let it rip
The pulsing digital countdown is remorseless. On the PC menu bar. The projected hanging strip in the shopping mall.
Numerologically, \’ 2010\’ feels infinitely more apocalyptic than \’2001\’, but the best sounds around continue to share a pedigree in the analogue. Served up reheated. Or merely compressed.
A carbon footprint set in stone. Carved on set sometime back in 1968 when that mysterious black obelisk was first publicly unveiled. Despite the threat of global meltdown, the new millennium was ushered in on the back of nothing more ruinous than a piece of digital frippery from Robbie Williams. Robbie the Robot. Not so much Lost in Space as lost in the cult of meaningless celebrity.
Seven grammes of powdered Timothy Leary were propelled into orbit aboard the Pegasus rocket in 1997, ultimately burning out in 2003 before its intended deeper migration. Two years later, Hunter S. Thompson settled for only a cannon atop Aspen to distribute his remains; a Gonzo salute with two thumbs squarely on the launch button.
Between December 25th and Hogmany, I have found myself forcibly exposed to all three episodes of \’The Matrix Trilogy\’ on terrestrial tv. For all its ominous flickering code and John Wooesque choreographed ballet, less than a decade after its first chapter\’s initial release there is far too much digital dicking around to allow it to climb much higher than a Cubby Broccoli fart. As wholly indigistible as 007 fast food, its bilious aftertaste encapsulates the dire balance of CGI to substance inherent in contemporary culture.
I\’m sure there must have been some mainstream highlights in \”The Noughties\’. I just can\’t think of (m)any.
In fact, it is enough of an indictment of current trends that video gaming has for some time now provided a more engaging and genuinely immersive experience. There is no ghost in the machine. No elusive cyber deity. If we all take our fingers off the keyboard for more than an instant, there remains nothing more \’out there\’ than a shadowy lingering fingerprint. A decaying hyperlink to some remote RIAA interred archive. DRM protection by Microsoft stooges in Ray-Bans. CIA Spooks.
So. Let it rip. And keep on blurting. The hard drive is our fragile collective repository: dry goods and soul food.
Produced by Sonia Pottinger. Recorded at Treasure Isle, Kingston.