Darlinghurst Days #2

It is the music that grates the most. Blasting out from a building site, seeping out of the not quite so well sealed Range Rovers and Porsches, sliding under locked doors and permeating the fabric of every waking hour. The sort of songs written by middle-aged men, produced by middle-aged men, sung by washboard teenagers for wrinkled mums.

The ghastly drench of auto-tune smothering the nuances and humanity of a multi-tracked vocal. Glib sentiments turning Hallmark statements into "iconic" observations for the numb-dumb...

Sampled beats, plug in and decay... AI harmonies for the dismembered generation. Gliding round in huffa-puffaz (check 'em, new brand, made by silicon splurgebots) - kidding you not, thanking you lots... ZAP!