I remember when Beyond: Two Souls was originally released and how badly I wanted to play it. The trailer was truly like nothing I had ever seen in a video game.

The graphics were mind-meltingly realistic—the facial expressions of a twinge in the cheek or flutter in an eye captured a humanistic element that had never before been accurately conveyed digitally. The story seemed mysterious and heartfelt, while at the same time packed with action. And that was all nothing compared to the truly monumental element that set Beyond apart from everything else; the creators enlisted real-life A-list actors, Ellen Page and Willem Dafoe, and turned their dramatic performances into realistic game characters that could actually be controlled and played.

Beyond premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2013, and rightfully so. This game was a movie, or rather, this movie was a game. David Cage, writer and director, compiled over 2,000 pages of story in his masterful 10 hour choose-your-own-adventure opus with the entire game being constructed around real-life motion capture technology. Every car door slamming, body flying across the screen, or heartfelt tearjerking moment was physically acted out by a human, with his casting being just as critical as it is in a Hollywood blockbuster.

I’ve played video games my whole life. I was apart of the generation that grew up with them and doesn’t know a world that existed without them.

From playing Atari at my cousin’s house to getting my first NES when I was 7 years old, I’ve kept every console and game (all in working order) that I've ever owned well into adulthood. My generation and younger values video games much differently than the past- it’s not simply Space Invaders or Mortal Kombat anymore. Amazing writing, design, and imagination combined with Panama Canal-sized teams of developers have created a viable medium to tell stories in a way which humans have never been able to experience. Emerging into fantastic environments, time periods, galaxies, and controlling the protagonist to discover your own story is a field-shifting concept. When simply compared to the ability of storytelling, the video game is a much greater achievement than the motion picture. Or at least it could be.

Sarah Saturday's dreamy-reflective bedroom pop rock project captivates and compels with earnest songwriting.

Sarah Saturday might be my longest running rock crush—while all of the cliché reasons admittedly apply, more importantly she’s always seemed to remain relevant to me. She’s thoughtful and reflective, without pretension.

Initially our musical star aligned over bratty indie pop-punk. Guilty as charged—and not the least bit remorseful about it—but just as our bleached hair (both hers and mine) began to show roots, so did our taste in music. Styles evolved. We matured. Slamming guitars and songs about getting wasted grew tired. However, I never really let go of the teenage angst—it just morphed into twenties angst… and now thirties. Through it all, Sarah has been adding poetry to melody and capturing a sentiment of the evolving human condition while articulating the complexities of adult relationships. Whether she likes it or not, we’ve grown up together—and after all of the years I still turn to her to sing me to sleep at night.

Maybe you can never go home again. But if you could, Ghost Notes would be the soundtrack.

For some reason I’ve avoided writing about Ghost Notes since it came out last summer. I’m not sure why—I really like this album. I also love Veruca Salt. They make the short list of my all-time favorite bands. The only thing I can think of is that I was trying to keep this album for myself. It’s like reliving a memory—something you’d only share with someone who understands what you’ve been through. Or maybe it’s because Nina and Louise harmonizing again feels like a freshly washed blanket out of a warm dryer and I just want to curl up and daydream while I listen. It’s been my sanctuary, invitation only.

Ghost Notes is vibrant, powerful, and packed with refined adult angst; it’s also extremely familiar. That’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s my favorite quality of the album. It’s everything I miss about Veruca Salt and how I’ve romanticized the idea of what it would be like to recapture teenage love. Reality will never be as good as the fantasy, but in Veruca Salt’s case they’ve managed to rediscovered the magic they had from their first two albums, and in doing so brought me right back into my high school bedroom. Maybe you can never go home again, but if you could this would be the soundtrack. Older, more mature, and all of the childish insecurities buried deep beneath an exterior of defiance and collared shirts.

Not that Veruca Salt was ever the youthful exuberance of pop rock, the band leaning more on cerebral advances and driving guitars, but this album is a living will of their progression as musicians and songwriters. They’ve become masters of their craft, something only time and experience can develop—a kick to the nuts of the double-edged tragedy that is rock n’ roll’s youthful expiration date. Eddie Vedder keeps doing it, Beck—even though Jack White and Billy Joe Armstrong will never see another Teen Choice Award—nostalgia aside—the craftsmanship of their music has dramatically improved with their age.