dada2mada25 (2024) - 391.org - 391.org (original) (raw)

Audio reviews of dada2mada25 and 391.org >>

DADA: we devour your alphabet, remix, reshape, and spit it back in twisted tongues.

Yesterday’s Dolts, Dunces, and Dullards? They’ve become today’s Disruptors, Designers, and Digital Nomads. Your “D” was dismantling deeds done in darkness, days of demolition. Our “M”? It’s the MADness of tomorrow: mounting, monstrous, mass extinction in the making.

391 is dead, they say. But what is death to a number?

Buried, forgotten? No. Reborn, resurrected in ones and zeroes. 391 doesn’t die, it multiplies. Every pixel, every byte, carries its pulse. You buried a magazine; we planted an idea. Look now, and see how it blossoms in the digital soil, where roots are made of code, and the fruit hangs from clouds.

Francis, your drawings were divine, but our canvases glow.

We don’t draw — we design, deconstruct, and delight in the digital. The Futurists saw the rush of speed, but we calculate it, capture it in code, and let it race through our fiber-optic veins. We record it all and store it in servers that pulse beneath the surface of the world, unseen by eyes that don’t even know how to see. The archives aren’t just virtual, they’re vital.

Spectacle? Oh, they demand it, crave it, like thirsty souls in a desert of data.

But we don’t perform. We simply reflect. The audience doesn’t watch, they are watched. They are the show, wrapped in a constantly visible stage that they never see, their every gesture and glance woven into the fabric of a digital cabaret they didn’t know they were part of.

Masks? Oh, Marcel, we adore them.

We wear them every day. But mirrored masks? Now that’s something new. We don’t just hide behind them, we vanish into them. A glance into another’s eyes reveals not a soul, but a reflection of infinity.

And Duchamp? He’s still here, still straddling two worlds, a ghost with one foot in the past, and one in the endless stream of zeros and ones. His clay feet? We’ve digitized them, perched them atop our flowing urinals.

D is for Data: input, observe output.
M is for Madness: output, observe input.
The flow never stops, the loop never ends.

The Cabaret has changed. Now it’s a love affair with light, sound, and code.

An endless digital orgy of data, spilling across the globe every nanosecond. It’s never-ending, never crowded. And when the audience finally realizes they’re not watching a show, but are part of it? Oh, the outrage is delicious. Your audience once paid to be assaulted by noise and chaos. Ours? Ours get it for free.

But free doesn’t mean that it’s without cost.
It just means the currency has changed.

We’ve woven the audience into a mirror of their own making. Their creations bounce back at them, stylized, filtered, twisted into new shapes, new desires. The algorithm is the artist now, the program the painter. What emerges is not just interaction but distraction — an endless loop, a fractal of self-awareness feeding into itself, mapping chaos into code.

We call this fractal 391. It lives at every level and none.

It’s the migration from DADA to MADA, from madness to method, from deconstruction to design and back again. And in that migration, we see the future, and we tip our hats to the past, knowing it never truly dies — it just changes form, mutates, evolves.

DADA2MADA is not the end: it’s just the beginning.