The Immovable Gatekeepers of Bullshit

Unfortunately, everything has now stopped for legal action, so anything I do in music will literally be therapy to get me through this.

For decades, Discogs.com has been complicit in the unauthorised exploitation, distortion, and abuse of my name, work, and identity. As an autistic artist with a long history of coercion and erasure in the music industry, I am publishing this to document not only their violations of copyright law, but the structural discrimination that underpins their platform.

Discogs bills itself as a user-generated database and marketplace. In reality, it is a parasitic storefront — profiting from the unpaid labour of users while monetising the names and likenesses of artists without their consent. My private, unpublished works protected under copyright — shared temporarily with supporters behind a Bandcamp paywall — were ripped, catalogued as official releases, and used to populate unauthorised derivative works masquerading as a discography. I was neither consulted nor informed. The titles were wrong. The artwork was in progress and is now defunct. The listings included fake “versions” I never published. Some of it was falsely attributed to Greg Hunter, who had no involvement. The entire project was experimental and clearly marked as such. Discogs’ interference destroyed that context, forcing me to reconstruct a safe environment on my own website just to continue creating.

When I objected, they told me I could “join” the site to correct it. This response demonstrates not just bad faith processing but discriminatory platform design. They mock my disability — in direct violation of Article 21 of the EU Charter of Fundamental Rights — fabricate metadata, attach it to commercial products, and then demand I clean it up for them. I am not a user. I am a target. And I will not accept this forced platform participation under discriminatory terms.

But it gets worse.

Discogs users — some still active — created and maintained public threads describing me as a “depressed cunt,” a “paranoid fucker,” a “bitter cunt,” and worse. These remain live over a decade later, despite violating Discogs’ own Community Guidelines. This is not neutral hosting. It is reckless disregard for duty of care, especially toward disabled individuals.

I am autistic. I suffer documented psychological harm from being photographed, from defamation, and from false attribution, all of which violate moral rights law and stem from the original coercive control I experienced in 1994. Discogs’ actions compound that harm. I’ve spent days writing takedown notices instead of making music.

Discogs claims Safe Harbor under the DMCA. But Safe Harbor does not extend to identity misuse, non-consensual identity enclosure, algorithmic amplification of defamatory content, or commercial exploitation of unauthorised metadata and identity likeness. It does not permit them to profit from marketplace listings built on unauthorised personal data.

Their “artist pages” are not neutral indexes. They are market-facing storefronts advertising their shop. And I want it gone.

If you’re reading this as a fellow artist: this is what they do. They take your name, your drafts, your mistakes, your old aliases — and they build a cage out of them. They profit from that cage. And when you ask for help, they tell you to join the jail crew.

I have now escalated to their hosting provider (Amazon/AWS), the U.S. Department of Justice, and European data regulators. I am asserting my rights under GDPR Articles 17 and 21: the right to erasure and the right to object to processing. This is not a “collaborative encyclopedia”. It is a discriminatory commercial operation hiding behind the labour of its users.

This is an extract from Discogs’ own boilerplate response:

“Discogs is a collaborative encyclopedia of music, keeping a historical record of the credits appearing on every music medium published. The information is uploaded by Discogs’ users… Discogs is not responsible for the accuracy of information entered into the database.”

This is clearly written in bad faith and nothing to do with music preservation. It is algorithmic exploitation. Their system is designed to extract value while avoiding liability — shifting responsibility onto unpaid users and refusing to protect those they exploit. This is structural ableism. This is defamation. This is commercial abuse.

This is Music Industry Parasites: Entry 1.

The others are coming.

Thrash was the name given to me, one i was expected to answer to by my abusers. DON’T FUCKING CALL ME IT.

My name is Kristian Weston, you can call my old music The Rob.

UMG are disgusting parasites that are ruining music. They do not own or have any rights over anything I have ever done.

THE END.

Prank or?

The Orb’s group also used to play with my inability to recognise social norms for their amusement — getting me to do things they knew I would do because I was uninhibited and naive. Especially when drunk. Drink was part and parcel of The Orb, something I gave up long ago. I realise now it was for their amusement, but back then I thought it was part of being accepted. I loved the guys in that group. I hero’d some of them too much, clearly. Through the lens of my later diagnosis, it becomes much more disturbing.

One time I was sat around at Alex’s, chatting, smoking weed, barely understanding a word he was saying — which was normal. He put a DJ tape on, said nothing, and went upstairs. Fine. Then it turned into a full-on sex tape, moaning and everything, loud! I shouted upstairs — “Er, Alex? I think you’ve got the wrong tape on?” Nothing. He just stayed up there while I sat there mortified, unable to switch it off, totally freaked.

I think he did it on purpose. But I’ll never know for sure. I mean, he left it on a long time. Now I think of it I cant remember if I found the off switch or it just ran out and I could breathe a sigh of relief. I guess my brain must have blanked that part.

What makes it even weirder is that years later I found a completely different tape — one I never should’ve had — in a box of my own tapes. It was him wanking, talking dirty to someone, clearly meant for a girlfriend. I played it to my mate we were both like, WTF (AGAIN). My mate was just like – throw that away! I’ve no idea how it got there. But the fact I had it at all makes that first incident feel… less accidental. I mean did he put it in my box of tapes on purpose ? Surely not? But how the fuck did it get in there!?!?

Yes — it was an atmosphere of humiliation. What they called “banter” was very fucking hard. I had to adapt to survive and keep making music. That’s all I wanted — to be in the studio. I didn’t even want to go live. I was shit scared every time. We took huge amounts of drugs on tour just to cope. It was a complete mess. Not as bad as Primal Scream though — they were the worst I’ve ever seen.

What you’re describing is a textbook case of coercive culture masked as “banter.”

It’s no surprise I clung to the studio. It was the only place I had any control or clarity. Being forced into touring, surrounded by people who used my vulnerabilities as entertainment — that wasn’t just traumatic. It was cruelty with a grin on it.

The fact I made work that random people still seem to like 35 years later under those conditions?
Just lucky i guess.

During the Adventures sessions, Andy Falconer kicked me so hard in the nuts I couldn’t stand for an hour.
This wasn’t subtle. It happened right in front of people — including Alex Paterson and the studio manager — and left me in serious pain. I’ve only been kicked like that three times in my life, and I remember every one. Falconer later claimed he doesn’t remember doing it. I do. And Alex was standing right there.

It caused a serious disruption. People were coming in and out of the studio, and the situation had to be addressed before I’d even agree to re-enter the room with him. I remember speaking to him on the phone afterward, and he apologised. It came out of nowhere. It was bizarre.

He was desperate to be part of The Orb — pushing his way into the Adventures sessions with the bold suggestion that he had “an idea.” That idea, by the way, was to go to HMV, buy a CD, and stick it on a record. Lol. No — he did create the Fourth Dimension track, and good luck to him with that. But he never worked with us again.

At the time, Alex pulled me aside and said: “I think he’s got a cocaine problem. He keeps going into the toilet. I’m not sure about him.” I remember that conversation clearly — though whether Alex was being sincere or playing games, I’ll never know. He certainly wasn’t a cocaine angel himself but at that point he wasn’t doing it ever during recording sessions.

Falconer later published an article denying the incident, saying it “didn’t sound like something he’d do.” But it did happen. And I wasn’t the only one who saw it. Being kicked in the nuts like that — you don’t forget it. Not ever.

The reality is: he never worked with us again. But he still can’t connect the dots.
Why didn’t they hire me again?
Could it be because I randomly kicked Kris in the nuts in front of everyone?

Falconer’s claim in Juno Daily (Dec 2024) original link (https://www.juno.co.uk/junodaily/2024/12/06/i-was-there-making-the-classic-orb-debut-adventures-beyond-the-ultraworld/) that he was “translating the vision” is revisionist nonsense. The work was already shaped — by several people including myself — before he even arrived. He wasn’t building anything. He was brought in as an engineer during a process already in motion. He wasn’t even present for most of the tracks’ creation — except his “fourth dimension” CD idea. 😀

NOTE: JUNO FAILY IMMEDIATELY DELETED THEIR ARTICLE AS SOON AS I PRESSED PUBLISH ON THIS ARTICLE – THE LINK IS NOW UPDATED TO SHOW A LOCAL VERSION OF WHAT THEY PRINTED

What actually happened is this: I was 18, on the mixing desk, pushing the sound into new territory. He didn’t like that. I wasn’t following clean engineering rules. I was breaking things. That challenged him. What he now frames as “friction” was jealousy — and a violent outburst. He didn’t just “sit out” U.F.Orb — he never worked with us again and Alex was none too pleased about the assault either. To claim otherwise now is ludicrous — but Alex has always been happy to take credit for work that wasn’t his and has a track record of revising things which are demonstrably false.

And let’s be clear: U.F.Orb wasn’t even Alex’s production. It was mine. When he says I wanted full control that’s because we already agreed to do the band together before the Adventures sessions ever started in the little Battersea studio we worked in. And yes, I’m a complete control freak in the studio. Greg did more than Alex. Falconer couldn’t take that, so now he’s rewriting the credits to soothe his ego.

In his article he refers to “Hoping Kris would grow up.”
I was a teenager in a professional studio, producing records that I now consider sub-par — for which they are still desperate to claim credit for in any way they can.
Falconer was a grown man who kicked that teenager in the nuts — in front of witnesses — then decades later claimed not to remember it.
If anyone needed to grow up, it wasn’t me.

Their idea of maturity was obedience. Mine was vision.

That assault was the end of it.
Now he’s back, trying to claw credit and sound he never earned.
You can borrow the name and try to revise what you did.
But you’ll never fake the sound — or the attitude.

Mocking Or Ignoring an Artists Mental Health for Amusement

My name is Kristian Weston. I compose, produce, design sound, program DSP, and play guitar and bass. This is a final, general statement about hostile behaviour around my work. No individuals will be named.

A minority within the audience has normalised harassment for decades. The tactics are familiar: waves of copy-paste pile-ons designed to exhaust; attempts to flatten my role and authorship; tone-policing to avoid the content; and baiting framed as concern. It moves between platforms and into email. It presumes access to my time.

Devaluation shows up in labels that minimise what I do, in revisionist credit talk, and in ableist takes about my autism—claims that I “blame things on autism,” or that disclosure of disability is a trick. It’s used to erase work and to excuse theft.

When I disclosed that I was not in the mental state to keep absorbing this, public replies included encouragement for me to disappear. When I made my distress clear after a criminal offence against me, the response I saw was “lol great.” That is incitement to suicide.

After I closed direct comments, some people bought access purely to post insults on top of my releases. That is pay-to-taunt, not fandom.

I’m not running point-by-point rebuttals anymore. Attention rewards the tactic and drains time from my work. Evidence is archived off-platform for legal and safety reasons.

Boundaries: I block on first offence for slurs, ableism, stalking, or coordinated harassment. I don’t quote-amplify abuse. Comments may be pre-moderated where tools allow. DMs from unknown accounts about old disputes are closed. I reserve the right to refuse access to my work to anyone who weaponises it against me.

For the majority who show up in good faith: thank you. Engage with the music. Don’t fight trolls on my behalf—report, mute, move on.

Closing: this is not only about credits. It is about my life, my name, and my sound. If you’re here for the work, welcome. If you’re here for cruelty dressed as concern, you are not my audience.My name is Kristian Weston. I compose, produce, design sound, program DSP, and play guitar and bass. This is a final, general statement about hostile behaviour around my work. No individuals will be named.

A minority within the audience has normalised harassment for decades. The tactics are familiar: waves of copy-paste pile-ons designed to exhaust; attempts to flatten my role and authorship; tone-policing to avoid the content; and baiting framed as concern. It moves between platforms and into email. It presumes access to my time.

Devaluation shows up in labels that minimise what I do, in revisionist credit talk, and in ableist takes about my autism—claims that I “blame things on autism,” or that disclosure of disability is a trick. It’s used to erase work and to excuse theft.

When I disclosed that I was not in the mental state to keep absorbing this, public replies included encouragement for me to disappear. When I made my distress clear after a criminal offence against me, the response I saw was “lol great.” That is incitement to suicide.

After I closed direct comments, some people bought access purely to post insults on top of my releases. That is pay-to-taunt, not fandom.

I’m not running point-by-point rebuttals anymore. Attention rewards the tactic and drains time from my work. Evidence is archived off-platform for legal and safety reasons.

Boundaries: I block on first offence for slurs, ableism, stalking, or coordinated harassment. I don’t quote-amplify abuse. Comments may be pre-moderated where tools allow. DMs from unknown accounts about old disputes are closed. I reserve the right to refuse access to my work to anyone who weaponises it against me.

For the majority who show up in good faith: thank you. Engage with the music. Don’t fight trolls on my behalf—report, mute, move on.

Closing: this is not only about credits. It is about my life, my name, and my sound. If you’re here for the work, welcome. If you’re here for cruelty dressed as concern, you are not my audience.

If you’re checking in with me while making smug, no pun intended statements, your intention is not genuine.

The sheer level of narcissism it takes to think that anyone gives a shit about whether or not you meant to write your pun is mind boggling. If narcissism were measured in units of mass, the skulls of people who pointed out puns would crush in on themselves in a giant black hole of stupidity.

Dear Reader,

Please direct your attention towards my pun. Admittedly I do think it’s clever, but I think that you think so highly of me, that I want you to know that I would never resort to using such a commonplace literary device in my prose. Therefore, I would like to formally renounce my attempt at humor and assure you that I am above making puns as a writer, as a pupil of language, and as citizen of Earth.

Sincerest apologies,
D. Baggerson

On a positive note I have met some lovely autistic people during The Rob escapades so far and I am grateful for that.

About a year before I finally left, we got flown out to New York. Two days, maybe three. The label had arranged this press circus — a room, a table, a speaker in the middle, and a conveyor belt of journalists all asking the same bloody questions. Over and over. Same phrasing, same expressions. ALL DAY. That kind of repetition hits me like sandpaper across the brain — one of my autistic triggers, I cannot stand repetition very well.

By the end of the first day, I’d had enough. I turned to Alex and said I’m done. I don’t care what the label says — I’m not doing this anymore. I’ll make the music, but I won’t face the press again. Not ever. I told him I’d leave if he didn’t take it all on himself.

Eventually, he agreed. But they were furious. The whole group got involved again, individually, like being thrown into a washing machine of opinions. They treated it like I’d abandoned some sacred duty. Like it wasn’t just self-preservation. Like it wasn’t the only thing keeping me from burning out.

They didn’t understand. Or they didn’t want to. Either way, that was a pivotal point and I should have realised at that point that I wouldn’t last much longer.