Stefan Schultze

Following multiple days of hyperplex self-experimentation with ear training exercises revolving around strong dissonances and unplayable underarm clusters and already quite successful attempts at bilocation, STEFAN SCHULTZE has defeated the malevolent conductor and sinister music-lord (who, without a cowl, looks, strangely enough, a little bit like Hans-Georg Maaßen). Splayed out on the ground, the latter still manages to wheeze: „wasn‘t born yesterd… AAARGH…“ and „…eco-socialist state… never…“ while he tries to escape through the fi bre optic cable connecting Rodelberg to the Festival Hall. „…Wind madness…Vaccination eff ects…leftist Merkel squad… AARGH… you‘ll never get me …“ The vile lord squeezes his furrowed brow into the cable… Alas, at that very moment, he‘s met by a whole phalanx of AI-generated octatonic clusters that begin to dematerialise him, an excruciating fate… „…mass migration…Maaassenmigraaaation…MaaaßenmigrAAAARGH!“ And then he‘s gone, the dark lord of values with his silly wannabe serape. SWOOOSH! „Speeches, music and lots of singing at the grave of someone who didn‘t amount to anything. Not even himself,“ Captain Niederrhein thinks to himself, mentally performing the fi nal factcheck. Meanwhile, the touches, tones, notes and chords thicken into a cosmic mass of sound – it‘s impossible to tell what fl ows from Schultze‘s own thoughts, what comes from the AI Schultze‘s feeding and what emanates from the piano attachment itself. The last spectators of this epic battle leave the concert hall, out at Rodelberg the „real“ Schultze (is it him?) is still playing his fi nal triumphal minimalistic improvisation and preparing the liberated residents of the historical left-Rhine-bank town and their guests from all around the world for the victory parade. YEAH YOU WHITSUNPARADE!