Experiment #: 2304
Subject #: 4305
Artifact #: 001 (Codename Omega)
Purpose: To test the environment in which we hope to scientifically interact with the artifact without risk, and to observe the artifact's effects on an intelligent human being
[The following recordings were obtained from a device operated by Subject #4305, tasked with performing experiments and research operations on Artifact 001. He was allowed access only to broad data on the artifact in question, knowing not of its more…potent capabilities. These recordings will be studied in turn to observe whether or not the artifact can be studied in a controlled environment with expressed variables.]
Hello? Is this on? Test…test, one, two…OK…
This recording device will serve as a diary of my progress during my mission. I’ve been advised not to identify my name or who I work for, only recording data that pertains exclusively to my research. My employers are confident that my work could possibly prevent a great deal of pain and suffering from the world, and while I do not yet understand the degree of peril that this mission represents, I’m going into it with an air of caution and scientific sensibility, as I have been trained to.
The mission parameters are simple: to listen and record my findings on an audio CD entitled I’m Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It!, released by a band called BrokeNCYDE. I have never heard of these individuals up until this point, and I fail to see how a single CD could compromise a danger, as I believe my employers described it. Yet if I can somehow identify why this is, and perhaps find a way to avert it, then mankind may perhaps be saved.
To whoever may listen to this tape, wish me luck!
The cover art of this album depicts a set of four suburban males, attempting emulate both the tropes of "emo" culture as well as befitting the stereotypes of "urban" African-Americans. In addition, the first track of the CD seems to be a composite of creative-commons WAV files shamelessly compiled into an irrelevant, sci-fi-flavored mess, followed by a cliché explosion. Understandably, my hopes for something intelligible and cultured have already been dashed.
The first track began, and suddenly the keyboard meandering was pierced by a pre-pubescent scream. Good Lord…I had no idea that human vocal cords could produce something so abhorrently irritating. Was this, perhaps, why I was tasked to overview this album? Could the leading man of this band possibly be afflicted by a new disease that rots and decays the voicebox?
Whatever the case, the screams continued, overlaid upon singing so auto-tuned that it may as well not be human, but machine. Perhaps…it is. I will be sure to research into the identities of these talentless vocalists ASAP.
This combination of lame keyboards, lamer vocals, and random shrieking continued with nearly no variation for the next three minutes and thirty-six seconds. My hand quickly reached to pause the music at that point, apparently not just so that I could record my notes but out of subconscious drive that had developed in my brain over that time. Intriguing…
Despite my clear dislike of this music, I am devoted to finishing my research. Perhaps something hidden in this mess will provide something of remote use…or, at the very least, will make the music listenable.
Nothing has changed. The same behavior described in my previous record has continued unopposed for quite some time now. What had at first been mildly amusing as a hilariously terrible novelty has now grown into a worsening repugnance, and I fear I may not have the will necessary to continue. I still do not yet know what danger this record could pose to the world, however, and so must not yet regress my sacrifice.
In my spare time between tracks, in an effort to wash out this befouled recordings from my mind, I have researched the individuals response behind this terrible artifact. They have christened themselves with confusing nicknames, such as Se7en, Antz, and Phat J. The role of Antz, in particular, has become something of a mystery to me, for the liner notes list him as being responsible for “Rockstar beats”. As I fail to understand what they means, I have theorized that it is a cover for the fact that this man has had no true impact in this creation. I propose instead that he was the guy who served appetizers and beverages to the other members in the recording studio lounge.
I have also begun to investigate the lyrical content of this release, expecting that they may form some kind of code that exposes the aforementioned malice described by my employers. So far, I have found nothing but an abject rejection of the laws of English grammar and spelling, as well as repeated mentionings of the word “fuck”.
One particular line has me baffled. It states, and I quote, “Oh yeah i got my hurrr did nicely high top nike's always in my white tee”. I felt outright…defiled upon hearing this the first time. Besides making no sense, it seems to project an aura of outright evil and stupidity upon being said. I...can't quite describe it. Perhaps this is what I was warned of.
I can only pray that the worst is over, and that tomorrow brings me ever closer to salvation from this…this…thing.
Oh God…oh God oh God oh God…
What I have heard…cannot be unheard. This thing – I now refuse to refer to it as music – has damaged my mind beyond repair. I am…sickened by it.
The particular offense in question came after hearing a skit found earlier in the alb-…thing. For research purposes, I will now transcribe the script of this…abomination for the record. I quote:
Male Subject #1: Hey girl, why don't you, uh, come over and suck this daddy dick.
Male Subject #2: What the fuck (unintelligible sounds) what the fuck did you just say? (unintelligible sounds) You want me to suck that daddy dick (unintelligible sounds) You think I'm a fucking faggot dawg, I'll beat the shit outta you homey! (unintelligible sounds)
Male Subject #1: Oh shit. Fuck. Fuck dawg, let me try this shit again. (dialing sounds)
Female Subject #1: Hello?
Male Subject #1: Hey wassup girl, (unintelligible sounds) you wanna roll over?
Female Subject #1: (unintelligible sounds) you know I want that daddy dick.
…I was overcome with sickness the first time I heard it. My throat is raw from the vomiting…
Good God…what is this? I feel…I feel…
That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. This BrokeNCYDE phenomenon is clearly nothing more than an outlet by which reasoned men such as myself can be driven INSANE.
Those awful screams haunt my nightmares, whispering lyrics so profoundly lacking in logic or rational human thought that I am beginning to suspect that they are nothing less than the product of demons. In one track, they repeat the words “booty call” so much that I was almost granted an aneurism to relieve of this wretched duty. In another, they describe the process of partying in a fashion as juvenile as that of a twelve-year who has just learned to swear. I had initially entered this project with the feeling that this atrocious monstrosity posing as music was just the product of an overtly-elaborate parody, or perhaps as punishment for the wicked, but now I don’t feel that way. These are human beings who truly believe that their craft, as inane and sadistic as it is, is truly a work of art. My brain aches from this thought, but I cannot deny the truth.
I have not been aided by the newly acquired knowledge that these terrors have referred to the genre in which they perform as “crunkcore”. To break my professional demeanor for a moment, I must ask: what kind of joke is that? What in the world is “crunk”? And doesn’t the “-core” suffix imply the presence of hardcore music influences…which clearly do not exist here? Is this genre an illusion?! Am I losing my mind?!
Worse yet is the knowledge that people are already being exposed to this dark relic. 6,000 copies were sold in the first week of release. People are actually buying this! Some may actually…like it! Gah!!
I get it now. The music itself is the danger. I’m only halfway through the album and have already begun to slip into potentially irreversible mental decay. This thing is siphoning my braincells, destroying my mind! And it’s happening to others all across the globe!
I’m leaving as we speak. People have to be warned. It is clear to me now that my life’s purpose will be to eradicate the plague known as I’m Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It! from the world.
It won’t let me leave. It won’t let me leave.
This void of intelligence traps me here. I may be doomed to listen to this album forever, like some kind of purgatory of endless stupidity.
It is the worst! The worst thing ever crafted by human hands! What have we done…WHAT HAVE WE DONE!
The singer just spent precious seconds of my remaining life listing, I quote, “bitches I fucked”. I am certain that these are the exact verses that were prophesized to call upon the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
I don’t know how much longer my sanity is going to last. I may very well die here. But I will spend my last moments analyzing the HELL out of this foul opposition to nature, so that when this recording is found, I will have done my part to prevent total disaster.
“I got these bitches on my jock dog”
WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?!
Are they mentally deficient, or just exploitative and demeaning beyond comprehension? And why, in either case, are they so intent upon spreading the knowledge that they possess a male penis?!
I believe I have stumbled upon the utter epitome of human idiocy. Somewhere amidst the tortured screams, I managed to decipher the words, “You make my pee-pee hard!”, which are then chanted endlessly.
I mean, what in the fuck…WHAT COULD POSSIB…
No…I have to control myself. I won’t let this thing beat me…I won’t…
(sobbing sounds, broken up occasionally by unintelligible mutterings)
“Crunk”…all I hear is “crunk”…and the screams…and the FIRE…
It burns…the sound BURNS.
Maybe…this isn’t real. Am I already dead? Is this Hell?
Yes, YES! It must be! Nothing could be a greater pain than this!
It’s all in my head, yes!
It’s all in my head, It’s all in my head, It’s all in my head, It’s all in my head…
(repeats for several minutes)
Is the…end? Feeling…angry sad. Mind gone. Mind all gone!
(very long pause)
I’m not a fan…hehe…heheHAheHAHA…
But…haha…the kid’s...heheha…LIKE IT!
Everything. The noises. Gone. Erased.
My life is gone too.
Everything I’ve lived for. Destroyed. In the wake of that…thing…
I…I…I can still hear.
It’s in my head.
IT’S IN MY HEAD!
NO! GET OUT! GET OUT!
[The recording ends here. The subject was never recovered, though the recorder itself was found in a pool of blood that matched his own in subsequent DNA tests. We can only assume the kind of self-flagellation and mutilation that could have been derived from Artifact 001.
The artifact has been returned to storage. It is clearly unable to be researched in a controlled environment. We must turn our heads to the public, observe the damage being inflicted by the copies of the artifact…and pray for mercy from an unjust God.]