"Somewhere Over Gravity's Rainbow"

The night of the festival - aka, one day later, had arrived. The timing in early autumn probably had something to do with ye olde harvest festivals back in the day. As Zipper and friends set up on the roof of Crash Landing, a sunset shaded like a blood orange stretched across the sky, creating a scarlet tint behind the Big Dig skyline.

The eye of the festival would be in a low-lying district filled with classical-style squat two-story buildings made of A-Polymer with exteriors painted to resemble bricks; in the distance, downtown, you could see the giant skyscraper forests with thousand-story apartments and those twenty-four-lane freeways running through the buildings themselves. The highways and elevated vactrain railroads twisted and turned around each other, resembling rollercoasters at an amusement park, while drones and flying cars flew in V formations towards their various destinations above it all.

Several freeways were closed for the festival, allowing the party to spread upwards into the clouds. Up on the closed highways, on rooftops of various heights, smoke rose from barbecues and grills, banners of all colors waving, a three-dimensional block party, pneumonic tubes set up like waterslides from the 700th floor of skyscrapers down to the street level, which was covered in smoke and fog from smoke and fog machines, only the occasional glow of a cigarette or fire-breathing jester reaching the rooftop of Crash Landing through the dull blue-gray layer of artificial cloud, giving off the impression of uh, what did Sue call it - the Greek underworld, Elysian plains, perhaps the road below itself was the River Styx, and the water was quite fine that day…

Music drifted in from distant performances, the wordless alternative-intelligence-electro-psychedelia, a perfect genre for a humanity that’s experimented with music for thousands years now and was feeling a bit burned out, perhaps. But at the same time, this Alt-I stuff was getting overdone too, and you can tell because the corporations have begun including the genre in their commercials (what the hell does techno-psychedelia have to do with Old Slappy’s family diner burgers?). Perhaps the time had come - maybe the pendulum could swing back to human creation.

‘Least, that’s what Zipper told Joe. Now that the time had come, he looked a little unsure about his band’s merits. Crash Landing did agree to allow a human performance 'cuz everybody enjoys a novelty act once in a while, like circus clowns or dancing bears. 

The rooftop was small and square, painted brick, with enough room for the band on one side and a handful of crowd on the other. Most of the audience would be down below, looking up or watching street projectors below the smoke, or on the roofs across the street, or up on the freeway, everything orange-tinted by the sunset. While Rango and Crash Landing robots assembled the drums, Zipper and Joe stood off to the side, her gazing at the sunset, him gazing at the underworld.

Maybe her presence was enough (‘least, that’s what Zipper hoped) because Joe finally looked up with a relaxed smile. “Say, love, got a surprise for you.”

He pointed at the sky right as a robot flipped on a searchlight. Stretching across the sky was the band’s new name:

“The Do-Nothings?”

Enthusiasm carried Zipper’s voice off the rooftop. She thought her face was gonna fall off from smiling so much. “You named your band after my crummy little song?”

Joe pushed some mop-top off his face. “It’s a good description for a generation of kids living in the private wombs of today. Alternative intelligence can make good music, but it can’t speak from the soul, yanno? Since it don’t have one. Our music won’t be as good as computerized perfection, but if we try our best, we'll be alright. Maybe we'll inspire some people to get out onto the surface like you inspired me and the fellas, right-o?”

Zipper felt a warm breeze on her. She was smiling like a fool and she didn't mind. "Right-o indeed, ol' chum..."

Slow called Joe over for some final preparations. As the band gathered ‘round their instruments, up on a big stage, the Dime Boys awaited the performance. 

“You oughta ask for royalties on that name,” Sue suggested.

Nat gave the name a thumbs up.

“It really fits,” agreed Scottie.

“Aww, thanks guys,” said Zipper. She wondered what Franky Foo the dead rat would’ve said. He might’ve said Zipper, you're feeling mighty fine right now. What's that tugging at your heartstrings, making you smile so much? You like someone, maybe? You're getting closer to figuring out that Something? Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. You and I both know nothing lasts forever-

“Wait wait wait,” Zipper said, turning back. “Who are you?”

“I’m Scottie,” said Scottie.

Zipper and Nat glanced at each other. Nat shrugged.

“Guys, c’mon,” Sue chided. “It’s Scottie! And everyone knows it’s not a party ‘til Scottie shows up, isn’t that right!”

“For sure,” said Scottie.

“Right, right…” Zipper said, not understanding, but it didn’t matter because the performance was starting. Fireworks shot up from mortars stationed in the Crash Landing parking lot, exploding rainbow colors painting a picture of the four men that ventured up from the underground and now stood on the rooftop for all to see.

“Hey, I don’t really look like a neanderthal, right?” asked Rango, studying his own firework depiction in the sky.

The colors shifted, coalescing, ‘til they spelled out:

NOW PRESENTING - A HUMAN BAND FOR A HUMAN WORLD - THE DO-NOTHINGS!

Cheers erupted from the street below, on the various rooftops and freeways, on the screens of those watching from home. White lights flashed from eyeballs as the audience began recording, many of them with giddy looks in the eyes.

“They got this many fans?” Zipper asked.

“Many just want a good show,” said Scottie, tall and lanky, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Many are here just for the novelty of a human band. Many prolly want them to fail so they can make fun of ‘em.”

Zipper, deep in thought, nodded. “I still have no idea who you are.”

The four members of the Do-Nothings, dressed in black suits, grinned from their spots on the podium. Zipper could tell the grins were hiding nerves, sweat rolling down the temples, but just like Zipper - you either shit or get off the pot, and the Do-Nothings planned on letting out a big collective poo-poo tonight.

“Uh, hullo,” Joe said into the microphone, guitar slung around his shoulders. “We’re the Do-Nothings, and we’re happy to be here.” He swallowed, glanced down at Zipper, who went a step beyond by giving him two whole thumbs up this time. That steadied him. “Right, well, if there’s one thing ya take away from this - go out there and talk to someone, alright? It might make for a swell afternoon.”

Rango lifted the drumsticks. “Alright, lads. One-two-three-four-”

You really had to be there. Words ain’t gonna do it justice, dig?

It started off rocky, ‘cuz what a place for your first real performance! Rango was going too fast, so the others had to keep up, and all those eye-cameras flashing, rolling, recording, it was tough, don’t drop that pick now, Walrus! And oh, Slow hit a wrong key, Joe’s voice came out unsteady. It’s not bad, but it ain’t good.

But, when you really think about it, what is ‘good’? Music, as with all forms of art, was dominated by computerized intelligences with complex formulas for churning out songs that fit exactly right, hitting off your checklist of ‘good’. And it’s all personalized, too, art tailor-made to your interests. Anything you read, consume, experience, listen to - in this modern world, they’re all 10/10s. Because they’re personally made for you, after all, by a untiring algorithm keeping track of everything from your enjoyment of maracas to blood pressure during guitar solos. The time of stars had come and gone. Everybody had their own Alt-I nowadays.

But when everything is so good, when everything is perfect, nothing is. Because if you remove imperfections, then there’s no concept of “perfect” either. It all goes away. If nothing disagrees with you, then nothing can agree with you, either. It all just is.

When the Do-Nothings performed that night, and sang with a voice from you and me, this was the first time for many in the audience that they heard something that wasn’t perfect, something that didn’t 100% agree with them.

It would make many of ‘em mad, as you’ll see soon enough. But when the audience started clapping along on the rooftops, it’s cuz the Do-Nothings were singing a story about feeling lost, feeling alienated, feeling like you got nobody but sycophant robots telling you it’s alright, no friends - no hopes, come to think of it, but you’ve never realized that yourself, or at least put it into words. And it’s coming from a group of scraggly-looking twenty-somethings who make mistakes and probably should shower more - you can see yourself in them, can’t you? More than anything produced by distant, cold, uncaring calculations.

Rango’s drumming stabilized now, Slow hitting all the right keys. The songs were hope for the hopeless, dreams for those who slept in darkness. Zipper and Sue and Nat placed their arms on each other’s shoulders and started bobbing along, as did those on the rooftops. They could hear the clapping drifting up from the underworld beneath.

“You crying?” Zipper realized.

“No, just sweaty,” Sue answered, looking away. “In my eyes, yanno…”

The ghost of Franky Foo appeared behind the band, visible perhaps to only Zipper, but he nodded. I was a toxic-rat, but Zipper, you’re human! Sometimes you forget that. Now that you’re out and about and rising from the haze, don’t forget that you have the capacity for love, to create, to, ha-ha…do something! To take advantage of this precious life you’ve been given and get out there.

“Hah,” Zipper mumbled. “Well-said, my friend." She kept her eyes upward, on the performance, on the sunset behind it, and what a grand day for a sunset it was. 

Another song, another tightening of the coalesced humanity ‘round that little podium and the four rockers. On and on the performance went, until the band finally played their last note. It took a moment for the audience, so wrapped up in it all, to applaud, but when it did, it came like warm thunder on a long summer’s day.