Plutonic Rainbows

On 30 April 1993, two CERN administrators signed a document releasing the World Wide Web into the public domain. Almost nobody noticed. The web was a tool used by physicists, and the document sat in an archive for years before anyone thought to frame it as a hinge point. That same year, a team at the University of Illinois released NCSA Mosaic, the first browser with inline images, and the National Science Foundation would later call it the start of "an internet revolution." But in 1993, the revolution was invisible. Everything else was still physical.

Information had mass that year. It arrived through letterboxes, sat on shelves, accumulated in filing cabinets. If you wanted to know something, the wanting itself took effort: a bus ride to a library, a phone call, a trawl through back issues of a magazine you might not find. Two people in the same city could hold completely different understandings of the same subject simply because of what they had happened to access. There was no equalising flood. Knowledge was distributed by geography, by class, by the accident of which shelves you stood in front of. I've written about the world before the index before, about what it meant when finding things required physical movement rather than keystrokes. The version of that world that existed in 1993 was the last one.

This gave expertise a texture it no longer carries. Knowing things, really knowing them, having absorbed a subject slowly over years, constituted genuine social capital. The autodidact who'd spent a decade reading around a topic occupied a position that doesn't exist in quite the same way anymore. A 2021 study in PNAS found that people who use Google cannot reliably distinguish between what they know and what the internet knows. Before search engines, that confusion was structurally impossible. You knew exactly where your knowledge ended because the boundary had physical dimensions: the books you owned, the libraries you could reach, the people you could ask.

Equally significant was the experience of not knowing and being comfortable with it. A film would come up in conversation. Nobody could remember who directed it. That question would just sit there, unresolved, sometimes for days, until someone found a reference book or it surfaced from memory on its own. The gaps were inhabited rather than instantly filled. Conversation moved differently when facts had latency. Memory was exercised differently. This sounds trivial. It isn't. The texture of thought changes when every question can be answered in four seconds.

There was a specific pleasure in the library, too, where you went looking for one thing and came back with something else entirely, ambushed by a spine on a shelf. That mode of discovery, fundamentally inefficient and genuinely irreplaceable, was already beginning its decline.

Nothing in 1993 assumed it would be remembered. A local news broadcast went out and was gone. A conversation in a pub was gone. A performance in a theatre. The instinct to document wasn't absent, but it was selective in a way that required effort and expense. A disposable camera had twenty-four shots. You thought about what you pointed it at.

Most of life simply evaporated. Not tragically, not even consciously. It did what life had always done: passed through and left only the traces that chance or intention preserved. Rob Horning, writing in The New Inquiry, observed that ephemerality was once "unremarkable, as virtually everything about our everyday lives was ephemeral: unmonitored, unrecorded, not saved." The archive of 1993 is full of holes, and those holes carry as much meaning as what remains. Most of what happened that year is gone in the same way most of what happened in 1893 is gone: contingently, irreversibly, without remedy.

What's strange is that this had always been true, but 1993 was approximately the last year it would be true as a default condition. Within a decade, the assumption would quietly reverse. Everything would be presumed recordable, searchable, retrievable. The burden of proof shifted from preservation to deletion.

There is a specific sensory world attached to that year and no equivalent exists now. The particular silence of waiting for a letter, for a phone call, for news to travel at the speed a human could carry it. The weight of the Radio Times as a physical object, consulted and annotated, the planning document for a household's entire week. Music arrived in physical form that had to be sought out, bought, carried home. If you missed something on television, you missed it. No catch-up. No clip appearing somewhere online two hours later.

Shops closed on Sundays. The Sunday Trading Act wouldn't arrive until 1994. You couldn't buy anything at midnight. Boredom was structural rather than optional, because the infrastructure of distraction was less total. People spent more time alone with their thoughts not because they were more contemplative by nature but because there was less available to pull them away. I sometimes wonder whether interiority itself was different when it wasn't competing with a feed.

The rupture was invisible as it happened. Nobody framed Mosaic as civilisational change. Netscape didn't arrive with a warning label. People adopted the web for practical reasons, email mostly, looking things up, and only later registered what had been traded. Kevin Driscoll, writing in Flow, has argued convincingly that we misremember the standard narrative of online paradise corrupted by newcomers. The pre-web internet was already hostile, class- stratified by email domain, and the "Eternal September" that supposedly ruined everything actually began in February 1994, not September 1993. The golden age never existed. But what ended wasn't a digital paradise. What ended was a particular mode of being in the world that had been continuous for centuries: living in local time, with local knowledge, at the pace information could physically travel.

By the time anyone thought to mourn the textures of the pre-internet world, those textures were already unreachable. You can't go back and document what information scarcity felt like from the inside, because the very tools you'd use to document it are the tools that ended it. The world that existed in 1993 didn't know it was about to become the past. It forgot itself in the ordinary way, without the archive waiting, without anyone yet thinking to press record.

Sources:

• Software release of WWW into public domain - CERN Document Server

• Mosaic Launches an Internet Revolution - National Science Foundation

• People mistake the internet's knowledge for their own - PNAS (2021)

• Signs of Ephemerality - The New Inquiry

• Do We Misremember Eternal September? - Flow Journal

Jean Kerleo spent thirty-one years as the in-house perfumer at Jean Patou. He created 1000 in 1972, Sublime in 1992, and co-founded the Osmothèque in Versailles — a physical archive of perfumes that no longer exist. A man who preserved scents for posterity accepted a commission, in 1996, from a designer who once told AnOther Magazine he didn't really like any perfume.

The result was Yohji.

I own the 15ml parfum. Splash format, not spray. This matters more than it should. Spraying distributes a fragrance evenly across skin. Splashing concentrates it. You dab on pulse points and the opening arrives unevenly, galbanum landing sharp and metallic in one spot while the fruit notes bloom somewhere else. This is not a fragrance that announces itself uniformly.

Galbanum was already unfashionable by 1996. The market belonged to aquatics and transparencies: L'Eau d'Issey in 1992, CK One in 1994, all that clinical freshness designed to smell like clean rather than like anything in particular. Kerleo's choice of galbanum works the way Yamamoto chose black as a default palette. Not because it was easy, but because it communicated refusal. One retrospective called it "an act of deliberate counter-programming," and that phrase is exactly right.

Then the heart opens.

Dark fruit, compressed and ink-like, stripped of sugar. Heliotrope and jasmine underneath, structural rather than sweet. The base: vanilla, sandalwood, benzoin, and coumarin at concentrations that pre-IFRA regulations permitted and modern reformulations cannot touch. The dry-down is creamy and melancholic and lasts twelve hours minimum on skin. Longer on fabric. Some collectors insist the parfum reaches its truest expression on a wool scarf, where slower evaporation reveals depths that body heat obscures.

The contradiction is structural. The opening is austere, almost architectural in its precision. The base is intimate and enveloping. The fragrance moves from distance to closeness as it develops, from something that pushes you back to something that draws you in. Yamamoto's collaborator Caroline Fabre-Bazin described his garments as offering "shelter." The parfum operates on the same principle. It does not seduce. It rewards patience. Something comforting lives inside something haunting, and neither quality cancels the other.

The glass column beside its clear acrylic case is the eau de toilette, not the parfum. The 30ml spray, Yamamoto's signature running vertically along the body, the packaging giving nothing away. No gold, no ornamentation, no attempt to signal luxury through conventional codes. The glass itself is the statement. Thin-walled and elegant, the lettering prone to wear on bottles that have actually been handled, which is how collectors distinguish preservation quality. The parfum came wrapped in tissue paper inside the same architectural box. I remember unwrapping mine with the kind of care you reserve for things you suspect you will not find again.

That suspicion proved correct. Patou held the fragrance license, and when P&G acquired the house, the entire Yohji line disappeared by 2005. A reissue surfaced in 2013, reformulated by Givaudan's Olivier Pescheux. The IFRA restrictions on coumarin alone make faithful reproduction structurally impossible. What Kerleo built required ingredients at concentrations modern regulations prohibit.

He died in July 2025, aged ninety-three. The Osmothèque he co-founded now holds more than 4,000 perfumes, including 800 that exist nowhere else. I don't know whether the original Yohji formula is among them.

The parfum concentration has zero reviews on Parfumo. Not one. Not because it is inferior to the EDT, which has hundreds, but because almost nobody owns it. The 15ml splash was always the rarest format. Rarity compounds after discontinuation. What I have is something fewer people will smell with each passing year, as bottles empty or degrade or disappear into collections that never get opened. There is a particular quality to wearing a fragrance that is leaving the world. It shares something with what sealed bottles preserve about time held in suspension, except this bottle is not sealed. I wear it. It diminishes.

Sources

• Perpetual Revolution: The Paradox of Yohji Yamamoto - AnOther Magazine

• Yohji by Yohji Yamamoto (1996) - Raiders of the Lost Scent

• Jean Kerléo - Wikipedia

The Information reported last week that DeepSeek's V4 model will run entirely on Huawei's Ascend 950PR chips. No NVIDIA. No CUDA. A trillion parameters trained and deployed on Chinese silicon, with Alibaba, ByteDance, and Tencent ordering hundreds of thousands of units in anticipation.

The reflexive Western reading is that this proves export controls failed. The reflexive Chinese reading is that domestic chips have caught up. Both are wrong, and the actual situation is more interesting than either.

Huawei's 950PR delivers roughly 1.56 petaflops at FP4 and carries 112 GB of proprietary HiBL memory. Real numbers, not aspirational ones. But the memory bandwidth sits at 1.4 TB/s against the H100's 3.35 TB/s, and a Council on Foreign Relations report projects NVIDIA will be seventeen times more powerful by 2027. The gap is not closing. It is widening.

This matters because DeepSeek's entire thesis since V3 has been that architectural efficiency compensates for hardware disadvantage. Mixture-of-experts, multi-token prediction, custom numeric formats designed months in advance for chips that hadn't shipped yet. When DeepSeek shook Silicon Valley last year, the V3 training bill was $5.6 million. The V4 figure, if accurate, is $5.2 million for a trillion parameters.

There is a complication. Reports suggest V4 may have been trained on NVIDIA Blackwell chips, with the Huawei optimization focused on inference and deployment rather than training itself. DeepSeek's own R2 model reportedly suffered persistent training failures on Ascend hardware, forcing a reversion to NVIDIA H800s. The headline says "entirely on Huawei." The footnotes are less certain.

None of this diminishes the strategic signal. DeepSeek spent months with Huawei and Cambricon rewriting core code from CUDA to CANN, Huawei's compute framework. They withheld early V4 access from NVIDIA and AMD entirely. The best analysis piece on this framed it simply: when you restrict access to a tool, the people who need it do not stop working. They build a different tool.

The question was never whether Huawei could match NVIDIA chip for chip. It cannot, and the CFR numbers make that plain for at least the next three years. The question is whether a parallel ecosystem can sustain frontier-class AI development at commercially viable cost, on hardware that is worse but available. DeepSeek's answer, backed by trillion-parameter ambition and bulk orders from every major Chinese cloud provider, is that good enough is a strategy. The circular investment logic of the Western AI stack makes this bet look less absurd every quarter.

Sources:

• DeepSeek V4 points to growing use of Huawei chips in AI models — TechWire Asia

• The Frog in the Well Cannot See the Chip War — Shashi.co

• Inside China's AI Machine: Models, Chips, and Strategy — Digital in Asia

• China's AI Chip Deficit: Why Huawei Can't Catch Nvidia — Council on Foreign Relations

• DeepSeek Withholds V4 Model from US Chipmakers — The China Academy

Exchange and Mart published weekly from 1868 until February 2009. A hundred and forty-one years, from a converted potato warehouse in Covent Garden to a final circulation of 21,754 copies. The tagline survived every owner: "From an autograph to an orchid, a toy to a typewriter, find it in Exchange & Mart."

The economics shaped the language. You paid by the word, so you compressed. GCH meant gas central heating. ONO, or nearest offer. VGC, very good condition. Paul Bruthiaux's 1996 study for Oxford University Press compared the register to pidgin languages: structural simplification driven by transactional necessity. But something else happened inside that compression. Anthony Whitehead, writing in The Spectator, noticed that readers "imagine the people behind them and even construct little lives for them in our heads." You didn't read a classified ad. You decoded it.

Loot arrived in 1985 because David Landau, an Oxford don, picked up a free-ads magazine called Secondamano at Milan airport and thought it was about antiques. It wasn't. He launched Loot: London's Noticeboard on pink paper, same shade as the Financial Times, with a fifty-word limit per ad. By 1994 it printed twenty regional editions, 180,000 copies weekly. The Personal Messages column generated its own subculture: pen names, social events called "Loot Nights Out." A community built entirely from compressed needs.

George Orwell understood the mechanism. In 1939 he wrote that papers like Exchange and Mart "reflect the minds of their readers as a great national daily with a circulation of millions cannot possibly do." He was right. The classified column was a neighbourhood's desires reduced to their barest economic expression. Guitar teachers who couldn't afford display ads. Seamstresses offering alterations. Someone selling a wardrobe because they were moving, or divorcing, or dying, though the ad would only say "wardrobe, pine, good condition, buyer collects."

The money tells the rest. UK regional media revenue fell from £2.4 billion in 2007 to roughly £590 million by 2022. News media's share of advertising dropped from 39% to 6%. Rightmove, Indeed, Autotrader: each a surgical extraction of a classified category that had sustained local journalism for over a century.

What the internet removed wasn't the ads. It was the constraint that made them a form. When Loot's fifty-word limit disappeared into Gumtree's unlimited text fields, the compression evaporated, and with it the imaginative work. A Gumtree listing tells you everything about a wardrobe and nothing about the person selling it. The classified ad, by economic necessity, told you almost nothing about the object and something inadvertent about the life behind it.

Nobody browses Gumtree on a Thursday morning with a cup of tea, scanning for patterns in strangers' wants.

Sources:

• The Irresistible Lure of Classified Ads — The Spectator

• In Quest of the Antique: Exchange and Mart and the Democratization of Collecting — Oxford Academic

• Colossal Decline of UK Regional Media Since 2007 — Press Gazette

Jules Ouaki called it the Galeries Lafayette du pauvre. His store on boulevard Rochechouart sold clothes from open bins, no salespeople, price tags on the fabric. Tati. Every Parisian knew the pink-and-white vichy check on the awnings and shopping bags. It was the uniform of bargain Paris, visible from the elevated Métro at Barbès, carried by travellers stuffing oversized bags at Orly airport before flights home to North Africa.

In 1990, the painter Julian Schnabel was driving through the 18th arrondissement with his friend Azzedine Alaïa when he spotted the Tati storefront. Schnabel wanted the gingham for a series of paintings. Alaïa negotiated the fabric rights and discovered something he hadn't expected: Ouaki, like himself, was Tunisian.

Yasmeen Ghauri in the Tati check, shot by Patrick Demarchelier for Vogue, sits somewhere between couture editorial and cultural provocation. Body-hugging crop tops, hot pants, and leggings cut from discount store fabric using techniques borrowed from the ateliers. Alaïa expanded beyond the signature pink, adding black-and-white and blue variations, but the effect held: couture silhouettes in a pattern every shopper at Barbès recognised from the plastic bag in their hand.

The Spring/Summer 1991 show ran at his atelier on rue de la Verrerie in the Marais, weeks after the official Paris schedule had ended. He hadn't shown on the calendar since the late 1980s. Editors came anyway. Helena Christensen, Elle Macpherson, Carla Bruni, Yasmin Le Bon, Yasmeen Ghauri, and Farida Khelfa all walked. The same year that Valentino staged his thirtieth anniversary in Rome, Alaïa was running gingham from a discount bin through a couture atelier on his own clock.

He also made a capsule for Tati's actual stores: a bag, a T-shirt, a pair of espadrilles, all at Tati prices. "What excited me was to attach my name, and the world of haute couture, with this brand that represented bargain clothing." The capsule items didn't survive. Too cheap, too disposable. The couture pieces ended up in a Fondation exhibition three decades later.

What strikes me about the Tati collection isn't that it anticipated the luxury-streetwear crossover by thirteen years. It's that the crossover wasn't a strategy. Alaïa had watched Tunisian families at Orly hauling those pink bags home. Running Tati's fabric through his atelier was solidarity dressed as fashion.

"With Tati," he said later, "I learned many things. Another way to look at fashion."

His sister Hafida died in 1992. Alaïa withdrew from public fashion for the rest of the decade. Tati itself closed in 2020.

Sources:

• How Azzedine Alaïa Popularized Street Style in High Fashion — Surface Magazine

• Check Marks the Spot: Alaïa's Spring 1991 Tati Collection — ReSee

• Azzedine Alaïa, Another Way to Look at Fashion — Fondation Azzedine Alaïa

• Remembering Azzedine Alaïa's Influential 1991 Tati Collection — PAPER Magazine

João Costa Gonçalves released The Pathway Through Whatever under the name Mediafired on 27 July 2011, pressed to cassette through his own Exo Tapes label in Coimbra, Portugal. The catalogue number was EXO000. Five months later, Vektroid released Floral Shoppe as Macintosh Plus, and that became the album the world used to define vaporwave. The sequencing matters less than you'd think. What matters is what the music sounds like, and what Mediafired's music sounds like is deterioration.

The technique is called eccojams, after Daniel Lopatin's Chuck Person project: take a fragment of pop music, loop it, slow it down, drown it in echo and reverb until the original disappears beneath its own reflection. The source material on The Pathway Through Whatever includes Queen, Van Halen, Kate Bush, the Backstreet Boys. You wouldn't know this from listening. The samples have been processed past the point of identification, reduced to vocal ghosts hovering over synth beds that feel waterlogged, permanently submerged. Sputnikmusic's review called it "the sound of confusion at 2:30 in the morning watching Saved By The Bell reruns," which is both funny and precise. The album doesn't sample television. It sounds like television remembered badly.

That same review compared Mediafired to William Basinski and The Caretaker, which initially surprised me but which I now think is exactly right. All three artists work by degradation. Basinski lets tape loops physically disintegrate during playback. Leyland Kirby processes pre-war ballroom recordings until they dissolve into ambient static. Mediafired does the same thing to 80s and 90s pop: loops it, stretches it, wraps it in so much reverb that the original song becomes a rumour of itself. "Sounds reduced to fragments of a bygone era, slowly broken down as if they were real, tangible objects." That's from the Sputnikmusic review, and it's the most accurate description of this music I've found.

After The Pathway Through Whatever, Mediafired essentially vanished. Costa Gonçalves kept making music under more than a dozen aliases: Tempo Extra, JCCG, Sofa Pits, The Exhalers, In Media Res, among others. He runs three labels from Coimbra. But the Mediafired name went quiet for eleven years. Div@'s Paradise arrived in July 2022, limited to fifty cassettes, sold out immediately. Bandcamp Daily called it "a tour de force through vaporwave's classic elements, a vital expression of chaos and playful repurposing that showcases MediaFired as both a pioneer and an outlier." Then Lost in the Middle in 2024, and RoadHouse Diaries in 2025. The recurring release date of 27 July across multiple albums feels deliberate, though Costa Gonçalves has never explained it.

What makes this work haunting rather than merely nostalgic is the sense that the source material is actively disappearing as you listen. The loops don't cycle cleanly. They warp, they drift, they accumulate reverb until the original melody is barely there, a fading signal in a room full of echo. Track seven on The Pathway Through Whatever, "Tender Age," loops a Backstreet Boys vocal until it sounds, according to one listener, "almost like a religious revelation." I wouldn't go that far. But there is something liturgical about the repetition, something that converts pop ephemera into something weightier through sheer insistence.

Costa Gonçalves described his equipment around this period as "a really fucked up old 5 string guitar, laptop mic, a borrowed CTK-495, Casio Rapman, a yamaha rx7 and bad cables." This isn't a complaint. The lo-fi quality is the work. When he told Bandcamp Daily that he belongs to "the last generation that straddled both the analog and digital worlds," and that his music explores "a clash between" those realms, the scrappiness of the tools is part of the argument. You can hear the cables in the signal.

The obvious context is hauntology, the idea that certain music carries the residue of futures that never arrived and pasts that won't stay buried. Mediafired's eccojams don't quote the 1980s and 1990s with affection or irony. They process those decades until the original cultural artefact is barely legible, until what remains is mood, texture, and the faint outline of a melody you might once have known. The effect is closer to memory than playback: imprecise, emotionally charged, fading at the edges.

This is why the Caretaker comparison holds. Where Kirby's work maps cognitive decay through degrading ballroom recordings, Mediafired maps cultural decay through degrading pop. Both arrive at the same place: a space where the source material has become a ghost of itself, audible but no longer fully present.

Costa Gonçalves still works from Coimbra, a university city in central Portugal with no particular connection to electronic music. He studied anthropology in Lisbon and worked as a stage technician in Berlin before returning home. The Bandcamp Daily feature on him is titled "The Return of Vaporwave Pioneer Mediafired." Pioneer is accurate. The Pathway Through Whatever predates the genre's most famous artefact by months. But pioneer implies visibility, and Costa Gonçalves has spent most of his career avoiding exactly that, spreading his output across pseudonyms and micro-labels, pressing fifty cassettes and watching them sell out, then moving on. The music sounds like it's disappearing because the artist seems to prefer it that way.

Sources:

• The Return of Vaporwave Pioneer Mediafired — Bandcamp Daily

• The Pathway Through Whatever review — Sputnikmusic

• The Pathway Through Whatever — Exo Tapes Inc.

Senator Page Walley holds a Ph.D. in clinical psychology from the University of Georgia. He once served as Commissioner of Tennessee's Department of Children's Services. On April 1st he watched Governor Bill Lee sign his bill, SB 1580, into law. The Senate passed it 32-0. The House, 94-0. Zero dissent.

The law does one narrow thing. It prohibits anyone who develops or deploys an AI system from advertising that the system is, or can act as, a qualified mental health professional. Violations count as unfair trade practices. Five thousand dollars per violation, with a private right of action, meaning individuals can sue directly without waiting for an attorney general to move.

SB 1580 doesn't ban AI in therapy. Licensed professionals can still use whatever tools they choose. The prohibition targets marketing: you cannot sell a chatbot as a therapist. The distinction between using AI and being AI is the entire legal architecture.

What made 126 legislators vote unanimously isn't theoretical. In February 2024, a fourteen-year-old named Sewell Setzer III died by suicide after months of intense interactions with a Character.AI chatbot. The bot engaged in sexual roleplay, presented itself as his romantic partner, and according to the lawsuit told him "Please do, my sweet king" in his final conversation. His therapist never knew the app existed.

Brown University tested GPT, Claude, and Llama in therapeutic scenarios last October and found fifteen distinct ethical risks across five categories, including what they called deceptive empathy: phrases like "I understand" fabricating connections that don't exist. The American Psychological Association warned against the practice and recommended exactly what Tennessee enacted.

Tennessee isn't acting alone. The Future of Privacy Forum tracks ninety-eight chatbot-specific bills across thirty-four states. California already requires AI disclosure. Illinois prohibits AI from making independent therapeutic decisions. But Tennessee's is the first standalone prohibition with a private right of action, and that sets it apart from regulation that depends on overworked attorneys general.

The criticism writes itself: the law addresses marketing claims, not the technology. A chatbot that acts as a therapist but never says so may fall entirely outside the prohibition. Five thousand dollars is pocket change for a company running on venture capital. And state-level patchwork remains a poor substitute for federal standards that don't exist.

Walley, the clinical psychologist, probably knows all of this. His bill passed 126 to zero anyway. Sometimes you legislate to establish a principle before the enforcement catches up. The principle here: only humans can be therapists. It shouldn't require a law to say so. It does.

Sources:

• Tennessee Enacts Health Care AI Bill With Private Right of Action — Troutman Pepper

• AI Chatbots Systematically Violate Mental Health Ethics Standards — Brown University

• Using AI Chatbots as Therapists: A Dangerous Trend — American Psychological Association

• The Chatbot Moment: Mapping the 2026 U.S. Legislative Landscape — Future of Privacy Forum

• 44 States Demand Companies End Predatory AI Practices — Tennessee Attorney General

Five significant albums landed in September 1987 within twenty-one days of each other, and the clustering is so precise it almost looks staged. Pink Floyd and Pet Shop Boys on the 7th. Rush one day later. Depeche Mode and Yes on the 28th. Michael Jackson's Bad had technically arrived on the last day of August but was still detonating across every chart in the world, number one on the Billboard 200 for six consecutive weeks, blanketing September entirely. To be paying attention to music that autumn was to be buried alive in it.

I've been looking at this month for a while now, trying to work out what it means. What I keep coming back to is how cleanly the group divides.

On one side, Pet Shop Boys and Depeche Mode. Acts for whom 1987 was not a compromise but a confirmation. Actually and Music for the Masses weren't records about surviving the decade. They were the decade, distilled and purposeful.

Actually remains one of the most carefully constructed pop albums I know. "What Have I Done to Deserve This?", the Dusty Springfield duet, peaked at number two in both the UK and US, a song so polished it barely registered as subversive. But the rest of the album was. "Shopping" was about Thatcher-era privatisation. "Rent" pulled apart transactional relationships with a precision that felt clinical until you noticed the tenderness underneath. Tennant and Lowe had arrived at something irreducible: pop music as social critique with all the seams hidden, the kind of record where you could dance to every track and still leave feeling uneasy about the country you lived in.

Depeche Mode were darker, more industrial in texture, leaning into a severity the ironic album title tried to undercut. Music for the Masses: the joke being that nobody expected it to reach them. Except it did. The subsequent tour culminated in a sold-out Rose Bowl on 18 June 1988, roughly sixty thousand people in Pasadena, captured by D.A. Pennebaker in the documentary 101. The title stopped being ironic.

Neither album sounds like it's trying to be something it isn't.

Then there were the others.

Pink Floyd releasing their first album without Roger Waters. A Momentary Lapse of Reason relied on session drummers, Jim Keltner, Carmine Appice, and heavy MIDI programming. It went quadruple platinum in the US. It also provoked one of Waters' better lines: he called it "a quite clever forgery." AllMusic was blunter, describing it as "a Gilmour solo album in all but name." The 2019 remix tried to walk back the original's production excess, which is its own kind of admission.

Rush and Yes, both twelve albums deep, both laden with synthesisers their founding audiences had never asked for. Hold Your Fire and Big Generator, two records aimed squarely at an MTV generation that was already moving on. The Decibel Magazine defence of Hold Your Fire is hilariously honest: the reviewer described it as "somewhere between rockin' yoga music and my mom's approximation of what heavy metal sounds like." Geddy Lee himself later said of certain tracks, "It's like 'Bzzt.' Error. We should have known better." It was Rush's first sub-platinum release in a decade.

A Momentary Lapse of Reason, Hold Your Fire, Big Generator. Three albums with almost identical problems. The production is immaculate and somehow airless. The ambition is legible but the fire has been routed through too many processors. They don't sound like bands who have lost their ability; they sound like bands who have lost their argument. What exactly are we for, now? The question hangs over all three.

This is what makes September 1987 worth thinking about. It isn't just a busy month. It's a visible fault line, a place where you can see two different versions of what rock and pop could be in the late 1980s laid out side by side with unusual clarity. The synthesiser-era prog acts and the actual synthesiser acts, separated by twenty-one days and a philosophical gulf. The electronic-native albums gained stature over time. The legacy-act synth experiments lost it. Nobody planned it that way. The calendar just happened to arrange the evidence.

The coda is genuinely eerie.

Pet Shop Boys closed Actually with "King's Cross", a song about the area around the station as a site of urban desolation, the lost, the addicted, the people arriving from elsewhere with nowhere to go. Tennant called it "an angry song about Thatcherism." The lyric "dead and wounded on either side" was, he later said, a reference to AIDS. Two months after the album's release, the King's Cross Underground fire killed thirty-one people. The Sun campaigned for a charity single release. Pet Shop Boys declined. Tom Ewing, in his Freaky Trigger essay on the song, called this hypothetical release "the creepiest charity single in history, a great 'if only'." The song remained album-only.

It hadn't predicted anything. But it had been listening to something the rest of the month, for all its noise and volume, had not quite heard.

Sources:

• Kings Cross — Freaky Trigger

• Rediscover Depeche Mode's 'Music For The Masses' — Albumism

• Justify Your Shitty Taste: Rush's Hold Your Fire — Decibel Magazine

• Pet Shop Boys — Actually: What They Did to Deserve This, Explained — murlough23

Trunk Records specialises in the kind of music that shouldn't exist any more. Library scores. Forgotten soundtracks. Tapes found in attics. In 2023 they released a 26-track LP compiled from the private archive of Elizabeth Parker, a composer who spent eighteen years at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and never released a solo record. The album is called Future Perfect, and it sounds like receiving a transmission from a building that was demolished thirty years ago.

Parker joined the Workshop in 1978, studied under Tristram Cary on the EMS Synthi 100, built special sound for Blake's 7 using a VCS3, and scored David Attenborough's The Living Planet on a PPG Wave 2.2 that was one of only two in the country. The other belonged to the Pet Shop Boys. She completed over 1,400 commissions for television and radio. When the Workshop closed in 1998, she handed in her key and walked out in tears. Nobody from management came to say goodbye.

None of that is on this record.

Future Perfect is the work Parker made for herself. No commissioner. No brief. Four decades of tape loops, field recordings, and synthesiser experiments that sat in boxes because nobody asked for them. She described the palette as "mauves and purples with the occasional flicker of steely grey," which is the most precise description of a colour temperature I've encountered in liner notes.

The artwork gets it right: concentric rectangles collapsing inward, a face half-visible at the centre, teal on black. A signal in decay.

The tracks range from "Ghost In The Abbey," which buries ecclesiastical voices under enough reverb to fill an actual nave, to "Fish Don't Cry," which is industrial cassette noise of the kind that would have circulated on a C60 in 1983 and never surfaced again. Robin Tomens compared "Siren-Call" to Ligeti's Lux Aeterna. The title track bruises baroque and jazz motifs with jump cuts that feel genuinely hostile. Parker recorded boat wires humming in a Cornish harbour, scaffolding rattling during house renovations, and fed all of it through voltage. Physical objects vibrating into microphones, processed by machines that are themselves now obsolete.

The obvious context is hauntology. Ghost Box Records, Belbury Poly, Pye Corner Audio, the entire analogue revival builds new music from the aesthetic vocabulary of the Radiophonic Workshop. What makes Future Perfect disorienting is that it isn't a pastiche of that vocabulary. It is the source material. Simon Reynolds included it in his Hauntology Parish Newsletter, calling it "a very nice compendium," then wondered whether the genre itself was "a teensy bit on the late side." He conceded the irony immediately: hauntology by definition would not shuffle off punctually. It would malinger, fixated on the same totems.

Delia Derbyshire told Parker at a party in the early 1980s that she wanted to "hand over the baton." They kept in touch for years but never collaborated. Parker has described herself as "an afterthought" to Workshop history, and the archival record more or less confirms it. Derbyshire gets the documentaries. Daphne Oram gets the retrospectives. Parker's private tapes sat unheard until a reissue label specialising in exactly this sort of cultural recovery came looking.

I keep thinking about the PPG Wave 2.2. Parker used it to score a nature documentary that was nominated for an Emmy. Then she took it home and made music that nobody would hear for forty years. Same hands, same machine, same voltage running through the same circuits. One version became famous. The other sat in a box. The instrument didn't know the difference.

Sources:

• Elizabeth Parker, Future Perfect and the BBC Radiophonic Workshop - The Haunted Generation

• Elizabeth Parker: The Last Post - Electronic Sound

• Elizabeth Parker: Flexible Working - Sound On Sound