A

nony

M

uzsic

     Riding the like wind, the turbo kicks in.  City lights reflect neon vibrations off the spotless hood.  My mouth dries, so I twist open a SynthPop, sipping and thinking: about this nightclub I’ve never been to, the Epic-Italo.  Nu Disco is all the DJs play apparently.  Kimberly will be there, grooving to every cosmic track.  Hard to believe, but she’s actually kind of a cool geek for this retro-futurism stuff; even more than Bryan, my best bud.  When she gets close to the DJ booth, we're going to request what we’d always chill to during our coastal road trip; ‘Roadtro,’ that late-night, highway cruising muzsic. 

 

Breaking through the soundscape of the landscape, electronically rocking the past back to the future – redlining with no one to outrun! 

 

Ridetro

aNoNyMoUs ReTrEcHo, The First

The Alpha , The Frame of AnonyMuzsic

Anonymous RetrEcho , The Second

The Beta , The Path of AnonyMuzsic

You’ve waited for the echo.  And now, it's time to revive Retro; relaying the everlasting vapors of ’80s synths. 

 

 

 

      The sounds of summer, another renegade going for a night drive, startling me from my dream-wave.  Man-nap over, I hit the eject button before I stretch off the blankets.  Sitting up, I flip the cassette back to side A, press play; re-tuned into ReRetro.  I change out of my nostalgic skate jams, get fresh, and wear new everything.  Parked in my garage a vintage two-door, two-tone convertible.   Hopping in over the door, the key lands inside the ignition. The engine purrs as the headlights fold open.

The Guy in the Grey Hood

in The Halls of Ways

9 : 5 9 : 5 8.  9 : 5 9 : 5 9.  The sound of a school bell rings through the intercom.  Every classroom door opens to indistinct chatter above the hiss of hundreds of rushed footsteps echoing in the hallway palely lit under fluorescent lights.  A group of boys huddle around their leader, who hangs his jacket and backpack into his locker, taps record [ ] on his smartphone, and slid it inside the pocket over his heart.  No one but his five-man crew wearing matching football jackets saw this.  “Raa-oow-Raa!”  He roars, and the five around him repeat twice, a pregame ritual, as he secured his locker closed, turns around while cracking his knuckles – and out of nowhere with a finger like a dagger – prods the next guy to walk by just beneath the collarbone.  This guy, sporting a grey hood, doesn’t look up, but did not look down; still leaning slightly forward.  Hands high on his backpack straps, all he does is lower his right and click pause [ ıı ] on his mp3 player clipped to marble green Z Cavaricci jeans.

 

“Now who do we have here?”  The lead bully asks, backhanding the grey hood off the guy’s head, a spill of unkempt auburn hair dangled over his olive forehead, then slaps the wire of the earbud out of his right ear with the same hand.  But the guy caught it and held it over the spot he was poked, left arm angled flat across chest.  “It’s one of those sad, eighties babies.”  Exaggerated laughter, half-piggish half-snakelike, from the mouths of his backup attract more of their peers to gather round.  “We get it, you’re an endangered species.”  The leader looks to his far left, “Although,” directing that word to the two sides of the audience behind him, his body following his face like RoboCop, “the year is two-thousand and sixteen, dude-ette.”  Spinning now like Michael Jackson, body following his feet, he darted his voice across the rest of the hallway, speaking down upon and past the guy.  “The eighties are so Van Damme over, God damn it.”  Some from the crowd gasp (the tension ratcheting up a notch) no one wanting to laugh first before the six-man crew.  “Get over it, you puny wannabe Zack Morris.”  Signing the Hawaiian hang loose with his left, “We,” like a composer instructing an orchestra with both hands for a second, “are the pantheon of Gods,” his dark-skinned, aquiline nose twitched with feline excitement, “over the top, of your game, boy.”  Lowering his left hand like winning an arm wrestle, “Game over.”  He pantomimes snapping a revolver closed and loaded, pulling back the hammer, his thumb, and blasting it at the guy. 

 

“KaPOWski!”  Shouted one of the five backing up their leader, stomping the ground during the middle syllable, provoking most in the growing crowd to flinch.  Instead of withdrawing he kept the power flowing, launching forward again with a head-butt, stopping just a few inches from smashing foreheads, and remained there a full breath before returning to formation.  The guy in the grey hood stood utterly motionless; breathing shallowly if at all. 

 

“Yeah, if you love the eighties so much,” a fellow buddy preps his rhetorical question from behind the camera yet over the leader’s shoulder, “Why don’t you go make out with your mom – and her sisters – your aunties?”   

 

Just before that moment got awkward a girl from a few rows behind the tight crowd of spectators spoke up with an acted Southern American accent, “Boy, he done did a lot more than just make out wit yo momma.”  Laughter erupted from the majority of the crowd. 

 

“Who fuckin’ said that shit, God-damn it?”  He demanded; his voice, not yet a man’s, cracking.  His Mexican skin blushed red to the roots.

 

“Fucked-her-right-in-the-pussy.”  A boy snarled from the middle of the crowd, doing an impression of a viral news blooper.  

 

The leader of the bull-headed takes a step around the guy, about to shove his way through the crowd but is held back by his friends; a forearm covering the camera without intending to, “When I find out--” 

 

An androgynous voice yelled from the back somewhere, “Like a raw hotdog sliding down a dry waterslide.” interrupting him. 

 

“Mo - ther - FUC-KER!” 

 

“He is!”  Said a random voice similar to a football commentator confirming a field goal, bouncing off the ceiling and accentuated by the clap of a veiled low-five. 

 

“Oh, yes!”  The actress girl from earlier spoke up again, “He—Is!” this time mock sexually. 

 

From another corner of the crowd a boy with his back turned and palms cupped around his mouth loudly vacuumed an inhale, “L u k e,” clearly a Darth Vader impression, “he is your father.”  The lead bully’s name really was Luke, and now the crowd of kids can’t quite contain themselves; clapping their hands and banging the nearby lockers, laughing with their entire bodies (extra receptive to what was about to transpire).  

 

The crew of jocks clenched their jaws and aligned their game faces together then to Luke.  Pectorals pumped out under stiffening necks, their collective focus shifts back to their victim, “Real men,” Luke swallowed down his predacious saliva, “accept the times they are living in.”  Many a smartphone is pulled out and swiped on to record [ ].  “Queer-ass hipsters like Daft Puke over here are in depressed denial.”  Some indistinguishable murmuring swirled the air, but Luke is unbothered.  “Quit trying to imitate a decade you weren’t even alive in.”  His eyebrows clenched above facial muscles flexed, “Retro is dead.”  Luke widened his stance with a step forward extended by leaning; close enough for the guy in the grey hood to smell the copper in his breath, “And after we’re through with you,” the five close in, “Ain’t no one gonna resurrect your synthetic, AKA fake style.” 

 

The guy in the grey hood finally looked up between blinks, squinting a bit, scanning the eyes of the crew, counting six (four without a fighter’s spirit) in two seconds.  From the core of his gut to the tips of his fingers and toes, his torso throng with nervous energy.  Now staring into the lens of the smartphone’s camera inside Luke’s shirt pocket, the guy in the grey hood, calm yet intense, broke his silence, “The eighties are sacred.”  He subtly clicked play [] on his mp3 player, then skip [ >>l ] – the next random song, ~Afternoon on the Moon by Vincenzo Salvia.~   The jock crew were first to notice a song emit from his headphones.  Click after rapid click upping the volume, the guy’s eyebrows and eyelids mechanically contract closer and closer, “I must break you.” 

 

As the guy’s lips sealed on the last word, he blinked, switching focus to Luke’s eyes.  Stare down…seconds dilate into some primordial measure of time…  While adrenaline-laced inhales and exhales cycle, the air in the room tightened like a coiled snake.

 

Infuriated, the second in command, the stomper during the mock gun blast, quickly nodded to Luke, a signal, then bent his knees tilting back; a tackle telegraphed from a mile away.  Luke confirmed with an almost imperceptible nod, glancing away from the guy in the grey hood, who, not having let go of the earbud, transfers it to his rising right hand, casually returns it to his ear, then suddenly punches, closing his fist midair like Bruce Lee, straight at Luke’s chest pocket propping the smartphone – spider web cracks crackle across the screen – knocking the wind out of Luke, immediately followed by another right, torso wound up now – a power shot like a blunt spear to Luke’s chin.  Whipping his momentum backward at peak contact, the guy in the grey hood jumps up and sprawls over the tackler just as the bass of the RetrEcho kicks in at the nineteenth second --a flash of concrete shattered for a black belt test-- palm-striking the tackler between the spine and the skull – – limbs going anonymous until the RetrEcho is over.. .  .  . ..  

 

Exiting the washroom, hands dripping wet with diluted blood and soap, he wipes them dry inside the pockets of his wrinkly green hood he had planned on wearing for gym class while he briskly jogged to third period; Biology.  Every pair of eyes track his every movement, then return to watching the waylay from various angles on their phones.  The hooded guy sat down in his desk in the middle of the classroom same as any other day, though this time masking his heavy breathing by holding it in, and exhaling slow.  10:07:43 .  Late almost three minutes, he is still earlier than the teacher who ‘Went to fetch lab equipment!’ written on the LED board.  1 0 : 0 7 : 4 7 

Mr. Driver - in - Race Off

A black sedan expands across the surface of the rearview mirror, could be a cop.  Breaking a multiple laws a minute paying no heed to stop signs or crosswalks going at about twice the speed limit, all while texting and driving with the same hand holding the clutch.  He snaps shut his flip phone, postponing his text (written encrypted (just 0s and 1s)) and shoves it into the glove compartment. 

 

Possibly living his last moments as a free man, the rest of his days waking and resting within the confines of claustrophobia inducing pastel painted prison walls, he takes a moment to appreciate seeing far and wide the civilization of man, and, the almost motionless twilight tide sinking to dusk in the sky’s neon orange pond.  Lengthwise over the tinted driver side window, vibrating with every redlined rev of the V12 engine, only a handful of the brightest stars are lit; elapsing in and out of existence like contrails of light.  

The undercover turns on its lights (no siren?) no wait, those are the signal lights blinking one after the other; the universal challenge to a road duel.  “No pro-blem-oh.”  Spoken monotonous like an old-school sci-fi robot, as the delivery guy eases up on the gas, giving a head start to his opponent, opponents; two in the front and two in the back.  “Whoo-yeah!”  His right hand rattles open hang loose, tightening to a knuckle-cracking fist. “Race on!” now with an Aussie tongue flaring his nostrils, biting his lip, displaying his top teeth, “You bastard creating cunts.” 

 

Not unlike plumes of gunpowder in the nostrils of a soldier, the aroma of sport tires skidding waft through the AC, deactivating ego of the delivery guy, his fearless soul directing his body – limbs going semi-anonymous. 

 

Exceeding 100 mph in mild downtown traffic the pedestrians and even the other cars on the road seem as though posing for a picture.  Through yellow light after yellow light, even across solid reds – the race (a chase?) goes on. .  .

 

Around the slightly curving road accelerating far beyond the car-impounding limit, the shadow casted by his opponent’s black Mercedes-Maybach strobes between the skyscrapers as it lengthens over the inside lane on the right about to open.  If only the civilian in the minivan – yes – the mother distracted by her child – signals to the left lane, accidentally cutting off the sedan with no choice but the outside lane.  A little late to adjust half of the Maybach is over the outside solid white line, tires kicking up squibs of debris from the shoulder.  It’s time.  Tilting the wheel rightward, exiting the Maybach’s slipstream, the delivery guy releases the gas, pivoting his right heal to tap the brake, left foot punching the clutch, downshifting to third.  Withdrawing from the clutch he gradually floors the gas and overtakes the Maybach; the side view mirrors touch – clipping at the tips – hot sparks bouncing off their tinted windows; no horns are honked.   

 

At the city’s edge the traffic lights shining from above streak across the windshield, as the cyan horizon enshrouds the setting golden Sun; every color in between almost hypnotic; fluid, photonic beauty.  The delivery guy's eyes are off the road, gazing into the adjacent direction of his opponent’s four-door ultra-luxury ride; as though not there. 

 

The volume of the familiar Ridetro track lowering to silence, he takes a relaxing breath, having gained the lead.  His mp3 collection randomized, the delivery guy hoped the next song wouldn’t be a downer; the odds in his favor.  Just before the apex of the onramp, prepared to slam the gas pedal and power through to fifth gear, pinning it across the straightaway of highway, the song changes. Without another thought he lets a hand go from the steering wheel to tap pause on the dashboard’s touchscreen – the one country song in his sixty-four gigabyte USB collection – instantly bringing his hand back before the 0:00 reached 0:01, correcting the subtlest loss of control.  Next: the search icon, tapped, hand returned to the wheel.  At 110 mph the jagged road of the exit ramp feels like a tight left at half the speed, the front tire wall stressed by the vehicle’s careening inertia.  Instead of skipping to the next random track, he leaves not another moment to chance.  The steering wheel rumbling beneath his palms, he takes his right hand off for only a second’s fraction between tapping the prompts: out of the /EZ/ folder, into the /ReRetro/ folder, and there it is, The RetrEcho Compilation Vol.01, selecting track 03, Glam Nights by Beatbox Machinery.  The opening note freeing an almost non-existent ancient sensitivity deep down in his DNA – no, deep up – last tap on random – limited to the current compilation.

 

The driver of the Maybach closed in on the Lambo like another class of car and didn’t have to wonder why, Mr. Driver, the only name they knew him by, wasn’t watching the road, too fascinated by the dashboard display.  Perhaps both racers employed a tactic similar to that of a disciplined ring fighter; attack slower and weaker than actual strength just for the first round.  That way the opponent thinks they’ve got you timed, when in fact the trap is set for a fully fueled knockout strike out of nowhere.  

 

At the behest of the other three inside the Maybach they all pointed at something significant at the center of the dash; the gear shift? the cup holders?  A switch! flipped open, flicked on – nitro injection initiated!  The V12 sedan rockets around the outside left lane, the flame-throwing muffler torching the Lamborghini’s grill, the Countach’s grey paint charred black.

Traffic thickens.  The Maybach brakes but inefficiently riding the momentum of the nitro boost.  Almost stuck like a square Tetris piece, walled off between a semi-truck, a U-Haul and a minivan, the Maybach signals to the left lane.  Mr. Driver sees an opening about to open, downshifts to second gear, and zigzags to the right lane (five lanes of traffic between the racers).

 

The Maybach’s passenger side window lowers open, revealing a buzzed bald, aviator wearing, mustachioed Slav holding a metallic toy car the same make and model as the Lambo, Countach 1990.  Eyes coolly heavy the Slav perches his lips, and projectile spits a remarkable distance like a pro soccer penalty slice, the wind curving the saliva’s trajectory, landing less than a lane away from the Lambo.  Perhaps he was testing the atmospheric conditions because a moment later the Slav threw the toy Countach at the supercar’s windshield; off-target by inches.  Removing his seatbelt the Slav juts more of his shoulder out of the window and tosses yet another toy Countach – hitting its target! but blocked by the windshield wipers Mr. Driver timed with a slight counter steer. 

 

Misdirected a step behind those in the Maybach – might turn a wide left, e-brakes a tight right.  Mr. Driver swiftly follows, drifting right through the corner, rebound drifting left, traveling straight down the road.  Blasting his high beams into the Maybach’s side view mirror, he momentarily blinding the Maybach’s driver, who cannot respond but reacts; twisting the steering wheel more to the right, skidding the back end out, counter-adjusting with a hard left – too early – scraping the back tire, hopping the curb sharply. The chrome mag popping off, rolls away wobbly.  As the sedan squirms like a fish out of water the brake lights glow on and off, smudging the Lambo’s window tint a tinge of blood dripping. 

 

An object illuminates in the backseat, a laptop turn on – no, on fire.  “Molotovs.”  Squinting his moistening eyes, lips tightening into a grin, “Oh-kay,” spoken like Tony Montana AKA Scarface, “We. Play. Rough!”  Yelling the last syllable like a wild dog woofing.  Mr. Driver’s badass smile – in a blink – flattens into an ice-cold straight face.  

 

Though twelve gauge buckshot ammo chambered in a semiautomatic shotgun would have been ideal for shooting moving Molotovs from a moving vehicle, today Mr. Driver is equipped with a sole caliber of weapon: semiauto .22, pistol; the lower velocity caliber just means you got to aim more ahead, anticipate, the chances of a jam are high; much higher than any larger caliber pistol.  But on the bright side are perfect for handling onehanded, plus accurate as Heaven for targets within a football field’s distance when not too windy that is.  Loaded with topnotch tested ammo in the ten round mag, the barrel sights set between pointblank and midrange, the conditions couldn’t be better.  Hidden within the custom designed passenger seat, covered with a sturdy yet stylish hemp fabric, Mr. Driver reaches inside it, the zipper false, to retrieve Mr. Ruger Mark III.  Clicking down the safety, he slips it from his right hand to his left while sliding the chamber back, loading a round, steering with only his legs until his window whirrs open.   

 

One of the guys in the sedan’s backseat is leaning his torso totally out of the window, a lit Molotov in each hand while the other guy in the backseat holds down his legs.  Mr. Driver had already begun pulling the trigger ever so softly, counting the clicks like picking a lock, before the final ‘click’ at the end of his exhale – but misses!  Having to readjust from the recoil of the firecracker-like explosion of the rimfire ammunition, the enemy lobs the Molotov.  He fires another round, breath held empty, even as a burning hot cartridge ejects from the pistol toward his eye, unlucky, having to angle his head, chin tucked, sizzling his eyebrow hairs.  The next Molotov is thrown.  Two targets incoming, lungs aching, Mr. Driver won’t breathe in – rapid-fire – but the .22 jams after one shot!  He locks the steering wheel in place with both thighs, neither foot on any pedal, slides the chamber back with his free hand, ejecting an unfired round out of the window.  

 

Heals planted with a hand on the wheel, Mr. Driver is about to take aim if it’s the last thing he ever does.  But by instinct blinks from the airborne burst of flame.  Eyes narrowing almost closed his third bullet hit!  Mr. Driver used his clenched eyelashes to somehow magnify the alignment of the .22’s sights.  Peripheral vision dematerializing like dust in the wind, fragments of the glass explosion cut his forearm while liquid drops of fire scald his skin.  In the sedan’s backseat the Molotov thrower had caught on fire, and tossed his burning cap out of the window, pulling his jacket collar up to his neck to pat out the flames.  Two Molotovs with one bullet – planned – yet damned lucky. 

Conflagrated shards of shattered glass litter the battered road, unavoidable, running over some with a rear tire, ping-popping like corn beneath the Lambo.  Mr. Driver finally lines up a shot at the Maybach’s front tire and takes it, hitting nothing but road.  Mr. Buzztache in the front seat brandishes a sawed-off, double barrel shotgun, while Mr. Molotov in the backseat thumbs the hammer back on a stainless .357 magnum revolver (which from a forensic perspective leaves minimal evidence as no cartridges are ejected either firearm).  Damn Slavs got good taste.  Should have known from the start this was never a race.  These are hitmen sent to kill, framing some kind of foolish racing accident, inviting the Angel of Death to their own demise. 

With five rounds remaining in the magazine, Mr. Driver pulls the trigger before they do, the projectile narrowly missing Mr. Molotov and Mr. Buzztache through the rear passenger window, destroying the rearview mirror.  The sucker driving the Maybach reacts predictably, perhaps panicking, and cannot counter his counter steering, overcorrecting, losing control – but not quite, recovering into a misdirecting maneuver off the highway. 

 

Mr. Driver pondered the proper burial for a hitman.  Call it karma or whatever shit you want, I’m closing the casket on these cocky cunts.  Time I iron sight their Slavic faces, blasted brainless. “Say hello to Mr. Ruger!”  Mr. Driver jovially taunted, “He’s stainless!”

 

But in a blink the gravity of the nearness of Death paled his skin, face muscles unwound.  “Race…” Mr. Driver began to declare, and two for two the tires on the right of the Maybach are shot flat, “…OFF!” causing the sedan to fishtail drift almost 180 degrees, squarely hitting the curb, rolling the car over as the trunk whips into a light pole.  The two men in the Maybach not wearing a safety belt, Mr. Molotov and Mr. Buzztache, are launched some meters high and are each shot in the skull midair with the last two rounds in the mag just before the sedan explodes without warning – not unlike a Molotov – one filled with nitro that is. 

 

Four devils down.  The cost?  A bit of blistering forearm skin and about a dollar of ammunition.  The damage to the side view mirror, grill, and windshield wiper not Mr. Driver’s responsibility; only its delivery (or what’s inside it?); the 1990 Lamborghini Countach not his; just the muzsic and the 2 SS .22s.

From two hidden Chambers at end-to-end opposites of the Universe, the Gates open to a binary Wind with one destination, the Center, erupting in blinding gusts of neutralized light overlapped by darkness. Every dimension, seen and unseen, collide with the constancy of space, resending ‘80s infused cosmic ripples across the present; folding time, both past and future, closer {black and white spheres appear inside white and black Yin Yang halves} as the fragments of the Retro Echo’s fractal hologram fuse 2gether in2 0N3 . •☯• .

2 0 1 6 . . . The future is now – too futuristic……………

 

The world hasn’t ended as many a sci-fi dystopia forecast. The real world, uncensored, is more horrifying than any fiction. A secretive network of specialists across the globe are geo-engineering the climate from the sky down, and genetically mutating the people, animals, and plants to the ocean’s inhabitants below. Privacy is a place you visit, escape to, as smart phones and power meters are frequently replacing smart traits. With the truth about virtually everything only an internet connection away, the majority still prefer to be programmed by the glossy propaganda of their government’s secret government – the News World Orders. While millions of the awoken have chosen to risk sacrificing it all fighting back, others with a conscience subtly resist the technocracy by keeping the dreams of a simpler past alive in the present (labyrinthine by design), leisurely reflecting the echo of the ‘80s and beyond. ~RetrEcho~

On the date of 10/10 in the year 2016 , 365 days after the launch of AnonyMuzsic , The RetrEcho Compilation Vol. 01 will plunge from the UnSealed Chambers beyond the corners of the quantifiable Universe, and land into the omnipresent internet for digital downloads .  
Featuring : a Totality of 13 RetrEcho tracks from 12 ultra-trailblazing talents located around the world :  

Italy [02] , Canada [01] , Antarctica [01] , Greece [01] , Russia [01] , Ukraine [01] , Belgium [01] , Austria [01] , France [01] , England [01] , and the United States of America [01] .  Eleven i/d/entities of the anonymous twelve will finally be fully revealed (four already were*).  

{ The AnonyMuzsic!an however, still tomorrow’s mystery . . -forever?- } . 

Previously unknown to humankind the breath before the echo, as slices of sci-fi singles splice together - a pair of RetrEchoes are being brought to you via AnonyMuzsic's VeRetro Echo YouTube Mixture, by another musician who's rather mysterious.

Undetectable by all radars of man and alien man and jjnn and alien jjnn, hidden in the heavenly shadow of a distant Moon’s umbra, somewhere between meditation and hibernation the solar light of a hollowing star bends around – but somehow bends straight into a narrowing cone of refracting light. The first step into the Seen Universe begins now; through the boundary of light and dark at the tip of the umbra’s shadow cone – catching the fastest lightwave across the Universe the longest way around in an inhale; exhaling the Fourth RetrEcho.

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From where do the RetrEchoes originate? Parallel to the rebounding peaks and depths between echoes.


Where to find those? Among the celestial objects unseen to the naked eye, unshielded.


In the vacuum of the Wind the blackest darkness and the shiniest light overlap in a wavy figure eight - triggering the inner instinct to press play ► Static .•°▼°•. Glitches □■⚡☯⚡■□ Short-cut . • °•.°.•° • .

Hovering over the glowing teal lines of gridded laser planes rushing blurred below. Go and melt with the flow; not down, melting up the magenta horizon tracing the digitized sky to its twirling teal apex above. Between both ears and both eyes alchemically teleport through the Glitch Gate of the Third RetrEcho - Koowondor. █ ▂ ▃ ▅ ▆ ██ ☯ ██ ▆ ▅ ▃ ▂ █

Listen and witness a major moment in the history of music. In the wake of the ‘80s aftershocks, a sci-fi compilation emerges from below the surface – the First Triple RetrEcho – featuring three new musicians’ songs so exclusive they're anonymous ~

🌑 ALERT - The Omega RetrEcho just broke through the Glitch Gate between every parallel reality - the fractal hologram spanning the omnipresent internet now complete 🌑