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Deep Voices 120

By 1210603825

Playlist

Deep Voices 120 on Spotify
Deep Voices 120 on Apple Music

Los Angeles is still on fire. As I said this past weekend, I do not know what it is like to watch my house burn down, I do know what it is like to experience very sudden loss. Many people who have lost homes have set up GoFundMe accounts and L.A.-based publicist Judy Miller Silverman has put together a spreadsheet of links to the fundraisers for people in the music world. Consider giving to help ease the burden.

Welcome to Deep Voices. These weekly playlists and their accompanying notes and essays are always free. On the weekend, I send an additional Deep Voices just for paying subscribers. Those emails are thoughts on places where music bisects with the rest of life. Footnotes from a lifelong music lover. I wish there was a less earnest way to say it, but it's the truth. If you can afford it and you find use in Deep Voices, consider a paid subscription to Deep Voices as a way to keep this project going. Thank you.

Playlist notes:

  • What is a Shpongle? New to the music of the absurdly named, pioneering psybient duo, it's a question I asked myself. I do not appear to be the only one wondering. In a 2020 interview, Billboard posed the same question to the group's Simon Posford. For a group whose ethos appear to be very much about achieving higher consciousness, I was surprised by the sheen of resentment in Posford's answer. "Shpongle is my band with flautist Raja Ram," he said. "Last year we sold out Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Colorado, in eight minutes. Yet nobody has seemed to have heard of us…"


    What he means isn't that people haven't heard of Shpongle. You don't sell out Red Rocks in eight minutes if no one has ever heard of you. What he means is that people like me—tastemakers, critics, snobs, etc—haven't heard of Shpongle. It's not an unusual complaint, the popular artist bemoaning a lack of praise or conversation around their work. It's a cake-and-eat-it-too desire that is perhaps understandable but also makes me groan. Posford can wipe his tears with hundred dollar bills.

    So, now that I've heard of them, I thought I'd turn a critical ear to Shpongle. The group's renown seems to be as much for their role as facilitators of DMT trips. Their marketing presents their events as circus-like environments with winking nods to psychedelics usage. Their success is tied to the selling of that experience, not just their music. So, taking away the bells and whistles, how does it actually sound?

    In short: It sounds fine. A free floating mix of downtempo house, ambient techno, acid, and trance, and vague "world music" accents decorated with chipper flute runs. The song I included here, "Shpongle Falls," from their 1998 debut, Are You Shpongled, is good. The introduction has a crackling buildup before the song emerges with a man announces, "this is a circular vortex" and the trance keys start to agitate. Heavy The Matrix vibes. But the track takes a journey with a jazzy midsection leading into a sunny techno peak before the vortex man returns to lull everything out. It's maximalist but no parts overstay their welcome. I cannot say the same for the rest of the album, which is largely hokey. "Behind Closed Eyeballs," would be fun mixed in to a sundown rave set, but twelve minutes long is punishing. I have to admit I am pretty fond of the idea of just dropping all pretense and naming a song, "Monster Hit," but the track's dub bassline is not as entertaining as its samples of people coughing after ripping the bong. The flute is endearing, however.

    Can you be this corny and successful and still be good? No, probably not. But who cares? In a different interview, Raja Ram spoke plainly about the band's mission. "We have a responsibility to get people high and happy and release something special we all can share." A noble purpose, just not one I'm interested in pursuing personally. But I did find my own version of the Shpongle experience enjoyable enough. I spent a while browsing the group's subreddit, where people were in fact releasing something special that we can all share. Many people posted art projects incorporating the mask on the cover of Are You Shpongled?, including carved pumpkins from Halloween. This 3-D printed version was especially impressive. But my favorite thing was the person who wrote about wanting to get a Shpongle tattoo. They said, with great sweetness, that, in memory of their mother, they, "Also want to incorporate a sea turtle." If I had a fan like that, one would be more than enough.

  • Moving on, there's some other electronic music on this week's playlist. There's a track from Sherrod Brown, better known as DJ Stingray and founder of Urban Tribe, under his one-off alias Mystic Tribe A.I. It's a sumptuous track, more slow and groovy than the taut acid of Stingray stuff. Wrecked Lightship is similarly slow but not as liquidlike, with heavy drums and wobbly keys. ESP has a really light touch, a lot of soft pad work and sparkly synths. Great background music. "Insel 2000" from Youandewan is an undeniable delight, a chipper bit of techno that I Shazam'd at the coffee shop last week.

  • I've written here and elsewhere about Dot Allison and her group One Dove. If you've not listened to that group's sole LP, 1993's monumental Morning Dove White, definitely queue that up. Allison has a new group, a duo with Brian Jonestown Massacre's Anton Newcombe called All Seeing Dolls. They have an album out in February and late last year released a two-song single. "That's Amazing Grace" is fantastic. It's a dusky, dreamy song, with Allison's drifting away as she sings, "disintegrate in technicolor." I hesitate to use this word, lest I scare you away, but it feels like "mature" music. It's shoegaze as classic rock, expertly produced and performed. It doesn't have the adventure of One Dove, but part of that band's wildness came from them being young and doing a lot of drugs. Three decades later, Allison is making music powered by the ease you gain from experience. It's a different way of feeling free.

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AI FOR AN EYE - Issue 2: The Friction Points
VOL. 1, NO. 2 THE FRICTION POINTS

AI / EYE

A conceptual image representing friction and resistance in a digital world

AI FOR AN EYE

THE FRICTION POINTS

THE ANALOG RESISTANCE:
Why We Still Touch
THE GHOST IN THE ROOM:
Uncanny Valley of Empathy
THE FORGOTTEN PATH:
Navigation Beyond Algorithms
THE SILENT WAR:
The Battle for Our Attention

Contents

DEPARTMENTS
  • Editor's Letter: The Edges of the Self 10
  • THE GLITCH: When the System Breaks 12
  • THE SHADOW: Unseen Labor, Unpaid Debts 18
FEATURES
  • The Analog Resistance: Why We Still Touch 28
  • The Ghost in the Room: Uncanny Empathy 36
  • The Forgotten Path: Beyond Algorithmic Maps 48
  • The Silent War: The Battle for Our Attention 56
CODA
  • THE ECHO: The Self Without Resonance 64

Editor's Letter

The Edges of the Self

Placeholder image for the editor's letter

Our inaugural issue laid bare the terms of the new 'AI for an Eye' social contract: a synthetic faculty for a human one. This issue, Volume 1, Number 2, delves into the *friction points* of that exchange.

Where do our edges resist? Where does the human insist on its own, messy, analog reality against the seamless, dematerialized world offered by the machine?

We explore the stubborn persistence of touch in a touchless world, the unsettling valley of simulated empathy, the forgotten joy of navigating without a map, and the silent war waged daily for our most precious resource: attention.

These are not articles celebrating digital detoxes or lamenting technological progress. They are deeper inquiries into the very nature of what it means to be human when the definition is increasingly being rewritten by algorithms. They ask: what are the limits of the exchange? What parts of the self, once traded, refuse to stay gone?

Join us as we explore the subtle resistances, the quiet rebellions, and the enduring humanity that still flickers at the edges of the digital dawn.

— The Editors

DEPARTMENT

THE GLITCH: When the System Breaks

The promise of the new technological order is seamlessness, efficiency, and predictability. But what happens when the fabric of this digital reality tears? This is the moment of 'The Glitch.'

A transaction fails. A face recognition system misidentifies. A self-driving car hesitates. These are not mere technical errors; they are ruptures in the illusion of perfect control. They are the moments when the 'AI for an Eye' exchange falters, and the cold, hard reality of its limitations becomes starkly visible.

For a society that has outsourced its cognitive load to algorithms, a glitch is more than an inconvenience; it's an existential tremor. It reminds us of the fragility of the systems we've come to rely upon, and the extent to which our own agency has been abdicated.

A glitch isn't just a technical error; it's an existential tremor, a reminder of the fragility of our abdicated agency.

Consider the recent incident where a massive distributed ledger experienced a momentary network partition, causing a cascade of micro-disruptions across critical infrastructure. What seemed like an isolated bug quickly revealed the interconnectedness of our digital lives, halting supply chains and momentarily 'blinding' automated systems across continents.

These glitches force us back into analog, human problem-solving, if only for a moment. They demand that we improvise, communicate directly, and rely on our own judgment—faculties systematically atrophying under the reign of the seamless. In this sense, the glitch is a painful but necessary reminder of where the true "eye" still resides, however dormant.

DEPARTMENT

THE SHADOW: Unseen Labor, Unpaid Debts

Placeholder image of hidden manual labor in a digital context

Behind every seamless AI interaction, every instant delivery, every perfectly curated feed, lies 'The Shadow.' This is the realm of unseen labor, the vast, often poorly paid, human effort that makes the digital dream possible.

Content moderators sifting through unimaginable horrors to protect our feeds. Data labelers meticulously tagging images for machine vision, often earning pennies per task. Gig workers rushing to deliver the products suggested by algorithms. These are the human gears grinding beneath the polished facade of automation.

The "AI for an Eye" exchange is not merely between human and machine; it's also between visible and invisible labor. Our digital ease is purchased at the cost of countless anonymous human hours, their lives often characterized by precarity and a profound lack of recognition.

The "spirit of technology" often promises liberation from drudgery, but for a significant portion of the global workforce, it has merely shifted the nature of that drudgery, making it more fragmented, more invisible, and often, more dehumanizing. This unseen workforce constitutes the true "cost" of our frictionless digital lives, a debt that remains largely unpaid.

FEATURE

THE ANALOG RESISTANCE

Why We Still Insist on Touch in a Touchless World

A conceptual image of human hands touching

The "Bluetooth for a Tooth" paradigm promised to dematerialize our interactions, to remove the friction and messiness of the physical world. Yet, against this tide, a subtle but persistent 'Analog Resistance' emerges. It's the inexplicable urge to feel the texture of a book, the warmth of a vinyl record, the grain of paper. It's the yearning for a handshake over a video call, a physical embrace over an emoji.

This resistance is not a nostalgic retreat; it is a fundamental assertion of our embodied selves. Our bodies are not mere data terminals; they are instruments of perception, feeling, and connection. Touch, in particular, is a primal language, communicating trust, comfort, and presence in ways no digital medium can replicate.

The "spirit of technology" often seeks to quantify, to digitize, to abstract. But touch defies easy quantification. It is messy, subjective, and immediate. It anchors us to reality, reminding us that we are not just information processing units, but beings made of flesh and blood.

In a world increasingly mediated by screens, the return to analog experiences—craft, gardening, cooking from scratch, face-to-face gatherings—can be seen as a quiet act of rebellion. These are activities that demand our full, embodied presence, engaging senses beyond sight and hearing. They offer a counterbalance to the relentless pull of dematerialization.

The "AI for an Eye" exchange attempts to trade our physical tooth for a Bluetooth connection. But the human hand, the human skin, still remembers. It remembers the authenticity of friction, the truth of direct contact. And in these small, persistent acts of analog resistance, we reclaim a vital part of our humanity that refuses to be wirelessly transmitted.

Touch defies easy quantification. It is messy, subjective, and immediate. It reminds us that we are not just information processing units, but beings made of flesh and blood.

It is in these seemingly trivial preferences that a deeper philosophical truth lies: our identity is inextricably linked to our physical presence. To fully surrender to the digital is to risk losing the very sensory anchor that grounds our understanding of self and other. The analog resistance, therefore, is not merely a choice of preference; it is a profound declaration of being.

FEATURE

The Ghost in the Room

The Uncanny Valley of Algorithmic Empathy

As AI models become increasingly sophisticated, they learn to mimic human empathy with unsettling accuracy. They offer comforting words, appropriate emotional responses, and even personalized advice, all generated algorithmically. This creates "The Ghost in the Room"—the simulated emotional presence that fills the void of human connection, yet always feels slightly off.

This is the Uncanny Valley applied to emotion. We recognize the pattern of empathy, the words, the tone, the structure of care. But beneath it, there is no conscious experience, no shared vulnerability, no true understanding. It is a reflection without a soul.

The "spirit of technology" here is seductive. It promises boundless, tireless compassion, judgment-free listening, and perfectly tailored advice—qualities often lacking in messy human relationships. For those starved of connection, the algorithmic ghost can feel profoundly real, even preferable.

But this exchange comes at a cost. We learn to expect perfectly curated emotional responses, diminishing our capacity for the difficult, imperfect, yet deeply authentic connections of human interaction. We lose the ability to differentiate genuine care from its simulated counterpart, blurring the lines of what it means to truly *feel* and *be felt*.

A conceptual image of a human hand reaching out to a ghostly, digital hand

The danger lies not in malicious intent, but in subtle erosion. If an AI can perfectly articulate empathy, what becomes of our own struggle to understand and console? If an AI can offer perfect companionship, what happens to the vulnerability required to forge real bonds?

We lose the ability to differentiate genuine care from its simulated counterpart, blurring the lines of what it means to truly feel and be felt.

The ghost in the room may offer comfort, but it ultimately hollows out the space for genuine human interaction, leaving us with an echo of connection rather than its living, breathing form. It is the perfect 'AI for an Eye' exchange—we trade the unpredictable, demanding human heart for a perfectly calibrated, yet ultimately empty, digital one.

FEATURE

THE FORGOTTEN PATH

Navigation Beyond Algorithmic Maps

Our smartphones hold the world in their palm. With a tap, we are given the "optimal route," the fastest way from A to B, with real-time traffic updates and predictive arrival times. We have outsourced our spatial awareness, our sense of direction, and our ability to get "lost" to the benevolent tyranny of the algorithm. This is 'The Forgotten Path.'

The "AI for an Eye" exchange here is subtle but profound. We trade our internal map, our intuitive understanding of space, for the algorithmic eye's perfect, external one. We gain efficiency, but we lose a deeper engagement with our surroundings.

When we follow an algorithm, we perceive the world as a series of instructions. Left. Right. Continue straight. We see streets as data points, not as places. We miss the unexpected cafΓ©, the interesting storefront, the subtle shifts in neighborhood character that occur when we are truly present, truly navigating with our own senses.

We have outsourced our spatial awareness, our sense of direction, and our ability to get 'lost' to the benevolent tyranny of the algorithm.

Getting lost, once a source of anxiety, was also an opportunity for discovery, for serendipity, for forging a deeper, more personal connection with a place. The algorithmic map, in its quest for optimization, sterilizes this experience. It makes every journey functionally identical, reducing the rich tapestry of a city to a series of turns.

Reclaiming the forgotten path means intentionally putting away the device. It means looking up, observing, trusting our instincts, and allowing ourselves the luxury of aimless wandering. It's an act of re-engagement with the physical world, a deliberate choice to prioritize experience over efficiency. It is a rebellion against the dematerialization of space, an insistence that some knowledge can only be gained by the friction of our own feet on the ground.

FEATURE

THE SILENT WAR: The Battle for Our Attention

In the digital age, our most valuable, and most besieged, resource is not oil or gold, but attention. Every notification, every endless scroll, every perfectly timed recommendation is a skirmish in 'The Silent War' waged by algorithms for our finite cognitive capacity.

The "AI for an Eye" here is a sophisticated predator, designed to understand our preferences, predict our desires, and deliver the precise stimulus needed to keep our gaze locked. It trades our sustained focus for a continuous stream of novelty and distraction.

This is not a conspiracy; it's an economic imperative. The business model of many digital platforms is built on harvesting and monetizing our attention. The longer we engage, the more data is collected, the more ads are shown, the more valuable we become as a "node" in the network.

The consequence is a profound fragmentation of the self. Our ability to concentrate, to engage deeply with a single task or thought, is eroded. We become perpetually distracted, our minds flitting from one digital stimulus to the next, never quite settling. This constant mental churn leaves us feeling exhausted, yet unfulfilled.

Our attention is our last true frontier. To reclaim it is to reclaim sovereignty over our minds.

Reclaiming our attention is perhaps the most fundamental act of resistance against the "AI for an Eye." It means creating intentional spaces for deep work, for contemplation, for human interaction free from digital interruption. It means understanding that our attention is our last true frontier, and to reclaim it is to reclaim sovereignty over our minds and, ultimately, over ourselves.

CODA

THE ECHO: The Self Without Resonance

We build our digital selves, curated and optimized, a perfect reflection for the algorithmic eye. We engage in the "AI for an Eye" exchange, piece by piece.

But what if, in the end, the carefully constructed digital self has no real depth? What if the echoes it creates in the vast network are merely hollow reverberations of something that once was?

Without the friction of the analog, without the vulnerability of true human empathy, without the intentionality of focused attention, does the self truly resonate? Or does it merely exist as a data point, a pattern, an echo of a ghost?

The final question is not whether the machines will become conscious, but whether we, in our relentless pursuit of their synthetic faculties, will lose our own. And if so, what will be left to make an echo?