It was a quiet day on Planet Bambooshay, but then again it always is. That’s because everyone hides away in their subterranean studio caves, basking in the warmth of their computer screens and blinking LEDs. There’s a new type of studio foam which emits a sun-like glow, so it’s rare that anyone ever needs to go outside.
This is a planet built on all things synthesis. The mechanics do detune-ups. There are multiple filter types on all coffee makers (try Split Mode for a balanced flavor). The beaches have lush, rolling sine waves— just watch out for the falling sawtooths. Meals are eaten on tables made of waves and grains, which (for many time-crunched nerds) may consist of Spaghetti-LFO’s. The new flavors even let you make your own shapes!
Does this sound like madness to you? A mental prison based on unwieldy obsession and insanity?
No. This is utopia. It was created as a safe haven for those unable to adapt to human society and could no longer survive on earth. The nerds were living in their studio caves there too, but this antisocial and eccentric behavior was not tolerated by the humans.
They had to escape… to find a place where they could carry on their synthesis experiments without any obligations or distractions. A place where they wouldn’t have to go to boring dinner parties, fill out W-2s, or wait in line for a roll of stamps. Somewhere they could finally live with their obsession in peace.
But who could build such a place? What twisted, maniacal individual would devise such a society?
There once was a man who lived in exile among the humans, and began to wither away from the harsh realities of the world. That is, until he discovered that he was ½ man, ½ cyborg and set on a mission to save all the other banished nerds of the world.
This man is known as Rekraktor Overlord.
Perched on his studio throne, Rekraktor Overlord rubbed his palms together as he watched the screens flicker around him. This is Command Central®, the place where all data is directed and processed. Hundreds of computers stretch along the walls, and there’s a private synthesizer collection dating back to the 20th century.
Constantly monitoring Planet Earth for signs of E. Gotism, the Overlord (let’s go with R.O. for short) is working hard on his mission to eliminate this pesky plague for good.
What is E. Gotism? Well, it’s a horrible virus that slowly eats away at the dance music scene, threatening to destroy it from the inside out. Its ever-changing symptoms take on many forms, but some of them include the need to get laid, the desire to be popular, and pretending to be a nerd to be cool.
These symptoms manifest themselves in behaviors such as faking live sets (or filter sweeps in the case of DJs), talking shit on message boards in order to feel better about yourself, wearing manufacturers’ T-shirts but not actually owning the gear, and thinking you’re more important than others because you’re a DJ/producer/promoter/insert holier-than-thou “I’m industry” title here.
After years of being surrounded by those afflicted with this ugly disorder, R.O. began to suffer from harmful side effects. Low self-esteem, alienation, frustration, and boredom set in, making him slip into a deep depression. All of this eventually drove him to create Bambooshay, but we’ll get to that in due time.
Now, back to Command Central®. Alerts of a serious magnitude frantically popped up on the screens, and they commanded R.O.’s immediate attention. This situation was serious, and it called for extreme measures.
Was a visit back to Earth needed?
Rekraktor Overlord was stunned. How could so many different strains of E. Gotism be concentrated into such a small area? He knew it existed around the planet, but that it was like Super Germs— something that everyone heard about, but no one took seriously… until they ended up killing everyone with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in the mid-21st century. Too bad the FDA’s “Cleanliness is Next to Deadliness” ad campaign had bombed.
Usually, R.O. let these things work themselves out. The virus would attack a scene here, a scene there, and ultimately it boiled down to “survival of the fittest” (yep…centuries of scientists were too lazy to mess with Darwin). In the best case scenario, the healthy ones would band together to preserve the local dance music community. Unfortunately, that’s not what was happening here.
The epidemic was spreading at an uncontrollable rate, taking down even the most genuine and passionate victims. How is it spread? It could be a lot of ways. New ones come up all the time, but in this case the data showed that it’s money, power, and hormones.
“Hormones!?“, he bitterly grunted to himself. “When will the humans realize that synthesis is better than sex?”
The Overlord sat in silence, dumbfounded. He needed to whip up a plan of action right away, but first things first— he had to spark up a fat stalk.
Oh, sorry— I should mention that this mofo has a little bamboo-smoking habit. Yes, lighting up the ‘boo makes one very conscious indeed. And with a trusty supplier like The Universe, R.O. never needs to worry about going dry. Synthetic drugs have come and gone, but The Universe never ceases to come through with the dank goodness.
And I’m not talking about some abstract, unexplainable force of nature here. The Universe is a very real and living character that’s one of the most powerful parts of this story. Sure, his chameleon-like self can morph into any shape or form, but don’t think he’s invisible…
The Universe is from the Caribbean (St. Thomas reprazent!), so in true Island form, he tells it like it is with no bullshit attached. No need to worry, though— if you don’t mess with him, he won’t mess with you. And if you’re smart enough to be his homie, he’ll hook your ass UP.
After the R. to the O. got nice and lifted, he was ready to go over the data. Technically, he doesn’t process it himself. After years of geeking out in unprecedented ways, R.O.’s memory isn’t the best– but hey, he’s only ½ machine. And what good are superpowers if you can’t remember what to do with them?
That’s where his assistant Yuki comes in. Once a cat who was known as his “pet” back on Earth (when R.O. was still a mortal), she’s now the Master Bot of Planet Bambooshay. Sounds like a fancy title, but she spends her days slaving away in R.O.’s cave, sifting through all the info at a blinding speed. Stuck with him in their immortal existence (which was his idea anyway), she envies the cats back on Earth who have only nine lives.
Grumbling under her breath, she eyed the screens while occasionally shooting a sideways glare at R.O. He was currently in the midst of another coughing fit, which she’s learned to tune out by now. Without losing her cool demeanor, she made her final conclusion.
“We must descend to Earth immediately. Over, Lord.”
Yuki’s words aren’t communicated in the way you might be used to. Years ago, she developed a mental feed reader which allows her to telepathically relay thoughts. Usually, it’s a one-sided process— she digs deep into the darkest corners of people’s minds while they have no idea they’re being mentally invaded. It almost looks like a stock ticker back from ye olden days, but with way prettier colors and fonts.
She embedded one of these readers into R.O.’s brain (it’s amazing what you can do with psychic widgets these days) so they could communicate silently and instantly if needed. Though Yuki sometimes plants hilarious thoughts into people’s minds at the wrong times (such as funerals, work presentations, and first dates), at Command Central® it was mainly reserved for top secret and urgent matters.
R.O.’s eyes bulged. Yuki doesn’t say something like that lightly. In fact, she hates going to Earth. Shooting up from his seat, the almighty Overlord scrambled over to his closet to examine his all-black wardrobe (admittedly, he went through a little Industrial phase at one time). Which outfit to wear…
ZZZZZZZAP!
The feed reader not only broadcast the message again, but this time came with an electric shock.
“Dammit, Yuki!”, R.O. snapped. With a sigh, he grabbed his usual getup and hurried towards the spaceship.
“If I don’t look mysterious enough for the mortals, I’m blaming you this time.”
As they headed to Earth in their pimped-out spaceship (known as the m.0 O.G. Voyager), Rekraktor Overlord examined the radar to prepare himself for their destination.
It was in a place called Nation. Back in the 21st century, the music industry lost the fight against the digital revolution and was forced into exile in the Pacific Northwest. By then, the artists and execs were all too jaded and strung out on coke and painkillers to care about originality or substance, so they simply named this island “Nation”. Why the Northwest? Few reasons are known, but some suspect it was due to an unhealthy obsession with Twin Peaks.
In this little land of Nation, there’s a county (called Stukkin) completely dedicated to electronic music. Made up of a handful of small towns, everyone’s trying to expand the borders every which way. While there are a few corrupt leaders and politicians who make promises of progress to the people, there are also local well-intentioned community activists. They try to bring about positive changes, like introducing quality music, good vibes, and a forward-thinking vision, but are often defeated by the Dance Music Mafias trying to run shit around town. This is seen in the fact that gigs are only offered to those in the “family” and the leaders care only about status, power, and money.
Descending onto the planet, Rekraktor and Yuki closed in on their target. It’s a place which has started to cave in on itself with quiet desperation, a place where the highest levels of E. Gotism have been detected but no one’s done anything about it…yet.
Bored? Feeling lonely and uncool? Want to redeem yourself for all those years in high school when you just couldn’t fit in? Well, today’s your lucky day. With that cushy corporate day job of yours at My Soft Scro, you CAN buy yourself popularity!
Introducing the Frat House™. It’s an exclusive club where only the elitest of the elite mingle and rub shoulders with all the cool kids. No need to worry about that random straggler off the street who just wants to dance and bring some vibe. With our rigorous door screening procedures, NOBODY (and we mean nobody!) is let in without a résumé, fingerprints, DNA samples*, and three professional references. Now YOU can pretend to enjoy dance music in a closely monitored environment without interacting with the “common people”!
Bad credit? No problem! We offer several monthly payment plans to give you the peace of mind that no matter what, you’ll always have a place where nobody knows your name. If you just want to stand around and hang out with your friends (instead of kissing our asses, that is), please be aware that there will be a per-minute charge. But what you get in return is a false sense of belonging, strangers drinking all your beer, and annoying conversations with cokehead scenesters. After all, fitting in never comes free!
By now, you’re probably asking: “How can I get in on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity?” Because if you’re not, you obviously know nothing about being cool, are utterly hopeless, and should change the channel right now, fat ass.
But for those who want to take their popularity to the next level, stay tuned for more info. The Frat House™ has what it takes to make you part of our club: YOUR MONEY!
*We sometimes make special exceptions regarding DNA samples, since we know how those club sluts like to throw around their STD’s. And what’s a party without skanky club sluts?
Miss Jade knew that she wasn’t happy. But why?
It wasn’t that the Follow Actions were always set to (Getting) No Action, or the sex had gotten too automated, or that she wanted to play around with other people’s knobs. And no, she didn’t want to be in an open source relationship–she was a mono-phono-nogamous type of girl.
The problem was that his synth was too small.
Some might say that it’s not the size that matters, but it’s how you use it (by the way, those people have small penises). She tried to work with that logic, but seriously… one filter? It’s kind of like having one ball.
Plus, she was getting all hot and bothered thinking about her new synth (which was due to arrive any day now). It was the Axis of iLLness: 20 pounds of the sexiest goddamn metal and circuitry you could ever imagine. Sure, she’s messed around with a couple soft synth demos here and there, but they never meant anything. Not enough for a full install, anyway. This was the first hardware synth she was taking home, and damn was she excited about it.
Though she hasn’t met him yet (yes, it’s a him), she somehow knows that he’s perfect for her. He’s got balanced outputs (no mood swings), aftertouch (hey, cuddling is VERY important), and a dual ESP system (so he can read 2 minds at a time– crucial for those kinky nights when other machines are in the mix). And what girl doesn’t love the infinite capabilities of the Bod Matrix and Multiple Mode filters?
These thoughts were quite unsettling to the otherwise calm and collected Miss Jade. She didn’t know that gear lust could get THIS bad. With a heavy conscience, she forced herself to throw all of her iLLness catalogs and other pr0n in the trash.
The three of them quietly passed around the bamboo. Critical decisions needed to be made, so everyone’s thought process needed some enhancing.
“No thanks,” Yuki sighed, passing it on. For the millionth time, she reminded them, “It usually glitches out the feed reader.”
The Rekrakt-O eagerly reached for the burning stick.
“Tell me, Profit… (Cough cough.) Why did you send for us? No field reports, no images—not even a clue as to what’s going on. You know you can’t fire up the red alerts without an explanation.”
Introduction time. The Profit 5-R is a living, breathing synthesizer who was recruited by R.O. for his psychic powers (by the way, interplanetary telecommuting is now even easier through Werdholes™, which we’ll go through later). The humans consider the Profit a collectible by now, so he hangs out in synth museums and retail shop displays to spy on them. He reports back to Command Central® with observations, which sometimes include stupid yet amusing conversations between sales managers at Shit Tar Centre. He can be a little greedy and charge for the really good profi-C’s, but R.O. accepts the Profit’s shortcomings. Hey, he’s just a rackmount version.
“There is too much to explain, Overlord—it’s more serious than ever. All the venues have been closing—cops and condos shutting everything down. We’ve had a severe Progress and Vision drought, and now a huge outbreak of E. Gotism is destroying everyone in its path.
There’s some talk about building a ‘techno community’, but segregation and apathy prevent it from happening. We’ve got the same leaders doing the same things with the same technology in front of the same crowds. Even the former techno activists who you’d shown The Way to are now being taken over by E. Gotism, and…”
He paused. “Everything is stuck in time, Overlord.”
R.O.’s heart stopped (in the ½ cyborg, ½ human deal, he kept it as one of his human elements). A cold, austere look swept over his face. He knew what this meant, and violently scrambled to his feet.
“Profit, take me to the Grandfather MIDI Clock at once.”
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