L'exposé de Philippe Delvosalle sur ESP-Disk a été un succès. Pour happy few, certes. Je vous en avais pourtant, fidèles lecteurs, rebattu les oreilles. Le talent et l'érudition de Ph!l, autant que la riche histoire et le formidable catalogue d'ESP, compensèrent heureusement, et de très loin, la faiblesse des effectifs. Nous attendions trois cents zigotos, nous nous vîmes trente-trois sur les chaises de la Médiathèque. Feignasses, va. On a dû se forcer pour finir le vin chaud. Ayler était pourtant là, et Sun Ra, Patty Waters et John Tchicai, et tous les jeunes, Jeffrey Lewis, les Fugs, Godz et autres Holy Modal Rounders. Et l'ombre de Daniel Caux, et de Bernard Stollman, le fondateur d'ESP. Il est vrai qu'il neigeait, ce soir-là, sur Bruxelles. Pour se réchauffer, nous avons écouté le poète et militant LeRoi Jones (qui ne s'appelait pas encore Imanu Amiri Baraka) déclamer son Black Dada Nihilismus. Cet extrait de Dead Lecturer est enregistré sur l'album New York Art Quartet, du groupe homonyme composé de Roswell Rudd (trombone), John Tchicai (sax alto), Lewis Worell (bass) et Milford Graves (drums et percussions). (ESP 1004, gravé le 26/11/1964).

Against what light is false what breath sucked, for deadness.

Murder, the cleansed purpose, frail, against God, if they bring him bleeding, I would not forgive, or even call him black dada nihilismus.

The protestant love, wide windows, color blocked to Mondrian, and the ugly silent deaths of jews under the surgeons knife.
(To awake on 69th street with money and a hip nose.)
Black dada nihilismus, for the umbrella’d jesus.

Trillby intrigue movie house presidents sticky on the floor BDN, for the secret men, Hermes, the blacker art.

Thievery (ahh, they return those secret gold killers).
Inquisitors of the cocktail hour.
Trismegistus, have them, in their transmutation, from stone to bleeding pearl, from lead to burning looting, dead Moctezuma, find the West a gray hideous space.

2.
From Sartre, a white man, it gave the last breath.
And we beg him die, before he is killed.
Plastique, we do not have, only thin heroic blades.
The razor. Our flail against them, why you carry knives ?
Or brutaled lumps of heart ?
Why you stay, where they can reach ?
Why you sit, or stand, or walk in this place, a window on a dark warehouse.
Where the minds packed in straw.
New homes, these towers, for those lacking money or art.

A cult of death need of the simple striking arm under the streetlamp.
The cutters, from under their rented earth.

Come up, black dada nihilismus.
Rape the white girls.
Rape their fathers.
Cut the mothers throats.
Black dada nihilismus, choke my friends in their bedrooms with their drinks spilling and restless for tilting hips or dark liver lips sucking splinters from the masters thigh.

Black scream and chant, scream, and dull, unearthly hollering.
Dada, bilious what ugliness, learned in the dome, colored holy shit (I call them sinned or lost burned masters of the lost nihil German killers all our learned art, member what you said money, God, power, a moral code, so cruel it destroyed Byzantium, Tenochtitlan, Commanch (got it, Baby !)

For tambo, willie best, dubois, patrice, mantan, the bronze buckaroos.
For Jack Johnson, asbestos, tonto, buckwheat, billie holiday.
For tom russ, loverture, vesey, beau jack, may a lost god damballah,
rest or save us against the murders we intend against his lost white children) black dada nihilismus