The Nixxon Story in Five Installments -- FINAL

ARTICLE 5: Hear No Evil, Think No Evil, See Rock City!

It should be clear now to the student of CyberNixxonetics that Isis, the self-replicating robotic serial killer whore, is still at large. Over a year passed in dogged pursuit of Nixxon's Evil Spawn before tiredness and nostalgia overcame his spirit. A brief respite in the Betty Ford Clinic was just what the Good Doctor ordered, and Nixxon is back to his old self again! Today Nixxon inhabits a chateau in the Southeast Missouri wilderness, alternately indulging himself in the solitude of the woods and jacking-in with his 'net buddies. He has help now; a team of Isis trackers is always on alert, combing the newspapers and wire services for clues as to her whereabouts, freeing the Doctor up for more pastoral pursuits.

Now and again he performs with the proto-Modernist jazz ensemble, The Uighurs (formerly The Swingin' Love Corpses), and the too-hip-for-even-hippies C3 Psychoto-Electro Arkestra on solstices and equinoxes. And though one might believe that The Uighurs or C3 group could someday claim ascendancy to the AntiMusic throne, they are threatened by a most insidious Pink pestilence. SubGenius (sic.) "loopers" have intruded on the once-sacred stages of Devivalists, displacing the DoktorBands with a cheap, shoddy faux AntiMusique. Cheaper than a real SubGenius Doktor band? Yes. Capable of strumming the heartstrings and notochords of the True Believers? Slack-Inducing? Entertaining? Clever? Even tolerable? One must wonder!

These latter-day PinkBoy so-called SubG-Jays apparently learned NOTHING from the Nixxon debacle and are epitomizing the very embodiment of Techno Geek SubVersion. We can but dream of the day when Isis has been subdued -- when Dr. Nixxon's demons are finally put to rest -- and the Kings of Swill once again seize their Rightful Righteous Throne of Mystery Jazz. Or could Isis' insatiable blood lust be somehow redirected to home in on the disgusting Sub-Dee-Jay sample-rot? Imagine the audience's surprise when some stuck-up pansy-assed geekoid "sound artist" fiddle-farting away at a pile of Japanese sampling keyboards gets eviscerated like a yearling pig and The Corpses triumphantly hit the stage, kicking entrails to and fro as they fire up the first strains of "This is our Best Song"!

We need them now, more than ever. If not for ourselves, for the distant generations to come.


THE END ?