It really depends on your budget?
That's a large side-tom :-) Looks like a 14"?
Haven't seen the video, but I have tried both the low and high end HB guitars, and the low end are just crap, the high end are better than a Fender Mex or a Squire (IMO).
I see this as a possible dystopian future of the human race, a future where nothing of value is left, only thing that is left is the simile of life, and if our current models of AI is the only thing to survive, we might as well not have been here at all, every truth and fact will be torn apart by hallucinating machines...
but then again, art is subjective.
cross-posted from: https://lemmy.world/post/50292078
Crossposted from https://lemmy.world/post/50292024
“Today is August 4, 2026”
Text transcript available at the bottom
Transcript
There Will Come Soft Rains
By: Ray Bradbury
In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o’clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o’clock! As if it were afraid that nobody would.
Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!
In the kitchen the breakfast stove ejected eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.
“Today is August 4, 2026, the city of Allendale, California.”
Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.
“”Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one!” But no doors slammed. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today…”
Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car.
After a long wait the door swung down again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them into the sink. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.
“Nine-fifteen,” sang the clock, “time to clean.”
Tiny robot mice thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, Kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, they popped into their burrows. The house was clean.
“Ten o’clock.” The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
“Ten-fifteen.” The garden sprinklers pelted the windowpanes,
running down the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly
free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hand raised to catch a ball which never came down.
The five spots of paint – the man, the woman, the children, the ball –
remained. The rest was a think charcoaled layer.
“Twelve noon.”
A dog whined on the front porch.
The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog, once huge and fleshy, but now gone to bone and covered with sores, moved in and through the house, tracking mud.
The dog frothed at the mouth, ran wildly in circles, biting at its tail, spun in a frenzy, and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.
“Two-fifteen.”
The dog was gone.
In the cellar, the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.
“Two thirty-five.”
Bridge tables sprouted from patio walls. Playing cards fluttered. Martinis manifested while music played.
But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.
At four o’clock the tables folded back through the paneled walls. “Four-thirty.”
The nursery walls glowed.
Animals took shape: yellow giraffes, blue lions, pink antelopes, lilac panthers. Hidden films clocked through well-oiled sprockets, and the glas walls lived. It was the children’s hour.
“Six, seven, eight o’clock.” The dinner dishes manipulated like magic
tricks, and in the study a click.
“Nine-five.” A voice spoke from the study ceiling:
“Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you like this evening?”
The house was silent.
The voice said at last, “Since you express no preference, I shall select a
poem at random.” “Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite…
“There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done,
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.
At ten o’clock a falling tree bough crashed through the kitchen window
shattering cleaning solvent over the stove. The room was ablaze in an instant.
“Fire!” screamed a voice. Water pumps shot water from the ceilings while the voices took it up in chorus: “Fire, fire, fire!”
The house tried to save itself, but the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.
Scurrying water rats pistoled their water, and ran for more. And the wall sprays let down showers of mechanical rain.
But too late. The quenching rain ceased. The reserve water supply which had filled baths and washed dishes for many quiet days was gone.
From attic trapdoors gushed a green chemical.
But the fire was clever. It had sent flames outside the house, up through The attic to the pumps there. An explosion! The attic brain which directed the pumps was shattered.
The house shuddered, its bared skeleton cringing from the heat. And the voices wailed, “Fire, fire, run, run,” like a tragic nursery rhyme, a dozen voices, high, low. One, two, three, four, five voices died.
Other choruses could be heard announcing the time, playing music, or cutting the lawn by remote-control mower. A scene of maniac confusion, yet unity; singing, screaming, and one voice, read poetry aloud in the firey study, until all the film spools burned.
In the kitchen the stove could be seen making breakfasts at a psychopathic rate, ten dozen eggs, six loaves of toast, twenty dozen bacon strips, which eaten by the fire, started the stove working again, hysterically hissing!
The crash. The attic smashing into kitchen and parlor. The parlor into cellar, cellar into sub-cellar.
Smoke and silence.
Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, a last voice said,
over and over, “Today is August 5, 2026, today is August 5, 2026, today is …”
One example that the owner used was: (from memory not direct quote) lets say someone liked our piano teacher, but the piano teacher doesn't do jazz, we could then make an AI generated video with her teaching jazz-piano, assuming she would be ok with it (as he looks over his shoulder to an visible uncomfortable piano teacher).
They where quick to say that so far they haven't used any AI-generated music or lessons, but they clearly see it as a possibility in the future, to "keep up".
I don't have anything against using tools to do a job, I worked in a analog recording studio back in the 90' when computers for real started to made their entrance in music, and I welcomed the changes with open arms, I even thought that the LinnDrum was a cool instrument, but AI is not just a tool, at best it's giving away your creativity, at worst it's giving away your work so that someone who knows how to "prompt" can make a "better" version.
there’s no chance AI will take over the entire thing. It’s just neither good, nor can it play concerts, nor does the music mean anything.
Guess I'm a bit more pessimistic about it than you, I know there will always be people like me who likes to make music without the use of AI, but I have seen what stuff like autotune have done to the industry, and I fear that AI will become the only thing people hear.
The video is only available to members on their site, so I no longer have access to it.
The video started out with a "sad" story about someone who posted some SUNO crap and got flack for it, and then went on about how people who didn't embrace new technology would be left behind.
Full disclosure... I did not watch the video to the end, I generally try to keep cool and not get too emotional about things, but this had my blood boiling.
I set up a couple of pi-zeros to monitor our heating and other stuff, it runs lightpd and have been running for several years uninterrupted.
They are only accessible on the local network, so I don't even bother to run updates :-)
I would think that a simple laser-pointer pointed at the camera would be enough to damage the sensor?
I just unsubscribe if a channel start using AI thumbnails
Perhaps you are right, I could be remembering it wrong (but really I don't feel like wading through that comment-section), the telemetry was just the tip of the iceberg for me, violating GPL licence and things like using google and yandex are among many reasons I just don't trust them with my music.
It only became opt-in when people found out.
And it's not the only problem I have with Audacity, this is from an article in slashgear
"...For example, it says that it collects data necessary for law enforcement but doesn't specify what kind of data is collected.
There are also questions regarding the storage of data, which is located in servers in the USA, Russia, and the European Economic Area. IP addresses, for example, are stored in an identifiable way for a day before being hashed and then stored in servers for a year. The new policy also disallows people under the age of 13 from using the software, which, as FOSS Post points out, is a violation of the GPL license that Audacity uses."
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