium setting. 

If you visit the band's website, you'll see what looks like an announcement of their next music endeavor, to be released in 2025:

REVIEW: Mörk Borg

What did I just read?

That was my immediate thought after attempting – and failing – to read Free League’s apocalyptic fantasy roleplaying game, Mörk Borg. As you can probably gather from its title, Mörk Borg (meaning “Dark Fort”) originates in Scandinavia, specifically Sweden, and is the brainchild of writer Pelle Nilsson and graphic designer and artist Johan Nohr. Together, they have produced, in their own words, “A doom metal album of a game. A spiked flail to the face. Rules light, heavy on everything else.”

I bought Mörk Borg solely because of its physical characteristics. A local friend of mine raved about it months ago and then, while perusing Free League’s website recently, I caught a glimpse of it in all its lurid glory. I was so intrigued by its bright yellow cover and black, white, and red artwork that I ordered a copy and anxiously awaited its arrival. I was not disappointed when it appeared at last: the 96-page A5 book is sturdy and well-made, like so many European RPG books these days. Most of the paper in the book has a satin finish, but its last section, presenting an introductory adventure, has a rough, natural feel to it.

The graphic design is remarkable. Scarcely a single page looks like any other, both in terms of layout or the headers, fonts, and other elements used. This gives the whole book a jumbled, chaotic feel to it, which no doubt contributed to my initial inability to make heads or tails of it. Nohr’s illustrations, whose execution runs the gamut from primitive to florid, are accentuated by a riot of bold colors – red, yellow, and pink – that contrast with the black and white pages, with occasional silver highlights, that make up the bulk of the book. The overall effect is disorienting and I expect that was intentional. Unlike most RPG rulebooks, particularly those “in the OSR genre” (as the game describes itself), Mörk Borg can’t be easily digested in a single reading. That was my mistake.

Mörk Borg is laconic, even elliptical, in its prose. Much is left to the reader to infer from its short, suggestive paragraphs. This is particularly true in the early sections of the book, which introduce the game’s setting. Brief sketches are given of the major locations of the world, such as Galgenbeck, “the greatest city that ever was,” the vast cemetery of Graven-Tosk, Kergüs, ruled by Blood-Countess Anthelia, and the Valley of the Unfortunate Undead, among others. There’s a map of sorts included, but there are few details and no scale. Instead, it’s largely impressionistic, depicting relations between the named locales rather than showing how many miles Wästland is from the city-state of Grift. 

This should come as no surprise, as Patrick Stuart is credited with both “English writing and creative consultation.” Stuart is well known for his gnomic writing, most famously in Deep Carbon Observatory and Veins of the Earth. I must confess that the appeal of Deep Carbon Observatory eludes me, which likely speaks to my own mental dullness, but here the prose strikes the just right balance between cryptic and opaque. Rather than feeling thwarted, I felt transported and I have little doubt that Stuart played a significant role in shaping Pelle Nilsson’s words to achieve this effect.

The prophecies of the recently discovered Nameless Scriptures accurately predict the coming death of this world. As events unravel, “reality decays, truth becomes dream and dream, truth. Cracks grow in the once-stable structures of the past, allowing things misshapen and vile to worm through, emerging into day’s wan light.” This is the backdrop against which Mörk Borg is set – a dark, depressing, and cruel place burdened with miseries aplenty (there are even random tables for determining which misery befalls the world each dawn, in accordance with the texts of the Nameless Scriptures). In this respect, it’s kin to games like the venerable Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay or the more recent Shadow of the Demon Lord in being more a “pre-apocalyptic” fantasy, albeit steeped in an extra layer of Nordic gloom.

The rules of Mörk Borg are where OSR influences are the most apparent. Character generation is completely random; everything from ability scores to equipment is determined by dice rolls. There are four abilities – Agility, Presence, Strength, and Toughness – whose scores range from –3 to +3. Character action (or tests) are made by rolling against a difficulty rating (DR) on a d20 and adding the appropriate ability score. The book provides numerous options for character generation, most of which are not additional or expanded rules as such but rather flavorful random tables. A notable exception are six optional character classes, each of which grants one of several random abilities and a bit of background. Even then, these abilities are more inspirational than mechanically significant. I would say that Mörk Borg is in the vicinity of Moldvay/Cook D&D in terms of its overall rules complexity, with slightly more options.

Combat is handled similarly to other tests, though it is worth mentioning that players roll for both their characters’ attacks and their defense against enemies’ attacks. Armor is ablative and there are critical hits and fumbles. Hit point totals are low and, while healing through rest is available, magical curatives are uncommon. Indeed, magic of any kind (called “powers” in the game) are both unusual and comparatively weak, particularly when measured against RPGs like D&D or RuneQuest. Consequently, lethality is high, a fact the text brings up repeatedly, most memorably in the character generation section, whose fifth step reads: “Name your character if you wish. It will not save you.”

Flavor and randomness are the hallmarks of Mörk Borg. The book is littered with random tables (including the front endpapers) that either aid the GM (e.g. corpse plundering or the traits of followers) or convey the feel of the setting (e.g. weather or NPC names). Table results are generally allusive and free of game mechanics, in keeping with the tenor of the game. Intriguing hints and redolent intimation are Nilsson’s idiom. In this way, he offers the GM and players free rein in deciding what it all means in their own campaigns. Readers used to more traditional RPG rulebooks might therefore find Mörk Borg frustrating at first due to its seeming disinterest in straightforward and unambiguous prose, whether in describing its setting or presenting its rules. That’s certainly how I felt initially, but it’s also why I kept picking the book up and trying again: there’s more to this game than its terse text would suggest.

Mörk Borg includes twelve creatures, such as berserks, blood-drenched skeletons, undead dolls, and wyverns. Like everything else in the game, their game statistics are simple and their descriptions pregnant with inspiration. For example, each entry includes the creature’s value in silver pieces if sold, whether alive, dead, or in pieces. An adventure, entitled “Rotblack Sludge, or The Shadow King’s Lost Heir,” rounds out the book. Described as a dungeon crawl, the adventure is nicely presented, employing a series of bullet points, bold and underlined words, and boxed text to draw the GM’s attention to important details and thereby make it easier to use in play. The adventure also provides additional examples of creatures, as if to reassure the GM about the ease with which new opponents can be created.

If I have any criticism of the book, it’s that, for all its mechanical simplicity, Mörk Borg is probably not a good choice for a newcomer to the hobby. The text assumes, I think, that you’re already familiar with RPGs generally and with old school Dungeons & Dragons and its derivatives in particular. Given the popular resurgence of D&D in both its contemporary and “classic” varieties, I don’t think this a damning criticism. I’m on record as doubting the efficacy of “what is a roleplaying game?” sections in RPGs anyway and believe that the best way to learn to play is to be inducted into the hobby by an existing player. As a game, Mörk Borg is no more difficult to learn than most other old school RPGs; as a rulebook, however, it’s neither an ideal introduction nor a handy reference.

I struggled when writing this review, in large part because so much of what defines Mörk Borg is conveyed via art, layout, and graphical elements whose effects are hard to translate into words. Reading – and understanding – Mörk Borg is almost as much a sensory experience as it is a textual one. I’m not certain it’s possible to grasp what the game is and what it’s about without actually holding the book in your hands and reading it. Even then, I personally found it hard going; it took multiple attempts before I appreciated Mörk Borg and its unique take on fantasy roleplaying.

I might have had an easier time if I had been an aficionado of metal bands. As noted earlier in this review, Mörk Borg is self-avowedly a “doom metal album of a game” and includes a list of “music that helped,” which serves as the its Appendix N. I’ve written in the past about the role played by metal and metal fans in shaping the modern conception of fantasy, but, as I said then, my direct familiarity is limited. This lacuna in my cultural education no doubt contributed to my initial confusion with Mörk Borg. Viewed through the lens of metal music and its accompanying imagery, Mörk Borg makes so much more sense. Approach it with that in mind and you’ll likely have an easier time than I did in appreciating its unique vision.

Mörk Borg is not a game I would have expected to like as much as I do. So much about it, from its garish colors and “artpunk” esthetics to its gloomy, edgy tone would seem to run counter to my own personal preferences. Yet, somehow, Mörk Borg not only works on its own terms but also managed to capture my imagination. I’ve re-read it several times now, gaining new impressions each time I’ve done so, aided in part by some of the wonderful (and attractively presented) free support material available on the game’s website. This is a fantasy roleplaying game that has lodged itself in my imagination, which is a remarkable thing, after having read so many others over the course of my life.

If anything I have written here intrigues you, I recommend you take a chance on Mörk Borg. Even if you never play it, the game can serve as a source of inspiration and a reminder that the old school scene is still a source of boundless creativity.

Oooh-EEE-ooooh!

Growing up as I did in the ancient days before either home video or cable TV were ubiquitous, my first encounters with cinematic sci-fi was watching old films on Saturday afternoons. A lot of these films weren't particularly good, but many of them, like The Day the Earth Stood Still and Forbidden Planet to mention just two, were and they played an incalculable role in forming my imagination. Even now, more than three decades later, the influence of those SF movies remains powerful, such as my fondness for the theremin.

The theremin, in case you've never heard the word before, is an electronic musical instrument invented in 1928 by the Russian inventor Lev Termen, known in the West as Léon Theremin, after whom the instrument is named. Here's a video of the man himself demonstrating its use:

During the 1950s, the theremin was used a great deal -- some would say overused -- in science fiction films, which is why I so strongly associate its distinctive sound with the genre. It definitely has an otherworldly quality to it that conjures up alien vistas for me. I understand that to many other people, the theremin sound represents cheesy sci-fi and so they abominate its use. I can understand that. Watch enough Ed Wood-level schlock and there's a good chance you'll hate the theremin, too. Not me, though. In fact, I'd like to hear it used more often.

(As an aside, it's worth mentioning that the soundtrack to Forbidden Planet did not make use of the theremin. Instead, composers Louis and Bebe Barron made that movie's music completely electronically, which is to say, without the use any instruments beyond electronic circuits, whose noises they then manipulated by playing them backward and forward and otherwise modulating them to produce the desired sounds. Considering that they did this nearly a decade before the invention of the first synthesizer, it's a pretty impressive accomplishment.)

The Ads of Dragon: Music for Adventure Gaming

I am not, I readily admit, a very musical person, which no doubt explains my bafflement at the ubiquity of digital audio players in the world outside my home. Unsurprisingly, I've also never quite understood talk about "gaming music," as if what every RPG session was more noise to distract people from what was happening at the table. But, as is often the case, I must be in the minority here, because, for almost as long as I can remember, many of my fellow gamers have been searching for "background music" to play during their adventures. Someone obviously recognized this desire and so produced this advertisement in issue #98 (June 1985) of Dragon:

There are many interesting things about this ad, perhaps most notably that Lotus Records thought Dragon might be a good place to sell belly dancing music. That's right: Ramal LaMarr is (or was -- I'm not sure if he's still alive) a composer of "Middle Eastern" music frequently used by belly dancers, both professional and amateur. Here's the original cover of "Album I" referenced in the ad:

As you can see, the guy in the horned headgear from the ad also appears on the cover of the album. I haven't been able to track down the cover of the second album, but if anyone can do so, I'd be very interested in seeing it.

As much as the Toys "R" Us ad from a couple of days ago, this ad says a lot, I think, about how big a market RPGs still represented in the mid-1980s. Why else would a record company attempt to pass off belly dancing music as "music for adventure gaming" and in the pages of Dragon no less? They must have figured they'd get enough sales from gullible gamers that it'd justify the money spent on the ad. Regardless, it's a very strange advertisement, certainly one of the odder ones I remember from Dragon, even if it is from close to the end of the days when I still subscribed to the magazine (a topic to which I'll return next week).