Industry’s future reveals commercialization’s evils

  Cyrus McNally Cyrus is a fourth-year
neuroscience student who currently spends his time scheming for
world domination. E-mail him at [email protected].

Yo, it’s 2030, and I want y’all to meet the sounds
of the future ““ the American Empire has fallen into the hands
of the corrupt and the mouths of the moochers.

There’s a battle going on to protect independent music
before it is long gone. You never thought it would happen, but I
guess you were wrong.

A once multifaceted music industry has conformed to our worst
fear ““ the leaders of the leaders are led by Britney Spears!
She makes eight or nine trillion every three to four years, her
monopolistic record label owns the whole world’s ears.

So how could the 21st century start out so wrong? In 2004, Bill
Gates and Britney were sharing the bong.

First Bill came up with some tight programming language ““
he stayed up all night drinking Starbucks in toil and anguish.

He managed to lay down flat the code that would surely get him
and Britney the fat payload.

The result was an indestructible music innovator ““ unique
DNA sequences decoded through automators, resequenced into songs by
rhythm pattern generators ““ producing artificial tunes of
superficial tones, based on your brain waves for you and you
alone.

It might sound bright or tight, even in spite of this fright,
but when all has been said and done, you’ll be wishing music
was still fun ““ or at least as exciting as an AM radio
station!

The scheme was implemented, our minds all cemented, thanks to
plans from the hands of the powerful and demented. All bands turned
to sand and the voice of public choice was no longer
represented.

In 2005, when a few bands were still alive, the biggest and
bloated joined forces to survive.

The “N’Sink Clown Posers” and “Krazy Kid
Korn BizKit” were rivals, but both were shut down by the
“Creed Everclearlast Revival.”

“God’s Metallic Streetback Matchsmack Boyz”
and its decoys managed to make it through 2008, but by then the
talent was gone and it was already too late.

A collective of earthly representatives formed a resistance, to
make sure phat tracks weren’t swept from existence.

Its underground nature was fearlessly led by the likes of
“Del Tha Funkee Homosapien” and Radiohead.

Even 30 years earlier the bands’ acts of creative altruism
were up against forces of a musical communism ““ that was
slowly setting in like a mental disease ““ unbeknownst to its
hosts, their minds swaying in the breeze.

A lot has changed in a time period so long, but Bob Dylan
continues to separate rights from wrong, and Digital Underground is
still singing that same old song. Ricky Martin still doesn’t
know how to get his game on, while Vanilla Ice and Eminem share a
condo in Boca Raton.

They pass away the days beatboxing and sipping on cheap beers,
Em always complaining “Yo Ice, I ain’t sold an album in
29 years! I played the perfect image and I preyed on their worst
fears ““ maybe I should release a country album and prove I
can switch gears.”

You see, on December 24, 2001, Eazy-E descended from the sky, a
40 in his hand and a twinkle in his eye, to set the record
straight: “You stupid motherblubbers, rap ain’t about
hate. I’m sorry for you suckers who found out this late, but
Shady’s a fake and his lyrics ain’t that great. His
voice sounds like a squirrel who’s about to get date-raped!
And to those who would use the words “˜unique’ or
“˜new’ to describe his weak-sauce tunes, well for Suge
Knight’s sake, I was all about that scheiss back in
1988!”

Eazy took a magical swig and ascended back up into the blue; his
message was taken and Em was forever through ““ these days
Marilyn Manson comes to visit him for summer barbecues.

The Rolling Stones still talk the talk, but they’re all
over 80 and they can barely walk the block.

Mick Jagger complains about the dysfunction of his cane, and
sings “we may be at the very end of our clocks, but give me
my Viagra back and I’ll show you who still rocks!”

In the year 2030, we all strive to fight the corruption and mend
all that was torn, returning music to its function as an art form.
Underground artists are coordinating an electrical storm to reset
prosthetic microchips in Bill Gates’ head, and destroy the
Avon counter under Britney Spears’ bed.

Then the music mongrels, totally disheveled, will collapse on
themselves and creative artists will revel as the planet transforms
into a new dimensional level.

The moral of the story is, don’t trust no conglomerate
commercialization corporation to pick beats for your radio
station.

And if you do and choose to do like they all do, I guess my
story is through, but don’t say the future didn’t warn
you.