Rockit

Rockit When I released Future Shock in 1983, I offered more than just a funky groove. “Rockit” was a whisper from tomorrow, a hint at what technology might become when it seeped beyond our factories and office floors. Those scrambled, digitized phrases—“Don’t stop it / Rock it”—weren’t there for a sing-along. They were a coded signal, a brushstroke of a future where machines might become more than tools: they could become companions, lovers, perhaps something even stranger. Some claimed “don’t stop” meant eternal love; others murmured it suggested mechanical desires beyond human flesh. Rumors flared that “Rockit” pointed to secret tech companies or robot prototypes hidden in labs. Nothing concrete ever emerged. Still, the questions lingered in the static between notes. I never confirmed these suspicions. I didn’t need to. “Rockit” was never about giving answers; it was about lighting a fuse in your mind. The world was racing forward, and I wanted to make you wonder where it was headed. In those jittery loops and fractured voices, I asked if you were ready for a reality where human and machine might blur. Perhaps you weren’t. Perhaps we still aren’t. But the song remains, its hints waiting in the grooves, challenging us to peer into tomorrow and ask what happens when the boundaries we cherish start to slip away.