Music spins down from
consensual space the computers have made their own, through the filter of preference and the screening of the copyright war. Notes warbling from ear to ear in exaggerated
stereophonics; voices raw with effort and fatigue blurred into a kaleidoscopic dance of position by flickering bit states. Somewhere in the
gestalt of the world's current musical head-dip, billions of bodies frozen in mid-jump or with finger half-cocked on the desk with other hand pressed against headphones,
somewhere a meme flowers on the network. Color and shape of the five-dimensional snowflake that is our musical
eigenstate begins to shift, with increasing speed in the English-speaking and more Americanized sections of the network.
Can you hear it?
You can if you stand on top of the frequency ranges and spin the dial in shortwave, digital state leaking over into analog action as friends and acquaintences and complete strangers begin to trade soundbites, stories, memories, legends.
Beats have sharpened throughout the sonosphere, bright points of imaginary air pressure peaks in regular patterns making moires across the mind's eye.
A voice will crop up. A style will invade. This is to be expected. There's a whole lotta funk in the electronics, tonight.
James Brown is dead.