V/A - Cybernetics, Or Ghosts?

A Closer Listen

The arrival of ChatGPT has accelerated the discussion of the relationship between art and A.I.  Are the words we are reading “real,” and what does “real” mean?  In time, will the average human being be able to tell the difference between human and A.I.-generated texts? Will the music we listen to be “artificial,” and will we be able to trust the reviews?  On the scary side, A.I. is already affecting elections and public discourse; on the optimistic side, the hybrid art shows promise.  All of these developments were predicted by Italo Calvino in his 1967 lecture “Cybernetics and Ghosts,” which is the starting point for this Subtext Records release.

Cybernetics, or Ghosts? is a literary anthology edited by Michael Salu and a music compilation compiled by James Ginzburg.  The stories are inspired directly by Calvino, while the tracks are inspired by the stories.  The presence of a writer named ∀ I is already troubling, turning things literally on their head, suggesting not collaboration, but replacement.  But Calvino’s lecture was not meant to be cautionary; instead, the author considered it to be a “thought experiment” investigating the origins of language and storytelling.  In response, Cybernetics, or Ghosts? is an extension of the discussion around generative texts, music and visuals, a mutual venture between human and non-human artists.

In the anthology, apps begin to ask questions and in so doing, discover sentience; ghosts appear in the machine, resisting efforts to delete them; texts with unusual literary qualities suggest a blend of human and A.I. genesis; enhanced humans seek connection, wherever they can find it.  An elderly consciousness is uploaded to a new shell, and discovers new restrictions.  The genres slide from myth (two authors utilizing Storytellers) to fantasy to speculative sci-fi.  In Iphgenia Baal’s piece, it is impossible to untangle the human from the program, which leads to further questions, perhaps the greatest being, could a human pass the A.I.’s equivalent of a Turing Test?  Blake Butler ends the anthology with a revelation:  “I no longer needed my own mind.”

The compilation reunites many of the artists who appeared on Aho Ssan’s Rhizomes: a who’s-who of sonic visionaries.  While two of the tracks are billed as collaborations, it’s possible that others invite A.I. to participate.  In Rắn Cạp Đuôi’s organic opener, some sections seem improvised, like a program discovering itself; as the electronics seep in, one pictures the intersection between artist and technology.  KMRU and Aho Ssan reunite for “Clear Vision,” presenting a thick sheet of drone permeated by electronic rumbles and protrusions.  The piece comes across like an energy surge, recessing toward the end like an averted crisis or assuaged fear.  In contrast, Roly Porter’s track begins tenderly and thoughtfully, then expands like a dying star, developing a pulse midway.

As Holly Childs and Gediminas Žygus exchange lines of spoken word on “Throw,” the dialogue frays around the edges, a reminder that Auto-Tune prepared listeners for the possibilities of A.I.-aided music.  Not every A.I. development must be feared. Başak Günak’s “rather than continuous–” sounds like a field recording of a machine, something that may pose difficulties in the designation of genres down the road.  Emptyset’s “Ore” proposes a philosophy of ore, in which raw material is present, waiting to be claimed by any being, sentient or non.  The title of Gonçalo Penas’ aggressive “Adversarial” is a reminder of the relationship many take toward A.I., although A.I. hasn’t taken it toward us ~ the end-product, perhaps, of too many viewings of “The Terminator” and “The Matrix.”  Meanwhile, it has been discovered that any bias within programs is a reflection of the bias within programmers, which is either encouraging or frightening depending on the vantage point.

Eric Holm’s “Bivalve” seems to contain a local biophany, albeit unconfirmed; computers are very good at imitating animal cries.  If a creature becomes extinct, yet can still be printed and imbued with voice, will it really be extinct?  When Anima Hocine’s dark brass emerges in “MLO 1.1,” one begins to ask if it is really brass, and if computers, fed generations of improvised music, might be able to invent “moves” heretofore unforeseen, as in the stunning move by AlphaGo in 2016 that galvanized the industry.  In like fashion, we think we know PYUR’s voice, and believe that we’re hearing it here, but what if we’re not?  If billed as PYUR, is an A.I. really PYUR?

In contrast to “Adversarial,” Bridget Ferrill’s “Amiable Snakes” suggests a playful partnership, the ghost clearly audible, yet benign, left on its own in the last looping minute.  Then a triptych of artists whose names suggest intentional proximity: Ziúr, ZULI and xin.  “Up to You” is percussive and open-ended, its tone suggesting children’s toys; A.I. is still in its infancy.  “Bathyal” pushes the percussion to a darker place before pausing to reveal a beautiful bank of synthesized melodies, a robot singing delightfully in the background.  “On Stone” sounds programmed; but is it?  As A.I. continues to develop, we are losing our ability to distinguish the line between programmed and generative.  What if our greatest collaborators are already within our homes?

The album’s final word belongs to MIRA新伝統.  “The Ghost of the Apricot” is inspired by Geoffrey Morrison’s story of the same name, which explores the nature of the instruments used in music – not only their origins as wood and gut, but those who owned them, whose breath flowed through them, whose bows caressed them. The author recalls the ghosts of ancestors, apricots and pears; the composer pushes the music past its organic origins into the electronic and perhaps further, to a time when melodies might be passed not to human descendants, but to files and gigabytes and the resourceful A.I. who may resurrect them.  Should this happen, will they be cybernetics, or ghosts? (Richard Allen)