Avast, ye miserable curs and salt-stained wretches! Gather 'round the mainmast and prepare to weep into your grog, for a dark cloud has drifted over the Land of the Peach, and for once, 'tis not the smoke of a broadside or the smell of burning hemp. The great Bard of the Brine, that weaver of dismal dirges and patron saint of the misunderstood sea-urchin known as Morrissey, has struck his colors and refused to weigh anchor in Atlanta. The gates of the concert hall have been barred, the candles snuffed, and the velvet curtains drawn tight against the world.

The official word from the Admiralty—and I use the term loosely—is 'Artist Illness.' It is a phrase that carries about as much weight as a counterfeit doubloon in a Tortuga brothel. 'Tis said the man suffers from a sudden bout of the 'Indisposed Vapors,' a malady that seems to strike the Manchester Ghost whenever the wind blows slightly too north-by-northwest or the humidity threatens his coif. Lord Pompous of the Upper Circle was heard bellowing into his tankard at the local tavern, 'By the Kraken’s beak! I spent forty pieces of eight on a new lace cravat and a velvet waistcoat just to hear him bemoan the unfairness of existence, and now I’m left with nothing but the smell of mothballs and a broken heart! This isn't just a cancellation; 'tis a maritime disaster of the highest order!'

The consequences on the high seas are dire, indeed, and I don't speak lightly of such things. Dozens of merchant sloops laden with black eyeliner, oversized gladioli, and quill pens for writing sensitive poetry are currently stranded in the doldrums, their crews weeping openly into their hardtack. Without the Bard’s melancholy crooning to keep the men in a state of exquisite, fashionable misery, morale has spiked to dangerously cheerful levels. Quartermaster 'Glum' Gabe of the frigate *Heaven Knows* spat over the railing when he heard the news: 'How are we to pillage the Spanish Main if we aren’t properly convinced that life is a cruel, vegetarian joke? We need those baritone lamentations to keep the crew focused on their inner turmoil! This cancellation is a mutiny against the very soul of the sea-faring depressive!'

Rumors swirl through the rigging like a swarm of hungry gulls. Some say the Moz-Man saw a single tray of salted pork in the ship’s galley and retreated to his cabin in a fit of righteous pique, vowing never to sing again until every pig in Georgia is given a pension and a parasol. Others claim he simply couldn't find a looking-glass that reflected his specific brand of suffering with enough clarity to satisfy his ego. Whatever the truth, the Atlanta docks remain silent, save for the sound of thousands of fans rending their garments and demanding their gold back from the purser. 'Twas meant to be a night of grand theater, but 'tis ended as a tragedy of the most predictable and tiresome sort.

So, stow your tickets in the bilge and bury your hope in the sand, ye poor bastards. The Bard has retreated to his secret grotto to contemplate the cosmic unfairness of the tides, leaving us all to sail on without a soundtrack for our sorrow. If ye see the Manchester Ghost on the horizon, don't bother firing a salute or waving a flag; he’ll likely cancel the engagement before your powder is even dry. We shall have to content ourselves with the sound of the waves and our own wretched thoughts, for the music has died in the Land of the Peach, and the Moz-Man has vanished into the mist once more.