"This has to be a joke," said a theater critic in Chicago, staring at the names glowing on the slice of crystal the Esca held up helpfully at her eye level. "Yoko Ono?" [...] "Well, she's dead, so, no," said a leather-clad teen punkster in Toronto. "And so is Kraftwerk, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Tangerine Dream, Brian Slade, the freaking Spice Girls, are you kidding me? Ugh, okay, Insane Clown Posse got themselves paralyzed from the neck down screwing around with magnets, Björk lost her voice in an accident with a narwhal and a spinning wheel years ago, and just go fuck yourself, no, Skrillex is not going to go down as the savior of humanity. It's just not happening. I'd rather die in a sea of nuclear fire."
I can't say I've heard of Skrillex, but substitute Air Supply and I'm right there with the teen punkster from Toronto.
"What's ... what's wrong with you? Why do you like this stuff?" asked a middle-aged graphic designer in Berlin, "Grace Jones, I get. Brian Eno, I suppose, if you must. Even RuPaul, I can almost understand. But Jefferson Starship? Nicki Minaj? Hüsker Dü? Courtney Love? I mean, really? And Donna Summer just seems wildly out of place with all the rest of them. There's no aesthetic unity here at all."
"I love "MacArthur Park."
"Right. Okay. Cool. No, sorry, it's not cool, that's awful. Good Lord. [...] A moment ago I was nearly pissing myself in terror, but now I'm just ... well, I'm just a bit offended, frankly."
"I don't even know what to say," said a psychologist in Perth, Western Australia. "This is just embarrassing for everyone involved."
Let's all stop for a moment and imagine that the only thing standing between Earth and total annihilation is ... Ace of Base.