Microchip, on our shoulder.

The marching, monolithic automatons of our digital era, with their swaying scythe arms, leave no deeper scars in modern audio art than the ones defacing the sounds of progressive electronica right now, underground. These songs puke forth from the mouthes of tiny cellars, bedrooms and the young and bloody bellies of the dirty electronica queens. The angry energy of a generation of near-cyborgs, in gleaming streams of chatter and bass. The deafening agro spasms of an animal out of control. This almost involuntary cacophony, is the by-product of the forward thinking creative mind, of a frustrated species. Akin to the organ grinder's monkey. Left screaming in a concrete box. Cheated by it's arrogant master into thinking, strength is security and security is freedom. We suffer, in toxic plastic luxury. Secretly craving the soft thud of a cowskin drum in the jungle. But taking our silicon and doing what we can with it, none-the-less. Microchip, on our shoulder.
This here, among famine, gorilla wars and the tantrums of an angry planet, bled dry and stressed, starts the latest Paradigm shift. Here now today. We're teetering on the edge of the apocalypse, grinning into the flames. Roaring into the streets with the nastiest noises imaginable, horrific yet beautifully complex. The voice of our machine, if it had a throat and tongue. As natural as any stringed instrument. As chaotic as the mathamatical chirps of the tiniest birds. Calling, "Where the fukk are we now!?" into the vacuum, and waiting for the silence.