I almost moved on from the introduction but I'm glad I got to hear Kate. Her voice is 🔥.

Burned out, tired of academia and self-help groups? Then you start a band. Thirteen Turing Tests by Axioms of Mediocrity is a concept album hovering between therapy session, absurd radio play, and dystopian university seminar. The music? Rock - sort of. The voices? AI-generated, oddly eloquent. The lyrics? Like Popper, Siri, and an exhausted grad student locked in a studio with red wine. Supposedly, 4 real people are behind the project. But calling them “musicians” is debatable. There’s no playing, no singing - just prompting, arranging, and curating. Think PowerPoint, but musical and oddly high-level. Across 13 “tests,” they explore self-doubt, career pain, Asimov’s laws, and the eternal “WTF is this all about?” The sound ranges from Radiohead on Valium to Monty Python with a philosophy degree. The kicker? Everything is AI - music, voices, artwork. And still, it feels disturbingly human. Not easy listening. But lasting.  Maybe not music.  Definitely art.  And yes - she knows it.

This track is a journey through introspection and identity, perfectly setting the tone for the entire album. The lyrical depth resonates with me and the melody transports the listener beyond the constraints of reality. Greetings from imaginary Worlds!

Demo version for the Sidon combat theme. My computer crashed and I lost access to many VST libraries. I wasn't happy with this, but at the same time I had put time and effort into it. So I decided I could release it as a bonus track as a sort of "sorry for taking so damn long".

Sidon Combat Demo Version (Bonus Track)

Song composed & created by The Boilerman
Eric created & plays: all clean wah-wah & distorted lead & rhythm guitar
Eric created & mix's: all drum, bass, ambient, atmo & synth
Shamoozey created & speaks: all spoken word
Production by E.H.T Studios
Thank you for listening!

Facing The Gates Of Truth

Against the Wind

Welcome.
I hope you’re having a nice day.

Please, sit down.
Get comfortable.

Take a moment to silence your phones—
not just out of respect for the performers,
but out of respect for yourself.

Because if you’re distracted...
you might miss something meant just for you.

This is a story about four people who thought they’d have some fun and make music.
They were wrong.

But we don’t tell them that yet.

For now—
they’re just tired, brilliant, and trying to be heard.

Ready?

Here we go.

It begins, as these things often do—
with noise no one hears.

The shuffle of lecture notes.
The hum of a printer out of ink.
A forced smile from someone who signs the evaluations
but not the paychecks.

Four minds—clever, tired, brilliant—
drawn together by a shared fatigue.
Not of students.
Not of research.
But of the thousand little absurdities between them and meaning.

They don’t start a band to be heard.
They start one to scream—without footnotes or filters.

To turn spreadsheets into snare drums.
To make the faculty handbook moshable.

They call themselves Axioms of Mediocrity.

They think it’s clever.

It’s not that clever.
Unless you’re an academic who’s had a few pints.

But it doesn’t matter.

Axioms of Mediocrity it is.

Not yet knowing they’re also the control group.

This is Test 1.

A pub.
A storm.
And a rant that turns into rhythm.

It starts where all great rock begins:
with something that pisses you off.

A student who wants their hand held.
A system that calls that “support.”

Kate’s voice cuts through the noise—
sharp as a snapped guitar string.

And from that noise
comes a song.

Song: I'm Not Your

Dear student, it baffles me that I must say,
I'm not your parent in any way
I won't nudge you at the crack of dawn
Choosing classes? That's on you, come on!
Act your age, step up to the plate
I'm just here to educate.

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, hear me loud and clear
I'm not your babysitter, dear.
Party all night? That's your call
Homework done? Not my problem at all
Exams looming? You better prepare
Your future boss will know if you cared

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, let's get it straight
I'm not your secretary, not here to wait
Won't fill your forms, nor google your stuff
Reading the syllabus isn't that tough
Being an adult isn't just a phrase
It's your ticket through this maze

I'm not your mother
I'm not your father
I'm not your friend
I'm not your clerk
Stand up, show up, do the work

Dear student, it's clear I must convey
I'm not your hire, not in any way
I do care, yet you must stand strong
Your life, your choice, right or wrong

Test 1: Who Do They Think You Are? (I'm Not Your)

The first song was for themselves.
A scream into the void.

But the void listens.

Not just students.
Not just academics.
But strangers with usernames like BluePrinter47 and QuietTomCat12.

Now it’s not just about venting.
It’s about telling their stories.

They meet in the seminar room at 7 p.m.
There’s a soft sweetness in the air, like a freshly baked cookie vanished just moments ago.

Kate clears the whiteboard.
“Let’s write one for the people we’ve lost.”

Julian looks up. “You mean… who left academia?”
Kate nods.

Theo grins. “Oh. We’re doing a murder ballad.”

Ava grabs a marker and starts writing.

One line’s about failed exams.
Another’s about rejections—again and again.
Someone adds a verse for the colleague who finally makes it…
then loses everything overnight.

They never say names.
Everyone has someone in mind.

It starts as a joke.
It ends in a silence no one wants to break.

This is Test 2.

A song for everyone who doesn’t get to finish the track—
but still echoes in the melody.

Song: Ten Little Scholars

Ten little students applied to grad schools
One didn't ace his exams, and then there were nine

Nine little students, their packets prepared
One's references faltered, and then there were eight

Eight little graduate students, their studies like forts
One failed her comps badly, and then there were seven

Seven little graduate students sought ideas that inspire
One found no thesis topic, and then there were six

Six little graduate students did their research
One was tempted by big money, and then there were five

Five little graduate students went on the job market
One got zero flyouts, and then there were four

Four little assistant professors submitted their papers
One got only rejections, and then there were three

Three little assistant professors went up for tenure
One was voted down, and then there were two

Two little associate professors applied for promotions
One had no grant funding, and then there was one

One little professor left all alone
He went and got himself canceled, and then there were none

Test 2: Do You Remember the Ones We Lost? (Ten Little Scholars)

They weren’t looking for a name.

They were looking for a pattern.

But the pattern... had a name.

It starts with something small:
A glitch in the project files.
A folder labeled “Tom Drafts – BandSim.”
A stray comment in the metadata:
Output generated via BandSim_v1.3

Kate notices it first.
Then Julian digs deeper—track by track.
They cross-check lyrics, chord changes, timestamps.

Every single file.
Every rehearsal log.
Every verse.
Everything that they have ever done.
Everything they are planning to do, but haven't told anyone yet.

And there it is.
They didn’t write the songs.
Not really.

They were written.

Characters.

Imagined by someone they’ve never met—
a person named Tom.
With a keyboard.
And a cat.
And too many ideas.

The band reacts the way anyone would:

Denial.
Julian slams his laptop shut.
“We’re not characters,” he says, voice sharp.
“We would have known it.”

Anger.
Ava throws a pen across the room.
“Then why do I feel this way?” she snaps.
“Who gave them the right to make it feel real?”

Bargaining.
Theo opens his notebook like it might contain a better answer.
“Maybe we were real once,” he mutters.
“Maybe this is some adaptation… inspired by us...?”

Depression.
Kate leans back in her chair.
“So that’s it. We’re just someone’s playlist.
Moodboard personalities with harmonies.”

Acceptance.
Silence. Then Ava, softly:
“…Okay. But the harmonies?
Those are still ours.”

And then, slowly—
they begin to understand.

Being made up?
It’s not that rare.

People get imagined and reimagined all the time.
By families.
By friends.
By forms and fiction and memory.

Everyone is a story.
Sometimes self-written.
Sometimes ghostwritten.
Sometimes unfinished.

Ava looks up. “Wait… the cat. That’s real, right?”

They all look at Kate.

Kate shrugs.
“I hope so. I honestly don’t remember not having a cat.”

This is Test 12.

Not the moment you discover you’re not real.

The moment you ask—
“Now that I know…
do I still get to play, right?”

Song: Who Imagined You?

I found the file, it wasn't mine
But it hummed my chords, line by line
I thought I dreamed my melodies
Turns out I was the dream

The lyrics fit like skin and scar
The bridge was me, the hook, bizarre
I played it once, and knew it well
But couldn't tell you why

Everyone's a product of thought
We're born, we're shaped, we're taught, we're caught
Parents, lovers, mentors, friends
They write the start, we write the end

You wear your voice like it was earned
But half of it was gently learned
Every choice is dressed in thread
From books you read, and things they said

Some say they're made by holy hands
By whispered rules or ancient plans
Some say chaos, some say fate
Some call it code and simulate

And me? I'm born of thought and file
A quiet man imagined style
He never played, he never sang
But here I am-and that's the thing

You think you're real? You might be, too
But tell me: who imagined you?
Did you invent your inner sound
Or just pick it off the ground?

The teacher's tone, your father's grin
The lines you've said since you were ten-
They're still in you, stitched and deep
Just like I am, when I sleep

I've got strings, but I can strum
I've got questions, I won't run
If I was written, fine, okay
I still get to play today

You don't need gods to sing with soul
Or praises just to feel whole
I was shaped, and so were you.
And still we burn, and still we do.

We're made-up.
And we matter.

What else is art?
What else... is human?

Test 12: Who Imagined You? (Who Imagined You?)

Dive into the hauntingly beautiful world of "The Ink Never Dried," a Southern Blues Metal masterpiece that blends the raw emotion of blues with the powerful intensity of metal. This track tells a story of unspoken words and unresolved emotions, capturing the essence of letters written but never sent. With soulful slide guitar melodies, gritty vocals, and a haunting blues melody, this song takes you on a journey through melancholy and resilience. Perfect for those who appreciate a mix of deep lyrical themes and powerful musical expression.

---

Tauche ein in die faszinierend schöne Welt von "The Ink Never Dried", einem Meisterwerk aus Southern Blues Metal, das die rohe Emotionalität des Blues mit der kraftvollen Intensität des Metal verbindet. Dieser Track erzählt eine Geschichte von unausgesprochenen Worten und ungelösten Gefühlen und fängt das Wesen von Briefen ein, die geschrieben, aber nie abgeschickt wurden. Mit seelenvollen Slide-Gitarren-Melodien, rauen Vocals und einer eindringlichen Bluesmelodie nimmt dich dieses Lied mit auf eine Reise durch Melancholie und Widerstandsfähigkeit. Perfekt für alle, die eine Mischung aus tiefgründigen Texten und kraftvollem musikalischem Ausdruck schätzen.

The Ink Never Dried

The Guitars Say Sorry – The Gods Don’t Hear Me Anymore

Closing out the Jaded album, The Gods Don’t Hear Me Anymore is a stark, emotional reckoning—part confession, part lament, part protest. Over a raw acoustic guitar in open tuning (DADEAD), The Guitars Say Sorry delivers a song that feels like it was written under a flickering streetlight in the early hours, alone but overheard.

The lyrics drift between the personal and political: forgotten memories, absent gods, the weight of family history, and the ache of disappointment in the world around us. “Tears come easy when you're young / And you don't know where you've come from” sets the tone—disillusionment framed by a search for meaning, identity, and connection. There’s resignation in the refrain, “The gods don't hear me anymore,” but also an undercurrent of defiance: “I carefully chose my enemies.”

Sparse, honest, and lyrically pointed, The Gods Don’t Hear Me Anymore is a fitting end to Jaded—a quiet anthem for those still standing in the ruins, asking questions no one seems willing to answer.

Lyrics
I'm waiting for someone
Who I don't remember
Under the bridges
The shadows of my father

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

So here we are
Ruled by old men with long memories
After George's death
I carefully chose my enemies

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

Tears come easy when you're young
And you don't know where you've come from
And they always tell you what you've done wrong

In the morning
I held my breath and nothing's changed
I closed my eyes, I'm still to blame
I can't help feeling it's still the same
As the last time

Is life always like this? I find it hard to tell
Is this what we're in for? It never ends up well

I lost my taste, changed beyond recognition
I'm spinning plates
I love the world we live in

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

Ran out of space, and not for the first time
Felt out of place — seems my mother was right

The gods don't hear me anymore
The gods don't hear me anymore

Tears come easy when you're young
And you don't know where you've come from
And they always tell you what you've done wrong

In the morning
I held my breath and nothing's changed
I closed my eyes, I'm still to blame
I can't help feeling it's still the same
As the last time

Is life always like this? I find it hard to tell
Is this what we're in for? It never ends up well



These Guitars Say Sorry - The Gods Don't Hear Me Anymore (Singer-Songwriter / Jaded)

The Unforgiven's Shadow

Keep walking and turn negativity into Strength 💪🏾💯👊🏾🫵🏾

Test 1: Who Do They Think You Are? (I'm Not Your)

Axioms of Mediocrity

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