theory

What happened to the future we were promised? The vision that grew out of the 1990s techno-utopianism, when the internet was still a place of freedom and experimentation. Where are the infinite possibilities the early years of the millennium afforded, when social media meant AOL Instant Messenger and GeoCities, when our cellphones were not yet smart, and when personal tech evoked whimsy and excitement rather than anxiety and dread?

On a recent night in L.A., that digital optimism still existed. Here, at a clothing store on La Brea Avenue in the Fairfax District, something that felt lost was rediscovered. People were huddling around to play 1999’s “Crazy Taxi” on a Sega Dreamcast, or 2005’s “Tekken 5” on a PlayStation 2. They were surfing a perfectly re-created Y2K-era internet, and navigating an early version of Apple’s Photo Booth to snap selfies with a first-generation iSight webcam.

Paizley Lee created Dead Internet Theory to bring guests back to an era when tech evoked excitement rather than dread.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Yes, almost everyone was staring at screens, but almost no one was looking at their phone. Instead, the room felt alive and buzzing with energy. Technology was creating human connection rather than isolation.

Welcome to Dead Internet Theory, an event hosted by game designer Paizley Lee that’s both a celebration of vintage tech and a place to build community. The name is a tongue-in-cheek reference to the theory that the internet today is mostly bots, AI slop and corporate algorithms, while the human element is quickly disappearing from the web.

Lee started the event earlier this year after seeing how her friends reveled in hacking old hardware but had nowhere to show off their reimagined contraptions. She said Dead Internet Theory is a space to highlight “artists who don’t see the light of day,” a cyberpunk show-and-tell of sorts. “There’s a world of knowledge that comes from that person that can share and collaborate with another artist, and that’s really the future that we were promised, right then and there,” Lee said. “It’s the ‘Hey, look at what I made, look at what I’m interested in, and let’s share that.’ ”

Benjamin Palmer shows his project called Pan and Scan.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

One of those artists sharing his work was Dan Ruth. Atop a low credenza, he displayed a black, leather suitcase that housed inside of it an old laptop attached to an external zip drive. On the laptop’s screen was a menu of various banned books — the Unabomber’s manifesto and “The Anarchist Cookbook” among them. Ruth had recently bought the trademark rights to the digital storage systems iOmega, Zip and Jaz. “They were what we all used in the ‘90s to transfer larger files,” he explained of the era before online storage and transfer infrastructure like Google Drive.

With his setup at the event, participants could choose whatever banned book they wanted and write it to a physical Zip disk (about the size of a saltine cracker) to keep forever. If Ruth’s installation is a bit provocative, his message is less controversial. At a time when servers are being shut down, physical media is being digitized out of existence, and the subscription model is supplanting personal ownership, Ruth believes this is a way to have data autonomy.

Guests play retro video games.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Lee’s own contribution to the evening is the full rainbow of Apple’s iMac G3 computers — those bubbly, teardrop-shaped desktops that debuted in 1998 to the famous “iCandy” ads displaying their colorful shells, and TV commercials scored to the Rolling Stones’ “She’s Like a Rainbow.” Over several months and multiple trips, Lee drove across the country collecting the G3s in their core five colors. And it wasn’t easy. She recalled sleeping in her car in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel for a few nights because she had spent all her money on acquiring the computers.

It was the people Lee met in the months of gathering the G3s, however, that made it worth it: a single dad who collected vintage iMacs to bond with his son, an elementary school teacher who held onto the old computers because the school was going to destroy them.

“I met these really witchy, cool, queer programmers from MIT in Medford, Massachusetts, who invited me back for MIT Swap Fest, where I found Indigo,” said Lee, referring to another G3 color not part of the core five. “I met a guy who used to work in broadcast, and his wife just died of cancer. His mom moved in, and she has been trying to support him in getting rid of old things and not holding on to them too much.” Human moments made possible almost by the accident of holding onto a computer longer than most.

Lee’s pursuit of old tech hardware has always been, at its root, a means to meeting new people, hearing their stories and creating a relationship with them. “I care about people a lot,” she said. “I think every single person that touches any of my projects knows that I really care about people feeling good.”

Paizley Lee spent months collecting the full rainbow of iMac G3s.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

With a mouse, Jaimie Wan clicks into the past.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

When Lee finally acquired all five original colors (blueberry, strawberry, lime, tangerine and grape), plus all the additional colors (ruby, indigo, snow, graphite, sage and three limited edition colors), she began booting up the G3s computers to make sure they still worked. In the process, she discovered the forgotten digital detritus left on their hard drives: old resumes, photo albums, Word documents.

“It’s somebody’s life,” she said. “It feels weird to do anything with it, but it also feels weird to alter it.” In the end, she kept the old files and built a replica of the early ‘00s internet to live beside them on the computers. At Dead Internet Theory events, participants are given free reign to the G3s and slowly find clues Lee has left on their desktops that lead into a mystery game she created.

Back at the event, people flocked to the bank of iMac G3 computers. They clicked around, laughing, their eyes lighted up. “It’s really a trip seeing the old MacBooks,” said Shannon Stack after navigating one of the relics. “I remember having those in my elementary school classroom. Now, these are archival pieces. It’s freaky!”

Lee herself hovered around the computer bank, watching people interact with them and discovering the random documents left behind or playing one of Apple’s preset games. She asked a couple who had been tinkering around for over half-an-hour if they wanted a hint to her mystery. “No!” they respond excitedly.

While Dead Internet Theory has only been held in Los Angeles, Lee’s dream is to take it on the road. “I’ve got kids in Seattle, in Nashville, in Dallas that are emailing me and going, please bring it here,” she explained. The only thing stopping her was money, but that changed recently. A few weeks after the event on La Brea, she was approached by a sponsor. Now she’s making a tour happen, first with a pop-up event in New York City on Wednesday.

The event has become a place to gather and build community.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Recently, as Lee began driving across the country to set up, she stopped at a bed and breakfast near Red Lodge, Mont. When she learned the innkeeper had an old blueberry iMac G3 in her basement, she asked to take a look.

“I spent an hour getting her back on,” Lee said of rebooting the machine to give the innkeeper access. “And the face she made when it came back to life — literally priceless.”

The woman browsed through old photos of her daughters, their old school projects and other files forgotten over time. Afterward, the innkeeper gave Lee the computer, telling her it deserves a second life.

SHE is one of the most recognisable women in music – but what does it take for some people to be convinced Avril Lavigne is not who she says she is?

The punk-pop icon rose to international stardom in the Noughties – but as her popularity peaked, a strange and startling rumour was also gaining traction in the shadows.

The theory is as puzzling as it is disturbing – a dead Avril, a body double named Melissa and a supposed Hollywood cover-up – and like the catchiest pop song, it refuses to leave.

Born in 1984 in Canada and raised in a strict Christian household in sleepy Napanee, Ontario, Avril grew up in a small town of roughly 5,000 where her parents closely monitored her music choices.

But the precocious teenager was already plotting her escape, writing poems, learning guitar and gravitating towards the town’s grunge scene before her singing talent caught the eye of her first manager at a 1999 bookstore performance, aged just 14

With her parents’ blessing, she quit school and headed to New York with her brother, where she worked with a professional producer before landing a two-album deal worth around $1.25million at just 16.

Avril’s 2002 album debut saw her rise to fame go stratospheric. However it also contained the germ of the conspiracy theory that would go on to haunt her for years.

The album, titled Let Go, would later be believed by theorists to be a symbolic reference to her being replaced by another lookalike young woman.

Adding fuel to the conspiracy was the star’s grief following her grandfather’s death in 2003 – which believers would later say was the final chapter in the “original Avril” story. They claim that grief was so overwhelming, tragic Avril took her own life.

The bizarre theory appears to have first appeared nine years later when in 2011, a Brazilian fan page called Avril Está Morta – meaning Avril is Dead – launched the morbid rumour into the world.

It claimed the eyeliner-clad star was no longer alive – and had been replaced by an eerily similar young woman.

For years, internet sleuths have remained convinced that the Sk8er Boi singer died by suicide shortly after achieving mainstream fame, allegedly overwhelmed by her grief and the pressures that came with becoming a global pop star.

But the story doesn’t end with her supposed death.

Her record label at the time, desperate to protect its lucrative investment, allegedly concealed the tragedy and brought in an actress named Melissa Vandella to replace Avril.

The theory claims Avril’s then-label, Arista Records, buried her death and installed Melissa in her place to keep the lucrative hitmaker churning out music. The Sun has contacted Arista Records for comment.

Melissa, believers say, looked sufficiently like the singer to fool the world – allowing the machinery of Avril’s career to keep moving while the real star was supposedly gone.

While deeply distressing, at that time the macabre theory was at least only circulating on the fringes of the internet.

That was until American journalists at BuzzFeed tweeted about the Brazilian blog and the obscure rumour was thrust into mainstream music folklore.

In 2017, a viral thread racked up hundreds of thousands of retweets, exposing millions of social media users to the supposed Avril “clone” theory.

The chilling truth behind this morbid phenomenon says more about those spreading it than its star subject.

Experts say these theories can often come from people who are seeking a purpose in life.

They will find and obsess over even the most minor changes in the life of another person – often a high-profile celeb – to feel as though they have achieved something.

Daniel Joll, an assistant Professor in Social Psychology at the University of Nottingham, tells The Sun: “Conspiracy theories are a fertile ground for people feeling uncertainty in life.

“When they find something they can be a part of and investigate, it makes them feel like they’re almost becoming a journalist and that makes them feel important.

“This is also about people wanting to be unique by saying something or being a part of something that is out of the ordinary.”

Conspiracy theorists began comparing photographs from the beginning of Avril’s career with images taken after the rumours started, searching for proof that the woman in front of the cameras was not the same person.

Online truth-seekers even saw that she once wrote “Melissa” on her hand in a photoshoot.

To believers, it was practically a confession hiding in plain sight.

But that is where the theory’s elaborate house of cards begins to wobble.

The “Melissa” photograph was later explained as part of a promotional photoshoot in which Lavigne wrote supporters’ names on her skin and on paper.

Theorists still argue this was either an intentional leak by the body double signalling her true identity, or an insidiously dropped clue by her record label.

It is catnip for the internet: just outrageous enough to be dismissed, yet just plausible enough to make you wonder whether there might be something hiding beneath the surface.

Avril is far from the first celebrity to become the subject of a completely unverified cloning conspiracy theory.

One of the most famous examples dates back to 1969, when fans became convinced Beatles legend Paul McCartney had died in a car crash and been secretly replaced by a lookalike.

The theory exploded after The Beatles released Abbey Road, with fans scouring songs and album artwork for supposed clues.

Some even believed John Lennon could be heard saying “I buried Paul” in Strawberry Fields Forever.

John later said the line was actually “cranberry sauce”, while McCartney himself dismissed the rumours in a November 1969 interview with Life magazine.

Fans have also claimed Tupac Shakur faked his death, while a 2020 music video featuring a deepfake of the rapper reignited speculation.

What is key to giving these theories life is that they are outrageous enough to grip people while remaining vaguely believable.

Prof Jolley adds: “The reason why people are so stuck on Avril is because the theory is plausible.

“When there is the slightest chance of plausibility, people will cling onto it and keep going and keep digging.

“This one feels plausible because it could be true. The possibility of truth can tickle people’s fancy.”

Every perceived alteration became another piece of their puzzle.

Early Avril had become synonymous with the scruffy skater-punk image that helped make her famous, often appearing in baggy trousers and neckties.

Suddenly snaps of the eyeliner smeared rock queen appeared to have had been wiped off the internet.

Her trademark middle finger was tucked away, while the loose tie slung over a shirt – once part of her pop-punk armour – had been consigned to fashion history.

The woman who emerged afterwards looked markedly more polished, with skirts and dresses replacing the tomboyish uniform and pink make-up softening the rebellious image.

Some went as far as being convinced that the shady puppet masters of the Illuminati had cloned Avril and replaced her with an actual laboratory-grown clone rather than a hired lookalike. Bizarre, right?

The Illuminati, believers claim, is an elite society that frequently targets the world’s biggest pop stars and turns them into puppets of their secret cabal.

The new bubble-gum pink pop girl was allegedly spotted glitching during red-carpet interviews where she paused, blinked rapidly, and answered questions flatly.

Believers refer to these as “clone glitches” or memory-wipe side effects.

Theorists started using photo overlay tools to track subtle shifts in Avril’s facial symmetry, jawline angle, and earlobe detachment.

The theory claimed bones do not radically change shape after adolescence; therefore, differences in the bridge of her nose and her jaw structure prove a physical imposter.

Professor Jolley adds: “These theories are made up to captivate our attention.

“I believe clones are just an intriguing application.”

And then came the clue conspiracy theorists found hardest to scribble away: Avril’s handwriting.

To believers, the change was more than a few wonky letters.

They began placing samples of Lavigne’s handwriting from different periods side by and poring over the shapes, slants and flourishes as though they were forensic investigators examining a ransom note.

Every loop, every letter and every flick of the wrist became potential evidence.

Conspiracy theorists claiming that the handwriting before and after the alleged switch looked fundamentally different.

Then, Under My Skin, Avril’s second album released in 2004, became another supposed treasure trove for believers hunting for hidden messages.

Slipped Away is also repeatedly cited as evidence, with its lyrics about someone disappearing and life changing forever interpreted as a veiled admission of Avril’s supposed death.

My Happy Ending has also been dragged into the theory, with fans searching its lyrics for signs of guilt, grief or a woman struggling beneath an identity that was never hers.

Appearing on Call Her Daddy podcast with host, Alex Cooper, Avril directly addressed the long-running internet theory and laughed it off calling it “dumb”.

The host, half joking and half serious, asked her: “So, is your name Avril Lavigne or Melissa Vandella?” The singer wasn’t too bothered and replied: “Obviously I’m Avril Lavigne.” Obviously…

The 39-year-old went on: “On one end, everyone’s like, ‘You look the exact same. You haven’t aged a day.’ But then other people are like, there’s a conspiracy theory that I’m not me.

“Honestly, it’s not that bad. It could be worse, right?” Lavigne laughingly admitted. “I feel like I got a good one. I don’t feel like it’s negative. It’s nothing creepy.”

Cooper told the star: “What’s crazy is you haven’t aged. I’m staring at you. And, like, I’m picturing you with your auburn hair. And I’m like, oh my God. You literally look the same from when you were younger.”

It’s all fun and games turning freckles into “evidence” – counting spots on an arm as though a decade of sun exposure somehow comes with a cloning certificate.

But behind the bizarre conspiracy theories was a very real battle. Lavigne, who was diagnosed with Lyme disease in 2013, later described that period as the “worst time of my life”.

The Sun has reached out to Avril Lavigne’s management and past and current record labels for comment.