The Bronx 2027, a futuristic essay of music


I see it coming, like a bus around a corner in the rain. I know it’s for me, it’s got my number on it: Bx 2027. The first is the borough, the second, the year. Already the cool-poor and dirty have left Manhattan for Brooklyn- at least 10 years now. And the push for culture and revolution is pushed north, past Queens to the fat little unchartered land of nobodies, the Bronx. Down on Bruckner Boulevard. factory stretch I can already see the smirks of 22 year olds who desperately want to be part of something important. So they suck on mamma’s tit and dadda’s dick for food and rent, a rent that doubled since they showed up simply because of the color of their skin. They don’t work jobs and if they do, it’s at coffee shops and record stores and it’s ironic to them, working every day for money so they bitch more than the bitches who have had sore backs since 16. The rent will be something insane like $2500 for a studio with a leaky ceiling and no door on the bathroom. Many crappy poems will be written about cockroaches and mice, because these people have never dealt with those things to this extreme ever before. Those good souls there now will be forced to move to Brooklyn and occupy the apartments of the evacuees.

The reason is Brooklyn is too Brooklyn. It’s almost there right now. Describing the sound of something or the style of something with Brooklyn as the adjective is no longer a positive and whether it ever was to the sane, who fucking knows? The first immigrants will be those that really feel connected to Brooklyn. They will have had discussions and maybe even written crappy essays on the true Brooklyn or what Brooklyn means to them. They will feel they were at the heart of the happening when it was happening and everyone they talk to will know it. They can describe to you for hours what Brooklyn culture is and we will know they are sincere in their delusions because they will use the word culture like its the only word they know. It will be the first thing from their mouths after they say they are leaving because “Brooklyn is getting too-Brooklyn.” Brooklyn 2027 will be filled with lateness. Like those assholes who finally gained the courage and money to move to Manhattan from Wisconsin or South Jersey only to find Manhattan was not cool anymore. It is a graveyard.

Bronx Park will be the center of the epicenter of the cultural United States of America. It will be McCarren Park times 50. Anyone into music or clever art or being gay will hang in Bronx Park, Crotona Park, Poe Park. The only thing keeping the violence down between the regular inhabitants of these places and the new enlightened ex-Brooklynites is weed. Marijuana will be legal by now so it will keep things civil between the black guys sitting on benches drinking chocolate milk and Hennessey and the young hairy white girls and boys who think Pavement is classic rock.

The factories and abandoned warehouses will be turned into apartments and galleries and ironic bowling alleys. No one will ever score above a 92 and games will cost $14. Shoes $19. By the time this happens the New York Times will finally catch onto what’s happening (the lower underground rags will already have claimed to be there from the beginning), the rent will spike so much, black people and Hispanics and Yemenese and Chinese will be forced to leave. They will start moving to Brooklyn and Queens and maybe even Staten Island, though many will find that trash heap very uninviting. Only Mediterraneans are allowed to live on Staten Island without being harassed by the neighbors and cops and priests. You have to have divine right to live in one of those tiny brick houses with sun stained pink roofs. After the first wave of Bronxians hit Queens, Brooklyn, Staten Island and Washington Heights, the trouble begins. Riots start.

The riots are silenced by the mayor and the police and the peace pushin’ community activists. The hatred is still there, though, and soon the smart figure out the problem: the Bronx. The Bronxians feel it is their duty to fight back so some return and they return with Molotov cocktails and baseball bats. The Brooklynites pre-“Brooklyn is the center of coolness” were pushover. They thought they could make easy money on these kids watering down drinks, opening up bike shops and pizza places. The Bronx learned from Brooklyn’s mistakes. The newbie hipsters had no idea what they were walking into. These people didn’t know what they were getting into when they decided it’d be cute to move to the Bronx to revamp a cultural revolution. In the beginning, July 2027, it’s just a lot of talk. But by August, the first factory blows up killing 30. All white. All wearing clever bright neon clothes. The Daily News puts a burnt 21 year old on the front page. The kid is burnt to crisp with his bright neon green glasses melted to his eyeballs.

Riots break out on Bruckner and head outward in all directions like an ink stain. The delis won’t serve anyone white in their 20s, they get beat up on a regular basis by everyone not their kind. And then their kind becomes something of the past. The hipster community collapses on itself and little groups form out of the rubble. It’s gang violence, only they don’t know how to fight with fists, so they do it with poetry and music and art and graffiti. The art output in New York has never been better because it is practical. The gangs deny ever having been hipsters or ever having been part of anything to do with their enemies. The music gets angrier and the bombings keep happening. A gallery is blown up while a band is playing and it becomes the Altamont of this Century.

The Fordham chem fucks develop a dirty bomb and let it off on Fordham Rd, killing hundreds. The mayor steps in and he is killed by a car bomb. There is no police anymore. The people police themselves with machetes and Molotov cocktails. The hipster gangs, who hate being called hipster gangs, start to get inventive, falling back on that private school upbringing. They blow up a bus yard. Now there’s no way to get laterally across the Bronx because even in 2027, the MTA will have added more unnecessary subway lines to Manhattan and left the people on Gun Hill and Allerton alone to rot on a packed bus with no heat or air conditioning.

What was a police state to the world, even with no police around, becomes a warzone. Riverdalians leave for Florida. The Eastchester crowd by Jacobi have more pride so they stick it out and mostly die when a badly executed H bomb vaporizes the Einstein Center and surrounding hospitals. The economy plunges back to 2011 depths and mamma and dadda have no money left to support Junior’s war against a once relatively peaceful bunch of Bronxians. The National Guard steps in and the hipster gangs relocate to Cincinnati and Austin and Denver. The Bronx is in ruins, worse than after Robert Moses cut the fucker in half. Some under-underground fucks hiding up in Kingsbridge start making incredibly angry music and another wave of extreme music is born. It rivals the rockroll scenes of San Fran 67, Detroit 69, S.California 81, DC 83, Seattle 89. This reaches into the deep rooted Bronx population of high schoolers and malcontent middle schoolers. Race is erased, even as angry as the scene gets. Everyone agrees on one thing: hate the poser. Every year the middle schooler gains an inch, the scene grows bigger and the real cultural revolution starts spreading. The hipsters claim they founded it and try to mimic it in Ohio, Colorado and Texas, but the youngins step in there, too. They take it over and put to shame anything a hairy white kid in tight jeans and a Casio keyboard can do. On the alternate side, hip hop gets dirtier than ever. It goes back to the street, starting where it all started, in the Bronx. Yet instead of rehashing that old shit, they go back to older shit like bebop and free jazz. Hip hop brings in jazz drumming and bebop skatting. Some great music is made in 2028 and 2029 and by the time the first snowfall of winter hits, a day after New Years 2030, it will all be dead and lifeless. For years, kids will try to mimic what happened there at that time and fail fail fail miserably.


2 thoughts on “The Bronx 2027, a futuristic essay of music

  1. Now THAT IS what I’d deem an interesting take on things. What I would advise though is talking to other people involved in the scene and bring to light any conflicting points of view and then update your site or create a new article for us to read. Hopefully you’ll take my advice, I’m looking forward to it! Try to cover off on some graffiti characters as well if possible, they’re everywhere at the moment.

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