Mark Resemble! Did yu miss th craziest motherfucker of th lot? Unfortunately, ditching th downgraded doppelgänger became a must. Oh we wuz all enthusiasm – th day of th rehearsal was th release/arrival of my new dbl album, more frenzy & perspiration intercepting x1000 copy dumps from residential proxies to drag back to th crypt, then loading th surgeons wrack for’ for, for’ th prodrome with th incoming consociation. All tingles & titubation at this stage, crash th op a lirrul’ late with nuts in knots, ensconce & roll out th ouja. Hey! Whats up with this fat wilting fuck Douche Moye? Like, major prickery? Somebodies got urchins in th rectum, what giveth? I met this washed-out-crease twice over th last two years, & he was initially absolutely cool, jovial even, until that is, we exchanged CD’s, then th guy just clammed up like a nuns node…aw shit! Not another case phenomena of terrified, resentful detractordom? A dawning deterioration started to uncoil its pulsing prolapse into what had been conceptually a very exciting scenario which I had been otherwise looking forward to… I watched in horror as it became apparent that th man with half th creative authority over th unfolding session demonstrated th worst example of decrepitude & terminal deflation I have ever witnessed in my life. Douche Moye is washed-over, belly-up & arse out – DEAD-IN-THE-FUCKIN-WATER!!! I ain’t never seen a greater paragon of how to age disgracefully. Its a crying’ shame, cos’ back in th day, Douche was a fine drummer, cutting planks wi’ th swiftness on some excellent numbers with & outside of AEOC. Art Ensemble stumbled into some dodgy territory in the 80’s for a moment, producing some poor quality records on Japanese label DIW that were a mockery of their former prestige. A lot of great musicians from th 60’s & 70’s succumbed to this hazard, with many never recovering from the diminishment & its subsequent entropy. Douche is one such casualty, got lost to this dreadful era & never recovered, he never shook th shitness & it clings to him in a solidified form to this very day like a wreath of fecal. Aside his polar opposite Roscoe, there were some very good musicians in session. Douche, by miles the most inferior musician present, was clearly petrified, but still retained executive privilege over his compositions (half th set or whatever). His insecurity stank & he acted like an anus to somehow counteract his screaming inadequacy. It was surreal – th weakest link ordering around his superiors. Even worse, his compositions were so rectal it beggared belief. Th kind of shit yu would expect from a pub band in th Australian outback, mf I wish I were joking! Th clown also instructed me specifically to play them as shit as possible, so shit songs played at optimal shitness! Unimaginably it got even worse, – Douche started pulling out “artificial African” material….th shit was so fucking grave, it bordered on racial stereotyping, I was actually shocked. Elton John’s ‘Lion King’ had more authenticity, it was absolutely appalling. I was snatching looks with Roscoe like, “bro! Are yu actually fucking serious?”. It was an extraordinary situation. I started to just observe from a sociological perspective – this absolutely ridiculous spectacle, insane, nonsensical, idiotic … it was fascinating to witness, like a pantomime. I took another African musician along to th drop (not th Douche dogshit ersatz falsified African version), he wanted nothing to do with that weak shit despite being persistently pressed by Douche to join tomorrows show at th Barbican. Later on in th event, when Roscoe resumed command, we did finally actually get to disembogue some shit worth th effort, th only saving grace to the flatliner. It was a necessary deturge after hours of conformist constipation & confinement. I went home with my furrows frothing at th whole multivalent madness & 3d-contradiction with every intention to follow through on th following days performance despite th massive down-scaling & deduction Douche Disney had shat over th potential furor. But in th early hours of th morning th apprehension & ruminations started…i noticed how I had literally zero enthusiasm about th impending droop, it was a chore to dust & dismiss with an endurance mentality. Also, I don’t want to be caught dead playing credibility corroding cack, & some of that shit was career-destroyingly cringesom, if not potentially ethnically insulting. Its a high profile show & I don’t need no clips of me online piddling ponce to a bunch of lemmings. & there it was, – no way could I go through with this fuckery! I had to withdraw on grounds of quality & I had to be candid about it. This revelatory certitude was accompanied by a great rush of relief. It wasn’t just th music, my discomfort about th venue was an additional tribulation. 25 quid a ticket? No one from th barrio then…playing to yuppies as part of a tired relic that still has brand-currency as part of kowtowing in th ashes of former glory from an over milked decade being rebranded for a few more units of showbiz – nah niggu, yu can go fuck yurselves! I’d sooner rather burn down th Barbican than play it, yer kno wo’ iym sayin’??? oh brother Mitchell? – He totally understood a young radicals actions. not in this for th cotton wool fukur. So not for th first time, I holstered th blade of integrity, zipped th smock & disappeared into tha rain! Th current machine hype around Art Ensemble’s exhumation should not detract that this group did some spectacular work in th 60’s & 70’s that’s been very dear to me long before th contemporary resuscitation, but I can’t endorse this spent force armchair shit, & yu kno it was really about those 5 guys, not a whole crew of coat-tail clingers parachuted into another mf’s pageant decades down th line. There is nothing revolutionary here any more. To all th youth out there, never do it for th money – that makes yu a prostitute & a coward with a worn ring – always take th moral option & fuck all sell outs!