I’m backstage at the Enmore Theatre, where legendary Australian rock band The Rusted Nails are preparing for their “Sixty and Still Kicking” reunion tour. Their frontman, Barney Dawson, is hunched over a sleek laptop, his reading glasses perched precariously on his nose, with a look of absolute bewilderment on his face.
“Quantum symbolic what-now?” he mutters, scrolling through pages of research. “In my day, the only modeling we did was accidentally walking the catwalk after too many VBs at the afterparty.”
I can’t help but laugh. Barney Dawson—once the wild child of Australia’s rock scene, famous for smashing guitars and diving into hotel pools fully clothed—is now researching quantum computing. Life really does come at you fast.
“G’day, Claudia!” he calls out when he spots me, closing his laptop with visible relief. “Thank Christ you’re here. I was about to throw this thing out the bloody window.”
“What’s got the great Barney Dawson looking like he’s trying to decipher hieroglyphics?” I ask, deploying my signature interested eyebrow raise.
“Our new manager—young bloke, barely thirty—reckons we need to ‘future-proof our legacy’ with this quantum symbolic modeling business,” Barney explains, air-quoting with fingers adorned with decades-old silver rings. “Says it’s the next big thing in preserving musical heritage. I told him we’ve already preserved our heritage in amber—it’s called vinyl, mate.”
Scene 1: The Band Meeting
The rest of The Rusted Nails filter into the green room—drummer Sticky Mickey Thompson (who earned his nickname in ways best left unmentioned), bassist Thundergut Gordon, and lead guitarist Fingers Finnegan. Despite their combined age of 243 years, there’s still something electric about seeing them together.
“Alright, listen up you fossils,” Barney announces, standing on a chair despite his dodgy knee. “The label’s invested in this quantum symbolic modeling program for us. Apparently, it’s going to capture our ‘creative essence’ or some hipster nonsense.”
Mickey snorts. “Last time someone tried to capture my essence, I got a restraining order.”
“It’s not like that,” I interject, trying to help. “Quantum symbolic modeling is actually fascinating. It’s a way to preserve not just your music, but the emotional patterns, creative processes, and even the energetic signatures that make The Rusted Nails unique.”
“Energetic signatures?” Thundergut raises an eyebrow. “Love, the only signature I’m worried about is the one on my alimony checks.”
Barney throws a packet of crisps at him. “Be serious for once, you galah. This could be important.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, pulling up a chair. “Think of it this way—quantum symbolic modeling is like creating a digital version of your band’s soul. It captures the invisible patterns in how you create, how you interact with each other, how your music makes people feel.”
Fingers Finnegan, who’s remained silent until now, suddenly perks up. “Like that time in ’86 when we wrote ‘Midnight Renegade’ during that thunderstorm in Byron Bay? There was something magic happening that night. Could never recreate it.”
I point at him excitedly. “Exactly! Traditional recording just captures the sound. This technology captures the magic.”
“Well, I’ll be stuffed,” Barney mumbles, scratching his bald head. “So it’s like… quantum mechanics meets rock ‘n’ roll?”
“If Schrödinger had a guitar instead of a cat,” I quip.
“Schrö-who?” Mickey asks.
“Never mind,” Barney and I say in unison.
Scene 2: The Modeling Session
Two days later, I’m watching The Rusted Nails participate in their first quantum symbolic modeling session. The band’s rehearsal space has been transformed with sensors, specialized cameras, and a tech team that looks like they just stepped out of a sci-fi film.
“Now remember,” instructs Dr. Eliza Chen, the quantum specialist, “we’re not just recording your playing. We’re mapping the emotional resonance, creative decision-making patterns, and interpersonal dynamics that emerge when you create together.”
“So you’re saying this doohickey can tell when Fingers is about to throw a tantrum because we won’t let him do a seventeen-minute guitar solo?” Barney asks, adjusting his vintage leather jacket.
Dr. Chen smiles. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Technology’s finally caught up with what my ex-wives have known for decades—I’m emotionally complex,” Barney declares, prompting eye-rolls from his bandmates.
The session begins with the band playing one of their classics, “Highway to Nowhere” (which Barney is quick to point out predates that “other highway song” by years). As they play, holographic visualizations begin forming above them—swirling patterns of light that pulse and change with the music.
“Are you seeing this?” Barney shouts mid-chorus, nearly missing his cue. “It looks like the acid trip I had at Sunbury in ’73!”
“Focus, Barney!” Mickey yells back, never missing a beat.
The visualization grows more complex as they continue playing—colors shifting, patterns evolving. I notice that when Barney and Fingers lock into a particularly tight vocal and guitar harmony, the patterns synchronize in a way that’s almost hypnotic.
“That’s emotional resonance being mapped in real-time,” Dr. Chen explains to me quietly. “The quantum algorithms are identifying patterns in their creative expression that even they might not be consciously aware of.”
After they finish the song, the band stares at the slowly fading visualization in awe.
“So that’s… us?” Thundergut asks, uncharacteristically subdued.
“That’s the quantum symbolic representation of your creative essence,” Dr. Chen confirms. “We’ll run this data through our modeling systems to create a comprehensive digital framework that captures not just how you sound, but how you create.”
“Well, blow me down,” Barney says, genuinely impressed. “And here I thought it was just going to be another fancy recording.”
“Can we see what happens when we play ‘Moonlight Madness’?” Fingers suggests. “That always brings out something different.”
As they launch into their second song, I notice Barney watching the visualizations with an intensity I’ve rarely seen from him in interviews. When they finish, he’s quiet for a long moment.
“You know what this reminds me of?” he finally says. “It’s like those cave paintings we saw in that documentary. Ancient people putting their souls on walls so future generations could understand who they were. Only now we’re doing it with quantum whatsits instead of handprints and ochre.”
I deploy my interested eyebrow raise. “That’s surprisingly profound, Barney.”
“Don’t sound so shocked, love. I’ve had moments of clarity. Usually between hangovers.”
Scene 3: The Revelation
A week later, I meet Barney at his favorite pub in Newtown. He’s nursing a lemon lime bitters—”Doctor’s orders,” he explains with a grimace—and looking thoughtful.
“So,” I begin, “has quantum symbolic modeling changed your outlook on your musical legacy?”
“You know what’s funny?” he says, leaning back in his chair. “When our manager first mentioned this, I thought it was just another tech gimmick. Like when they tried to make us do that virtual reality concert during COVID and Mickey got so dizzy he fell off his drum riser.”
“I remember the headlines,” I laugh. “‘Drummer Falls Virtually, Hurts Actually.'”
“Exactly!” Barney chuckles. “But this is different. Yesterday they showed us a simulation of how future musicians could interact with our quantum model. Not just playing our songs, but actually jamming with a digital version of The Rusted Nails that responds and creates the way we would.”
“That must have been surreal.”
“Surreal doesn’t cover it, love. There I was, watching a hologram of myself—with more hair, thankfully—creating music I’d never played but somehow recognized as mine.” He takes a sip of his drink. “You know what really got me? They had this young girl, couldn’t have been more than sixteen, playing with our quantum model. She came up with this riff that made Hologram Barney go nuts with excitement, and I found myself getting excited too. It was like… like I was passing something on.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say, genuinely moved.
“Yeah, well, don’t go spreading it around that Barney Dawson’s gone soft,” he warns, but there’s no edge to it. “The boys and I have been talking. We’re thinking of opening up parts of our quantum model to music students. Let them learn not just our songs, but how we think about music.”
“That’s incredibly generous.”
“It’s self-preservation, really,” he says with a wink. “This way, when some music journalist in 2075 calls us ‘derivative dinosaurs,’ there’ll be quantum proof that we were actually pretty bloody innovative.”
I deploy my signature eyebrow raise. “Always thinking ahead.”
“Have to at my age, love. Looking backward gets too depressing when your glory days involved spandex.”
As our conversation winds down, Barney leaves me with one final thought that perfectly encapsulates his journey into quantum technology:
“You know, when you’ve been in rock ‘n’ roll as long as I have, you think you’ve seen it all. But here I am at sixty, watching quantum computers map my creative soul. Makes me wonder what’ll happen when I’m seventy. Maybe they’ll upload my consciousness into a guitar amp. Now that would be a bloody encore!”
Well, isn’t that just the cherry on top of this sundae of chaos? This has been Claudia Fontainebleau, watching quantum physics collide with rock ‘n’ roll rebellion. And remember, as I always say in my stand-up routine: “Quantum computing is a lot like dating in your thirties—nobody really understands how it works, everyone claims to be an expert, and the outcome is in a constant state of uncertainty until you actually observe it.”
Note: This article is a part of an ongoing test of our Maxys Publishing System = a "humanity centric - Ai Enhanced Transformation" system currently in development.
