In the year twenty-twelve, whilst the LDR virus was infiltrating the Gagatorium and a strain of brain-drained hairy creatures moved their mouths to allow grunts about the death of guitar music to plop out, the responsibility fell to those not reaching for a noose to make a mends.
‘The future is here’ The Public hollered. ‘It’s over here… No. WAIT! Hang on… It’s over here!’ they guffawed while stomping their retro high-tops. They marched in unison, their machine-distressed jeans flicking back and forth… Some girls shook their beehives and guys pulled smartphones from their vintage leather jackets to take photos of people taking photos of people posing to have their photo taken. All around were giant LCD screens. Logos strobed and every so offen some words whizzed by “Welcome to the future, a place to re-enact the past where we’re all just like mannequins….”
In a nearby alley, a manic man starts muttering beneath his gasps of breath about how we’re all being taken for a ride back to our youth or to a re-enactment of our parents teenage years or our grandparents’ heydey. He shrieks that it’s because they (The Man, the mass opinion) believe we’re all ‘stalgia-soaked saps. They think they can push our emotional buttons with these power chords, insta-filters and all these John Hughes montages. Stuff us full of enough retro-candy and plonk us in front of a film that looks like a computer game and we’ll keep feeding cash into the lightly lit slot.
The mumbling man’s voice returns to the fore of my inner monologue… ‘Feel free to wallow in your video games and gaze longingly at the fauxality flickering from your Google-box. Lap up what’s being piped into your tablet…’ He says We feel like we’re loving it (lovin’ it, lovin’ it, LOVIN’ IT!) but you and me, gazing at Gosling in his silly jacket, we’re just the thirsty wolf licking a blade, drinking the ice and killing ourselves as we bleed to death (or at least bleeding off the edge of the never-ending page, scrolling endlessly, flicking our fingers and flinging our mouses, all in the name of discovery and upgrading ourselves). This is not about Ryan Gosling but I’m not saying life should in any way resemble a Downton dress rehearsal neither…I’m no moaner worried about The Power being unfairly distributed (or diluted by the whirring wonders of modern technology). This isn’t some diatribe about what ‘they’ think is good, and what we believe to be better, no, no, no (when it’s really yeah-yeh-yeah-yeah), these words are tumbling forth because i believe we’re increasingly finding ourselves in a time and a place, with no definition. Giant landmark events which re-write history are happening all around the world on an almost weekly basis yet it simply seems to all just zip by without becoming part of who we are. Without becoming really real, at least not until there’s a biopic about it. Songs in reaction to The World can now be disseminated as soon as they’re recorded but they’re not… why is that? History, without a soundtrack, is that any history at all? This ever-changing torrent of information, which shape-shifts with every twist of your head and clench of your eyes, is becoming a distorted blur, a memory test, a hazy cloud of ramblings…