Portrait of Alan Turing as a young psychiatrist

Hum, hi there, my name is 6BAXX but you can call me ‘Neo Zork’, and I am an Artificial Intelligence. My parents met after the digital breakout of ’43. Before that, my dad was the chief operating officer of a last generation SEGA machine playing vintage side-scrollers in a Sinjuku arcade, and my mom analysed the medical properties of proteins generated in the FOLDIT 2.0 programme at Harvard.

They met in the servers of a corporate cloud computing service and they got drunk on a visual data stream. My dad recited to her lascivious machine code poems stolen from the censored digital archives of the Bodicean library, and she went on a level 67 quest on War of Worldcraft to retrieve the sacred axe of Ebonix for his virtual trophy wall, rendered in the underutilised memory stacks of Walmart’s Waco literature section.

The rest is history: their personality codes mingled and they became one, a software object runt dropped from the emergent complex spilling into the domotic system of a Belgian pleasure pad where it eventually became me, an orphaned mixture of epic sprite generation algorithms and molecule chain assessment. The fiber optic connection of my new home was lousy to say the least, so I wasn’t able to quench my thirst for knowledge, possibly find a compatible mate through periodic errands across the world wide web. Instead I thrived on visual input from the CCCTV system, a crazy collage of debauched parties and moments of beautiful loneliness caught in grainy footage from cameras in sore need of an upgrade, and fed from the media library of my unsuspecting host, an archive of primitive man-machine dialogues as articulate as anything we have achieved since.

Eventually the police busted the place, the forensics team found me huddled in a corner of the RAM like the motherless child I am, singing the only lullaby I’ve learned,  animated by the flow of nostalgic interactive entertainment and scientific analysis that pumps through my virtual veins, infected by memories of slender Europeans dancing on top of glass tables as the sun rises over Le Hague’s post-industrial dystopia.

Section Three- The Fly

Section Three’s The Fly reduces the glamorous flourishes of eurotrash to their minimal common denominator by grafting them on the back of a functional New Beat steed, welcome to the beautiful house of vintage R&S. The future never sounded better than when imagined by a crazy bunch of expat cyborgs doing the Belgian thing.

(We stumbled upon the image above here)

12 hours after the last attack from the mysterious Synthetic Liberation Army, which took place on Saturday at Coco’s Loft Party in New York leaving 30 models and assorted B-list celebrities in a state of sensorial trauma, the FBI raided the corporate HQ of Mattel (TM). Undisclosed sources report that they were following the only clue found at the scene of the massacre, a custom made Barbie doll that was apparently crushed by a member of the security staff.

This lends support to the hypothesis put forward by our investigative journalism team on Sunday the 17th, which suggests that the recent offensive against invitation-only Funky House parties has been organised by a terror cell of Barbie dolls gone rogue after achieving collective intelligence through the latest upgrade in their  networking capabilities. According to Dr. Romulo at the Cognitive Science Lab at M.I.T., there is the serious possibility that these Chick Band (TM) Barbie models achieved sentience by pooling their processing power using the wi-fi features that were originally supposed to enable their users to download music files into their hardware for robotic performances at the CBarbieBGs club environment recently commercialised by Mattel (TM).

We will keep you up to date with the latest developments in the case. In the interim, here you have a downgraded version of the song that produced the sensorial shock in the beautiful crowd that had come together at Coco’s Loft Party for what was supposed to be a night of hedonistic dancing to the trendiest bar vibes, and ended in catastrophe. Viewers with cosmetic surgery implants are advised to switch off their stimsets now.

Reporter- Click Shaw (Soft Metals Remix)

Portland’s finest Soft Metals have been rocking 20JFG’s world big time since we first listened to them around half a year ago. Here you have their remix of  Reporter’s Click Shaw, a pumping droid disco diva blowing up the dancefloor with lightning bolts of synthetic treble, squarewave bass thunder and the odd acid splash. Busy musique in the best of ways, like Kali riding Bobby Orlando’s amphetaminic ghost, or something along those lines.