Cyrus McNally Cyrus is a fourth-year neuroscience student who currently spends his time scheming for world domination. E-mail him at nougat@ucla.edu.

Yo, it’s 2030, and I want y’all to meet the sounds of the future – the American Empire has fallen into the hands of the corrupt and the mouths of the moochers.

There’s a battle going on to protect independent music before it is long gone. You never thought it would happen, but I guess you were wrong.

A once multifaceted music industry has conformed to our worst fear – the leaders of the leaders are led by Britney Spears! She makes eight or nine trillion every three to four years, her monopolistic record label owns the whole world’s ears.

So how could the 21st century start out so wrong? In 2004, Bill Gates and Britney were sharing the bong.

First Bill came up with some tight programming language – he stayed up all night drinking Starbucks in toil and anguish.

He managed to lay down flat the code that would surely get him and Britney the fat payload.

The result was an indestructible music innovator – unique DNA sequences decoded through automators, resequenced into songs by rhythm pattern generators – producing artificial tunes of superficial tones, based on your brain waves for you and you alone.

It might sound bright or tight, even in spite of this fright, but when all has been said and done, you’ll be wishing music was still fun – or at least as exciting as an AM radio station!

The scheme was implemented, our minds all cemented, thanks to plans from the hands of the powerful and demented. All bands turned to sand and the voice of public choice was no longer represented.

In 2005, when a few bands were still alive, the biggest and bloated joined forces to survive.

The “N’Sink Clown Posers” and “Krazy Kid Korn BizKit” were rivals, but both were shut down by the “Creed Everclearlast Revival.”

“God’s Metallic Streetback Matchsmack Boyz” and its decoys managed to make it through 2008, but by then the talent was gone and it was already too late.

A collective of earthly representatives formed a resistance, to make sure phat tracks weren’t swept from existence.

Its underground nature was fearlessly led by the likes of “Del Tha Funkee Homosapien” and Radiohead.

Even 30 years earlier the bands’ acts of creative altruism were up against forces of a musical communism – that was slowly setting in like a mental disease – unbeknownst to its hosts, their minds swaying in the breeze.

A lot has changed in a time period so long, but Bob Dylan continues to separate rights from wrong, and Digital Underground is still singing that same old song. Ricky Martin still doesn’t know how to get his game on, while Vanilla Ice and Eminem share a condo in Boca Raton.

They pass away the days beatboxing and sipping on cheap beers, Em always complaining “Yo Ice, I ain’t sold an album in 29 years! I played the perfect image and I preyed on their worst fears – maybe I should release a country album and prove I can switch gears.”

You see, on December 24, 2001, Eazy-E descended from the sky, a 40 in his hand and a twinkle in his eye, to set the record straight: “You stupid motherblubbers, rap ain’t about hate. I’m sorry for you suckers who found out this late, but Shady’s a fake and his lyrics ain’t that great. His voice sounds like a squirrel who’s about to get date-raped! And to those who would use the words ‘unique’ or ‘new’ to describe his weak-sauce tunes, well for Suge Knight’s sake, I was all about that scheiss back in 1988!”

Eazy took a magical swig and ascended back up into the blue; his message was taken and Em was forever through – these days Marilyn Manson comes to visit him for summer barbecues.

The Rolling Stones still talk the talk, but they’re all over 80 and they can barely walk the block.

Mick Jagger complains about the dysfunction of his cane, and sings “we may be at the very end of our clocks, but give me my Viagra back and I’ll show you who still rocks!”

In the year 2030, we all strive to fight the corruption and mend all that was torn, returning music to its function as an art form. Underground artists are coordinating an electrical storm to reset prosthetic microchips in Bill Gates’ head, and destroy the Avon counter under Britney Spears’ bed.

Then the music mongrels, totally disheveled, will collapse on themselves and creative artists will revel as the planet transforms into a new dimensional level.

The moral of the story is, don’t trust no conglomerate commercialization corporation to pick beats for your radio station.

And if you do and choose to do like they all do, I guess my story is through, but don’t say the future didn’t warn you.