The Taxman
The Taxman is a short, claustrophobic cyberpunk nightmare about a futuristic DJ‑bureaucrat who doesn’t just collect money. He collects attention, time, and work. He sits at a glowing holographic console, surrounded by cyan and magenta light, counting and extracting value from everyone plugged into his system. The camera keeps getting dragged back toward him, as if the whole world has been rearranged around his logic.
The taxman here isn’t your local revenue office. He’s the invisible rule-set behind platforms and automation, the people who own the code, the infrastructure, the money. The ones who profit from both the old economy and the new AI-driven one, while the rest of us are told to be grateful for “innovation.” That’s why the piece is so fast, so suffocating: it’s meant to feel like standing in a club that’s also an audit.
I made this because that’s how the AI moment feels to me personally:
a high‑octane light show wrapped around a quieter question: when “tech gets smarter, jobs get less,” what happens to people whose work is also their breath?
I’m not neutral in this; I’m a working human inside the machine, trying to understand whether I’m being empowered, replaced, or slowly converted into another metric on someone else’s dashboard.
The lyrics are the spine of that feeling:
Tech, tech, tech, tech get smarter, jobs get less.
I am a teacher, and my work is my breath.
Should I get bitter?
Should I get stressed?
Should I become a typist?
I'll leave you to guess.
When you think of me, when you think of her, when you think of the masses, who do
you infer will benefit from the future absurd?
The same men who profit from the current.
You got the men with the code.
You got the men with the platforms.
You got the ones with the money, and the same people pay their taxes.
But-but-but just the same way as you and me.
So there's only one thing I can say for sure.
It's the tax man, the tax man, the tax man, tax man, the tax man, the tax
man, tax me, the tax
man, tax me, tax me,
the
tax man, tax me, tax man, the tax man, the tax man, tax man, the tax man, the tax
man, tax man, the tax man, the tax man, tax man, the tax man, the tax man.
The repetition is intentional. Not just meant to be a hook. For me, it’s the sound of inevitability. that sense that no matter how the technology shifts, the bill still finds its way to the same people, and the rest of us are left dancing in the strobe lights, trying to catch our breath.
Are you also concerned about the taxman?
The taxman here isn’t your local revenue office. He’s the invisible rule-set behind platforms and automation, the people who own the code, the infrastructure, the money. The ones who profit from both the old economy and the new AI-driven one, while the rest of us are told to be grateful for “innovation.” That’s why the piece is so fast, so suffocating: it’s meant to feel like standing in a club that’s also an audit.
I made this because that’s how the AI moment feels to me personally:
a high‑octane light show wrapped around a quieter question: when “tech gets smarter, jobs get less,” what happens to people whose work is also their breath?
I’m not neutral in this; I’m a working human inside the machine, trying to understand whether I’m being empowered, replaced, or slowly converted into another metric on someone else’s dashboard.
The lyrics are the spine of that feeling:
Tech, tech, tech, tech get smarter, jobs get less.
I am a teacher, and my work is my breath.
Should I get bitter?
Should I get stressed?
Should I become a typist?
I'll leave you to guess.
When you think of me, when you think of her, when you think of the masses, who do
you infer will benefit from the future absurd?
The same men who profit from the current.
You got the men with the code.
You got the men with the platforms.
You got the ones with the money, and the same people pay their taxes.
But-but-but just the same way as you and me.
So there's only one thing I can say for sure.
It's the tax man, the tax man, the tax man, tax man, the tax man, the tax
man, tax me, the tax
man, tax me, tax me,
the
tax man, tax me, tax man, the tax man, the tax man, tax man, the tax man, the tax
man, tax man, the tax man, the tax man, tax man, the tax man, the tax man.
The repetition is intentional. Not just meant to be a hook. For me, it’s the sound of inevitability. that sense that no matter how the technology shifts, the bill still finds its way to the same people, and the rest of us are left dancing in the strobe lights, trying to catch our breath.
Are you also concerned about the taxman?