ISSUE 14   WINTER 2002/2003
page 17 of 27



The Real Folk Blues
Sun City Girls, live at the Empty Bottle, Chicago, November 15, 2002.
It occurred to me while watching this show that it was possibly the best rock show I'd seen in my life. Sure, there were at least 10 other contenders, including ZZ Top, Lightning Bolt, Prince, and Michael Jackson (1984 Victory Tour) but I wasn't convinced that the SCG hadn't pulled the upset.
       I never saw the Minutemen play, but I couldn't help but think of them during the SCG set. After all, the SCG were contemporaries, putting out their first album in 1983, and they were another trio of dudes who came up through hardcore, pulling the same trick of simultaneously celebrating and refuting the scene by playing an expansive combination of rock, folk, blues, jazz, dada, and poetry forms. And how about the Meat Puppets, also contemporaries, also expansive, also from Phoenix, Arizona, and also having two brothers on guitar and bass and vocals?
       But, the 'dude' thing is important. Alan Bishop reminded me of Mike Watt; an excellent musician without muso pretension, a raggedy older guy who is smart, funny, friendly, and slightly incoherent, and isn't trying to be cool. I don't know, after moving to Chicago, where you can find almost any kind of person, I find myself gravitating towards my rural Iowa/Nebraska dude roots. In Blastitude, I try to express that the Iowa/Nebraska dude in me is certainly tired of mild-mannered (read: pretentious) experimental styles of music, but that I'm just as tired of the doggedly harsh/cynical dada extremes that seek to destroy these. Not to mention the reactionary classicists who renounce anything experimental in favor of 'the song,' as if the only way to show you love 'songs' is to exclusively listen to British Invasion bands, and as if "Meet Me At The Jailhouse" by Wizzard isn't experimental as fuck. I'm looking for the dudes in between who play and see music from as many angles as possible and can do it SIMULTANEOUSLY, and perhaps most importantly I'm looking for the blue-collar problem-solving ability that only the cream of the crop dudes exhibit.
       All of this, I got from the Sun City Girls, live at the Empty Bottle on November 15, 2002. Blastitude readers know that I like quite a few things, but I like the Sun City Girls the best. The Sun City Girls ARE Blastitude. Their show was the greatest 'fuck you'/reclamation I've ever seen by the hippie/folkie spirit of punk rock. They are a jam band, unequivocally, but they are the best jam band that ever lived while also being a hardcore fuck you punk rock band (i.e. old school, Reagan era and shit). Meat Puppets were the same way, and even Black Flag let more and more of their true hippie side out as the years went on. Right now, you've got NNCK and Suntanama doing serious hippie work in what is still a very post-hardcore scene, and I'd include other bands too that aren't afraid of their 'roots,' such as Black Dice and No Doctors.
        Thing is, the Sun City Girls are not just a great fuck you from the hippie side of punk, they're a great fuck you from ALL sides. You can include the unfashionable side (i.e. not trying to be cool), the forty year old dude side, and the astounding musician side. You can include the good-time side, too, because they were having a good time up there, without any dour Brechtian art poses to 'challenge' the audience. Some people commented about how NORMAL Alan Bishop seemed, because they were noticing that he was just a dude after all, and because of the way he said, before the first song, "Thanks for packin' this fuckin' place! We really do love it." They were expecting maybe robes and exotic balinese rug masks (and dour Brechtian art poses), but hey, it's not like he was exactly normal. For example, also before the set started, he had this exchange with the audience:
        Alvarius (unprompted): "Yeah, fuck Kissinger and all those other monkeys. And fuck homeland security!"
        Someone in audience: "ASHCROFT!!!"
        Alvarius: "Yeah, he's just another appendage. Seals & Ashcroft! That's what I'm talking about."
        Anyway, the music. Their 90-minute set was a real 'play the hits' kind of affair for a long-time listener like me, although now I'm already starting to mix up what they did and didn't play. Did they play "Rookoobay"? I don't think so, but they might've. They opened with an upbeat modal VU jam in the spirit of the original "Paris 1942" or "Dead Chick In The River" which drifted into "Opium Den," followed by the joyous "Esta Susan en Casa?" from Horse Cock Phepner. Things started to get slippery, and I don't quite remember the next couple things they did (except for a weird-ass Gocher rant and Rick Bishop asking "Could I get more guitar in the monitors, please? And, could I get more mushrooms in the monitors?") until Alan put down the bass and sang his very best Bollywood torch ballad to guitar and drum accompaniment, a crowning moment for the set and an introduction to the 'chapters' section. If the first chapter of the set was a general "Greeting" with a few various songs, the second chapter was called "Solos." One song turned into a Charles Gocher drum solo, which he carried for a good six or seven solid minutes of riotous and expert jazz. I love the SCG home-recorded fidelity, but live, you get so much MORE of Gocher's drum genius. On tape, he's a presence, but live, he's a powerhouse. Alan and Rick sat down at the back of the stage and smoked cigarettes, visibly enraptured by the drum music. Then Rick stepped up to do a guitar solo, very jazzy, very solo flamenco rasquedeso, which turned into a sort of plaintive, powerful Dick Dale homage, the whole thing a continuation of his trad-folk Salvador Kali persona. (I love how he plays guitar all trad and pretty-like, but sets his amp so that certain notes are really trebly and in-the-red and cut right into your brain.) Rick's solo ended, and there was a pause while all eyes turned to Alan and his name was shouted. He was sitting stage left with an acoustic guitar and started strumming a chord, singing those immortal opening lines: "Buy low, sell high/A centipede between the eyes..." That's right, "Cooking With Satan," yet another example of how Alvarius B really does have his finger on the pulse of America with his cryptic vision of post-everything social malaise, singing about how a "White trash riverboat Tom Sawyer/Tried to sue my voodoo lawyer," and descriptions like "Dressin' down with your cell phones." That line was recorded back in early 1995, and just look at us now. During the song I noticed that Gocher and Rick, sitting back behind the drums, both had their eyes closed and were nodding their heads intensely, as if they were hearing a sermon.
       Bishop kept the acoustic guitar on for the next chapter, which was a long sit-down slow-jam kind of thing. This was the only point of the set where the momentum might have waned a bit, but that might have been intentional, because it was kind of opium den-ish. (This chapter was probably why Dave Chamberlain, music critic of Chicago's New City paper, called the set "a Grateful Dead-like miasma." If he wasn't so busy checking out what the 90 Day Men are wearing to the bar on any given night, he might have figured out by now that at least 20% of the Grateful Dead output is a miasma that RULES.) And, everyone got snapped back to attention by the next chapter, which was a loud hellish set of protest folk cum pan-ethnic global war metal, just as topically on-point now as it was in the Reagan years that spawned it. Centerpiece: Phepner's "Without Compare." As on that original track, the music suddenly stopped mid-song and the Brothers Bishop performed a simultaneous rant for contemporary times. R. chattered expertly in 'irate pan-Asian cab driver,' while A. seemed to be trying to singlehandedly summon up all the defiance the entire country should be feeling against our war-mongering president. He briefly commented on some of that day's sports news, "The Cubs got Dusty Baker, I can't believe it," which turned into a huckster riff for the "greatest game of all time! Only one will win!" which turned into a desperate plea to "Fuckin' destroy 'em all!!! Blow 'em all up you motherfuckin' cocksuckin' fucks!!!" which turned into a "There's no happiness in a 30 year mortgage! There's no happiness in surfin' the fuckin' internet!" and something about a website called "1-800 fuck you dot fuck."
       When all of this shrapnel settled, they went right into the next chapter, an amazing 10-minute section of their trademark scatter/skitter improv style. It was revealing to see them do this live, because their body language has a lot to do with the music. Gocher actually stands up and walks around while playing his kit, staring intently at his band-mates, a hilarious parody of 'musicians communicating, man.' Alan acts retarded and fires his bass at the audience like it's a machine gun (making noise with it appropriately). They are spoofing a form of music ('downtown' improv) while simultaneously doing it MUCH BETTER than the people they're making fun of. (The only other musician I've seen achieve this zone while 'improvising' is Chuck Falzone, during his set-opening guitar solos with My Name Is Rar Rar.) After that, the set was about over....again it's all a blur....but I remember that they encored with "Eye Mohini" and something else great that I've already forgotten...oh yeah, "Me and Mrs. Jones"! Midnight Cowboys represented!
       Anyway, I don't know what else they did or even if I have all the chapters in the right order. Somewhere in there they did do a truly beautiful version of Love's "Alone Again Or." The sadness and loneliness of the original was even further accentuated, especially during the solo guitar filigree, which R. played beautifully -- and then he copped the original mariachi-punk trumpet solo note for note too. (With more of that aforementioned 'piercing' quality, done perfectly. Guitar magazines call it 'phrasing.') This kind of poetic sadness and middle-aged wisdom was there throughout the set, but it's not like it was at the expense of fun and chaos and anti-conformity and all that shit. (I.E. "hardcore fuck you punk rock.") Believe me, the mix was heady. Here's to the dudes.



Date: Sun, 24 Nov 2002 19:27:10 -0800 (PST)
From: "Brad Sonder" <> Subject: having a wild weekend

After Sun City Girls show the party didn't stop. "Jakamahaka" Maly was having a karaoke party way out northwest, so we hopped in the car (I had been partying responsibly so I was very good to drive) and buzzed onto the Kennedy freeway all the way up to the Montrose exit. Less than a block off the Kennedy sits the karaoke bar Sidekicks, extremely unassuming in that Northwest Chicago karaoke bar way. We walked in and the whole posse was there: Fuff, Starck, Blaha, Chewb, Pricilla and her twin sister, brother John and brother Mike...shit, maybe more, although Mr. Maly himself had already left because he was vomiting (bummer), and Jack Jackson left too. Fuff was getting ready to sign up for Rundgren's "Hello It's Me" and I was going to join him and we were gonna trade verses, right when the DJ called it for the night. (It was getting close to 3AM after all.)
      We had only heard a couple songs, and man, karaoke was sounding good, the craziest muzak ever, and we all decided to head over to the Hidden Cove because they had karaoke right up until they closed at 4AM. We knew the waiting list to sing would be way too long for us to even bother signing up, but when I got there I signed up anyway (for "Hello It's Me"), just as a gesture of good faith, because didn't even care to sing it, we just wanted to HEAR it!

      Our instincts were correct; the Cove was a blast. People were there to party, and the mix of Chi-town grotesque and Chi-town sexy is never more apparent than it is at the Cove (as opposed to say an indie-rock show where everybody is cute, hardly a mix at all for a city this mixed). This incredible blonde in a leather jacket and big-hip blue jeans sang "D'yer Mak'r" by the Stones. She really knew how to wear lipstick, and her lips, rounded for that chorus of "oh, oh oh oh, oh oh......," were really, well, oof, use your imagination. Some gnarly young ponytailed dude danced in front of her the whole time, I thought he was her boyfriend, but it turned out they didn't even know each other, and after the song she ended up talking to me, with her gay man friend who had KILLED earlier with "Kiss" by Prince, and I'm like holy shit, I'm scoring! With the girl with the lipstick, oh, oh oh oh, oh oh! The joke Hischke and I made when she wasn't looking was the "hand-off," where I slip off my wedding ring and hand it to him for safe-keeping. Ah, but the real hand-off was to Bob Chewb, who happened to be sitting at the closest bar-stool. He started to join in on our conversation, at which point I made a graceful exit to take a piss and buy another beer 'wid da gise.' Chewb and C-----, the girl with the lipstick, ending up exchanging numbers. She's an actress and her play is running right next door to S-----'s, where Femur's playin' tonight, and they told her to come to the show and she's gonna comp them for her play, whatever. Then we went back home and drank until 7AM! My first time seeing the sun rise in Chicago.
      Then came Sunday....shit, we sat around until 2PM. J & A's official alarm clock/running joke for their entire visit is side one of Bob Dylan's New Morning. I A/B it so it plays in the guest room and they're pretty much out of bed by the second song, "Day of the Locusts." Beautiful song to wake up to, seriously, but they can't stand "If Not For You" right now. Went to eat at Penny's, then went and had the usual uninspired shopping trip to Reckless, although Jeremy got some dollar LPs and I bought...what what....shit....forgot....oh yeah, I bought MX-80 Big Hit/Hard Attack for like $3.99, and it's awesome. That night was Black Dice and Wolf Eyes of course. I decided I was gonna definitely go but J&A weren't too into it, so I took them over to Jackson's because Jackson and Colby were going to a big art party/happening at Buddy where Eleanor & Jamie from Cheer-Ax were gonna play, and Bobby Conn, so that was a party, but I've already made that scene a few good times, so I went to Black Dice/Wolf Eyes by myself, which was very fucking good. No Docs and Sir Reggie Queequeg were there. The Abbey sound system deserves absolute highest marks. It was both the loudest and cleanest noise show I'd ever been to. If you even call it a noise show, which it wasn't. It was post-noise, man. 2nd best Wolf Eyes show I've ever seen. Black Dice ended up being pretty amazing. I mean, it was like whale-sound guitar and even Police-sounding textural guitar at times, but they really did have a pulse going throughout. That's why everyone compares it to Vision Creation Newsun by the Boredoms. Because both have a pulse going throughout, and they aren't really songs, just epic sound explosions with a backbeat. For example, the drummer wouldn't play for minutes at a time and then he'd break into a double-bass roll for the next 5 minutes. I don't know, it wasn't noise, or hardcore AT ALL, it was just big sky music, hippie music almost definitely, and it's a set that's even better now than it was then, kna mean? And no, they are NO LONGER turning into Flies Inside The Sun. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, really, except redundancy, but who isn't redundant?)
      After all this I buzzed back to Wicker to catch up with the rest of the gang. J & A and Jackson were actually standing outside of Buddy catching some fresh air among all the frat guys and bums. We went upstairs and it was chaos as usual up there -- tons of people and those guys really don't know how to run a venue. I missed the Eleanor/Jamie thing and Bobby Conn but I did see Gregory Jacobsen do a solo set which rocked! I can't really describe it, it didn't sound anything like the Lovely Little Girls, it was more good ole rock 'n' roll and he was doing Russell Mael moves. Anyway, after waiting in line for hours to pee we decided fuck it, let's just leave and pee in the street, but those geniuses at Buddy WEREN'T LETTING ANYONE LEAVE because of some 'shit' going down outside. Man, you can't have a party and not let anyone leave, EVER. We said fuck it and left through Heaven even if we did have to tear down some duct tape that was blocking a door. Some girls who looked on the verge of tears said "Can we go out this door?" to us like we were the only sane people in the place because apparently we were. We didn't notice any 'shit' going down anywhere and calmly left, stopping to pee in an alley while lake-effect snow softly fell on us. Went back to my pad and partied again, this time only til like 5:30 AM. Next morning, "Day of the Locust" and we ate at the Flying Saucer, and it was NOT too hip. Not much else. Recuperated. I guess that's just the glamorous life.



Sabir Mateen Test Quartet @ Velvet Lounge, Sept. 2002
When I noticed in the small print of the Chicago Reader live listings that the “Sabir Mateen Test Quartet” was playing at the Velvet Lounge on a Tuesday night, I got real excited. Test?? That twisting/weaving whirling dervish of a New York City free jazz quartet themselves? The quartet that perhaps offered the first real advancement of the free jazz idiom since, I don't know, 1976, via their surprisingly unique ‘non-stop tandem weave’ approach, as documented in 1999 with a slew of great records, and then not really heard from since?
      After getting real excited like this, I started to get skeptical. Why was it billed as the “Sabir Mateen Test Quartet”? Why wasn’t there any hype anywhere in the city about this event? No Peter Margasak/Kevin Whitehead critic choices in the Reader, and everything I could dig up about Test on the internet referred to the glory year of 1999. Either way, I still had the evening blocked out on my calendar, but before driving down to the Velvet, I had to make sure, and called them up. Fred Anderson himself answered, and I asked, “Is Test playing tonight?” “Yeah!” he said. “From New York City?,” I said, wanted to clarify somehow. “Yeah!” he said. “Okay, I’ll be there!,” I said. (That's actually what I said.)
        I arrived and handed over the $10 admission fee to Mr. Anderson, and, almost immediately after that, noticed that the drummer was definitely not Tom Bruno. I then noticed that the bassist was an Asian woman that assuredly was not Matthew Heyner. I asked Mr. Anderson who was playing, in hopes that it might be an opening act. “Test!,” replied Anderson, somewhat indignantly, because he seemed to know I was the guy on the phone, and perhaps he was aware that he had been somewhat misleading to me about the fact that Sabir Mateen was the only original member.
       Ah well, it was only the second time I’d ever been to the Velvet Lounge in two years, and it’s a fine place no matter who’s playing, one that I can certainly donate $10 a year towards keeping it in business. And I had to admit that there was some cooking going on – Mateen was rather awkwardly and humorlessly standing there, but the pianist, bassist, and drummer moved through solo sections and spontaneous duo/trio ideas that were pretty involved. However, as the night wended on, things got a little weird....the drummer was indeed playing his ass off, so much so that I was starting to go, man, a little less drums, how about? Mateen obviously agreed, because at one point he was playing a reed instrument and the drummer was playing too, non-stop cascades of notes, all sweaty with his eyes closed, and Mateen starting like waving one hand at him (while playing with the other) to try and get him to stop. Of course, the drummer's eyes were closed so he kept going and going until Mateen finally had to stop playing and walk back to the drumkit and shush him. The drummer tried to save face by climaxing into a big fill before stopping with a big cymbal crash was awkward. I've seen a lot of free jazz shows, but that was the first time I've ever seen a group have an obvious failure of communication onstage. There were further problems onstage, more of them (but not all of them) involving the drummer, but I blame Mateen. He just didn't seem like much of a leader, and after the first incident with the drummer, if felt like everyone in the band was being too careful, for fear that they were gonna get shushed too. Plus, any guy with a dread ponytail THAT long gets some demerits in my book, but seriously, he just seemed so HUMORLESS up there. It made me miss Daniel Carter's effervescence even more. Not too fun of a night.


Get Hustle, The Lovely Little Girls, Flying Luttenbachers, Tales of Genji @ The Pink Section
This was the first show to ever happen at an extremely promising new Chicago venue called The Pink Section. The place had an obscure South Side location, which was refreshing enough already, but then I was greeted warmly by the hosts before I even walked in the door, and offered free cans of PBR with my mere $5 admission. I know, I know, that sounds way too good to be true, and indeed, the show/party was eventually busted by the police (it was in an industrial but still fairly residential area) and I haven't heard anything from the place since. But, every band did get to play and it was a damn fine bill. Notwithstanding the first band, that is, a Chicago group called Tales of Genji. The Pink Section website said "(skingraft)" to the describe the band, but I'm not sure why because there's no mention of them on the Skin Graft website. They seemed a little too run-of-the-mill screamo HC for Skin Graft. Some kinda cool revved-up crunchy classic rock hooks to go with the
standard hipster grind, but haven't Rye Coalition and whoever been doing that for a few years now?
       Next up was my first viewing of The Flying Luttenbacher. If you hadn't heard, for the first time Weasel Walter has pared his long-running avant-chaos unit down to a one-man band, featuring himself on fretless bass guitar playing to madcap backing tapes of his compositions. Watching him freak out, I wondered why he hadn't cut to the chase like this earlier. It made sense, and it was definitely entertaining to have him out from behind the drums, strutting around and spazzing out. It is a little goofier and sloppier (Weasel didn't seem to satisfied with his performance), but as an audience member I was ready to move on from the superhuman discipline trio thing, which was was like an amazing 900-page novel that I had already read 7 or 8 times and didn't really feel the need to revisit any time soon. Weasel solo is like the comic book version and I had a good time.
       Next was another local act, relatively new to the scene, that I hadn't checked out yet: Gregory Jacobsen's Lovely Little Girls. I've been thinking lately how all this Neo No Wave is rock music with NO blues or country inflections whatsoever, with perhaps a more European cabaret influence in their place. The LLG definitely seemed to illustrate this, with Jacobsen mincing and preening in a arch, showy, and genuinely kind of disturbing way. I especially liked the creepy poems he barked out in between songs. The band itself actually did have a whiff of the blues in there, in an even Waits/Beefheart kind of way, but it was more demented than that, and the cheesy keyboard tones threw it off further. The lineup also included spectral guitar and bowed contrabass, with a drummer who played pots and pans in addition to his kit. I'm looking forward to seeing them again.
       After all this, San Diego's Get Hustle took the stage. I was a fan of Antioch Arrow back in the day; at the time they were one of the most extreme new developments in underground rock I had heard. Get Hustle features two former members of A. Arrow, a drummer and guitarist, but the guitarist has switched to keyboards, and I had heard that Get Hustle was a maturation of sorts. But that didn't prepare me for what was to come, because these people are onto something really deep. Yes, the lineup has two keyboards and no guitars, but they are playing absolutely no 80s-fetish tricks WHATSOEVER, no pseudo-dance, none of that crap that everyone else is doing that you might've feared. Instead, Get Hustle are getting into a very serious dark-night cabaret soul thing. It is an intensely brooding sound, and when the cops broke it up after 6 songs or so I realized that the band was just getting started. They could've played for a good 2 hours, I think, which would've probably turned the crowd into a seething naked mass. People were really starting to lurch and sway when the set ended. I remember back when I was less jaded, and I would sometimes see a band and, after it was over, I almost immediately started looking forward to seeing them again, whenever and wherever it might be. That's what Get Hustle was like....good to know that it can still happen again.

Get Hustle, live in San Francisco. Photo by V. Porter from









Chicago street musician reviews by

Man with Small Amp and Guitar (Washington Red Line Stop, 1:00pm Tuesday)
Whenever you encounter any street musician, it is appropriate for the innocent bystander to assess the venue. Is his position optimal? Will everyone in the tunnel hear his strummings and plaintive vocals? I must say that Man with Small Amp and Guitar did not put himself in the optimal position. All I had to do to make his vocals muffled was to walk farther down the tunnel and stand behind a pillar.

       Next, it is appropriate to assess song selection. Is “Oh, Donna” an appropriate song to send people off with as they enter a train to home or to work? Seems like a sad song to me. And certainly changing keys willy-nilly is not what Richie Valens would have done if he were serenading Chicago. As I stood there waiting, I believe I heard five different keys, all on “Oh, Donna” alone. Sometimes tasteful, more often not. Maybe he was trying too hard.
       As for pleasing the audience, Man with Small Amp and Guitar failed miserably. During the tortuous six minutes I stood behind the pillar, I heard nine cries of “shut up,” “you suck,” and “stop it.” I had to bite my tongue. I was very glad someone spoke these courageous words for me.
       As I sat in the train and rode past him, Man with Small Amp and Guitar seemed at peace with himself, regardless of audience complaints. He was singing a Roy Orbison song now, and he was singing as only he could.

Muttering Man (Transfer Tunnel between Red Line and Blue Line at Washington, various occasions)
There is an African-American muttering man who mutters as you walk down the tunnel. He seems to be oblivious to his surroundings, but he mutters with a regular beat nonetheless. He might be blind. He has one of those “I’m blind” sticks. He has a bag in one hand, and his charity cup in the other.
       It is safe to say that his rhythms are African. He has a very tribal sound to his mutterings. You would think that he would add to his mutterings by shaking his cup of coinage, but that is not the case. Muttering Man surprises you at every turn.
       When the Blue Man Group or Stomp lose a cast member, Muttering Man is their man. He keeps a steady beat, he’s dedicated, and he loves to party.

Drummer Man (Transfer Tunnel between Red Line and Blue Line at Washington, various occasions)
Sometimes Drummer Man hoists sway over that stinky and morose tunnel from Red Line to Blue Line. He has a catchy beat. He knows he does. How do I know he knows? He plays that same catchy beat for hours on end, and never varies it. He knows his beat is catchy.
       Look at the people walking down the tunnel. Are any of them walking to the beat of another drummer? I think not. I certainly can’t avoid it. My feet keep pace with his hands as they drum that drone. Sometimes I think his drumming is my train and that there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to catch it in time. Sometimes I think he’s God’s train, and we all need to ride him down the tunnel.
       Note the Doppler effect as you approach him and walk away. The tunnel does wonders for his acoustics.

Muttering Man and Drummer Man (Transfer Tunnel between Red Line and Blue Line at Washington, various occasions)
Yup. It was a natural. Two keen performers vie for the same turf. The result? A tandem that cannot be vanquished. Muttering Man, through no sacrifice of his own, Mutters to the beat of Drumming Man. This is a recent event, and has not happened very often. Muttering man still has his cup of coins and his bag of sundries, and Drummer Man still plays his late-Coltrane-esque droning beat.
       A lot of times I criticize live performers because they don’t give off that vibe, that unspoken feeling that they are having a great time. Not so with Muttering Man and Drummer Man. I once witnessed them “between” performances and they were trading witty repartees and whatnots. I saw Muttering Man nod affirmatively at Drummer Man, and Drummer Man implied that Muttering Man was “a'ight.”




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