A while ago, my friend Abel and I walked into the studio to make some music. Upon entering, we encountered two peculiar robots, fiddling with my equipment and producing all sorts of eerie, otherworldly sounds. They looked like they’d been cobbled together from discarded bits of electronic waste—a patchwork of metal and wires.
“Excuse me!” I said. “Who are you? How did you get here?”
The robot with a square head glanced at me, raised its small hand in what could only be interpreted as an annoyed gesture, and replied, “Beep boop boop.”
Abel and I exchanged a look, shrugged, and decided to let them continue. Whatever they were doing sounded surprisingly good. The studio has two comfy chairs, so we settled in and listened, entranced by their strange, beautiful music. Realizing no one would ever believe us, I snapped several pictures as proof.
I was jolted awake by Abel’s voice: “Harmen, dude, wake up!”
My mouth was dry, but my mood was inexplicably excellent. It took me a moment to gather my bearings. Checking my wristwatch, I realized seven hours had passed. The robots were gone, leaving only the photographs as evidence.
On the computer monitor, I noticed a recording—over ten hours of their mysterious performance. With tea and biscuits in hand, Abel and I began listening. The music was extraordinary. Over the next few days, we edited the best parts and stitched them together into an album. That was in May 2019.
Ever since, I’ve longed to see those robots again. Each morning, as I step into the studio, I pause and listen, hoping to hear their tiny hands at work, crafting more of those mesmerizing sounds.
Abel Splinter, Harmen Sipkema