The Naked Lunch of Attention

Music, once a virus of the soul, a sonic worm burrowing into the meat of consciousness, has been lobotomized by the Soft Machine. Chopped into bite-sized dopamine nuggets, it’s pumped into the veins of the masses through the IV drip of the Attention Economy. Music, once a tangible fix, now a digitized roach motel for the attention junkies. The airwaves, a Burroughs dream of cut-up melodies, scrambled by the Cixin virus. Abundance breeds not harmony, but a cacophony of competing voices, each vying for a sliver of the shrinking attention span.

Once a tangible artifact, pulsating with analog life, it’s become a digital chimera, swallowed by the all-consuming maw of the attention economy. This is the Interzone, where the lines between commerce and creativity blur, and the very act of seeking recognition becomes a perilous dance with the predatory forces of the algorithm.

Musicians, word warriors armed with guitars and laptops, find themselves trapped in the Naked Lunch of the attention economy. They pump their sonic wares into the meat grinder of the algorithm, hoping to emerge on the other side, chewed up and spat out onto a curated playlist. Musicians, once solitary alchemists conjuring sonic spells, are now data points in a vast, chaotic network. But the algorithm is a fickle beast, a faceless god that devours content and excretes profit, leaving the artists with a hollow echo of recognition. They fight for visibility in a hyper-saturated marketplace, their screams swallowed by the white noise of a million competing voices. The airwaves crackle with the static of inauthenticity, manufactured pop stars churned out like assembly-line products. Attention, the new currency, is ruthlessly hoarded by unseen entities, leaving artists scrambling for scraps in the digital gutter.

The consumer, a drooling troglodyte hooked on the flickering screen, is bombarded with a cacophony of sonic slop. Choice becomes a weapon of mass distraction, a paralyzing vortex that drowns out any semblance of genuine engagement. Lost in the labyrinthine corridors of recommendation algorithms, they become automatons, their preferences molded by unseen hands.

Consumers, meanwhile, are bombarded by a sensory overload. Algorithms, like unseen puppeteers, manipulate their choices, herding them towards pre-packaged sonic experiences. Music becomes a mere background hum, a dopamine drip to numb the anxieties of the modern malaise. The true power of music, its ability to transport, to challenge, to connect, is lost in the cacophony of the marketplace.

But fear not, fellow travelers! There is a way out of this sonic labyrinth.

A Paradox

This Cixin good, this paradoxical commodity, thrives on its own obscurity. The more it screams for attention, the deeper it sinks into the psychic muck, devoured by the ever-hungry maw of the algorithm. Musicians, these unwitting agents of chaos, become cogs in the control machine, their creative essence siphoned off by the faceless entities that manipulate the flow of information.

For creators, the path lies in embracing the cut-up method. Fragment the narrative, inject dissonance, and challenge the expectations of the algorithm overlords. Forge connections with your audience, not through manufactured personas, but through raw, unfiltered expression. Let your art be a virus of its own, a subversive force that disrupts the sterile order of the Interzone.

But wait! A flicker of hope in the interzone. The artists, they can cut up the virus, weaponize their sound. They can build their own networks, bypass the gatekeepers, and speak directly to the awakened minds. Let the music be a virus of its own, spreading through the underground channels, infecting the minds with the truth.

Consumers, too, must awaken from their passive slumber. Seek out the uncharted territories, the sonic anomalies that lie beyond the algorithmic reach. Support the independent voices, the ones who refuse to be assimilated by the machine. Engage with music actively, dissect its layers, and allow it to resonate within your soul.

This is not a call for utopia, but for a radical re-imagining. We must break free from the control of the attention merchants and reclaim the power of music as a transformative force. Let the sonic mutations begin, let the feedback loops scream, and together we may yet forge a new musical landscape, one that transcends the boundaries of the Interzone and pulsates with the raw energy of authentic creation.

So crank up the volume, let the feedback howl, and join the chorus of resistance. The Naked Lunch of attention may be served, but we can still choose the ingredients of our sonic feast.

Remember, the word is a virus. Use it wisely.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *