A Downloader's Diary (42): September 10, 2015
by Michael Tatum
Figuring I'd break up what I'd missed in 2015 in easily manageable
chunks while still pushing forward, I'd envisioned this to be Afropop
month. Well, it was -- but indie rock came out on top. With any luck
next month I'll finally get to cases on Kendrick Lamar.
Ezra Furman: Perpetual Motion People (Bella Union)
Initially, I balked at the term "genderfluid," not because I object to
guys in dresses kissing other guys who want to feel like girls, but
because of the delineation's collegiate fustiness. Since Furman
clearly cherishes the New York Dolls as much as I do, whatever
happened to David Johansen's "try-sexual," or Arthur Kane's delightful
"I think we're just a bunch of kids looking for a good time?" Then I
remembered those French Structuralists I pretend to have read at ritzy
dinner parties, particularly Ferdinand de Saussure's "binary
oppositions," the theory that the human mind works best as a
dichotomizing machine (man/woman, black/white, and so forth), and the
third wave feminist critique that such thinking inherently favors the
status quo. I also factored in my not-so-novel opinion that such
dogmatism makes life, well, a lot less interesting. However, speaking
as someone who was dragged into a junior high school football field
sewer on the pretense of being the "faggot" he never was, and who
later relished donning drag in a student movie because doing so
(excuse the metaphor) stuck it to the macho hard line, Furman's songs
made me realize he isn't a jaunty tourist playing dress up -- this is
where he lives. Or doesn't live, as the case may be -- as this
record's trenchant line "I can't go home/Though I'm not homeless"
reminds us, there are too damn many kids tossed into the street by
their parents for being gay, lesbian, transgender, or indeed,
"genderfluid." Suffice to say, this epiphany occurred long after this
huge leap forward in songwriting and performance convinced me this was
my kind of coming out party -- the kind which I'd hope would inspire
everyone across the gender spectrum to break out the pleated
mini-skirts and Cover Girl Colorlicious Lipstick #318 ("Eternal
Ruby"). Boasting he's a tip of a match who longs to "strike himself on
something rough," Furman declares the novelty-hungry human mind gets
"way fucking sick of beauty," suggesting that amelioration begins with
"burning it and starting over again," a process that might include the
very album he's recording. Showing up for a congressional hearing in
an Indian headdress, ecstatically tearing off a dinner jacket to
reveal the cheap five-dollar dress underneath, he opines to an
arrangement swiped from Blind Willie Johnson that "one day I will sin
no more" because "one day heaven and earth will be like one." I'd like
to think the perfect simplicity of that line would have given de
Saussure pause. And if that's not philosophical enough for you,
there's always my favorite: "Lose yourself completely, but stay
alive/Ditty bop sha lang lang/Ditty bop sha lang, sha ditty lang/Ditty
bop sha lang lang, ditty lang." A
Freedy Johnston: Neon Repairman (Singing Magnet) An
anachronism in the era of grunge, gangsta rap, Madonna, and
then-we-called-it-techno, Johnston's 1992 Can You Fly remains
one of the greatest singer-songwriter documents -- not a fossil, but a
living, breathing organism, a flawless album. After that, he struggled
matching that watermark, and how 1997's spare Never Home (helmed by
James Taylor/Jackson Browne buddy Danny Kortchmar) came closer than
1994's overrated This Perfect World (produced by Nirvana/Sonic
Youth vet Butch Vig) remains one of the great mysteries of rock
paleontology, until you pay attention to how much punch and snap
Kortchmar engendered from Stan Lynch's snare. This new set is quieter
than either of those, and too subtle by half -- the only songs that
leap out on first listen are the lovely "Baby, Baby Come Home" (Alan
Jackson, please cover) and the wry rocker in which a luckless gambler
craps out at the casino, but wins over a trailer park cutie who
appreciates him for bringing 'round a television set so antiquated he
can still carry it through her front door. But after a few spins
you'll be able to recall almost every tune, from the spooky title
protagonist, who considers darkness his friend not because he's a
Smiths fan but because it pays the rent, to the downcast closer that
sounds like a formulaic country ballad until you notice the subject
matter concerns a traumatized veteran: "You know I saw the
others/Bloodying the gutter/And that's the last thing I know." Sure,
his stasis could use a little jolt of punctuated equilibrium. But with
his adenoids more relaxed in his middle age, his singing has gained so
much grace and presence you won't mind even when he spends a verse or
two chewing the scenery. B PLUS
Bassekou Kouyaté & Ngoni Ba: Ba Power (Glitterbeat)
When François Hollande sent French forces to quell Mali's attempted
coup by Sharia fundamentalists in January 2013, they minimalized civil
unrest, enabling legislative elections to be held the following
November. So the stakes aren't as high now for Kouyaté as they were
when he and his world class rock band recorded 2013's masterful
Jama Ko. "With the help of the thorn in my foot, I spring
higher than anyone with sound feet," Kierkegaard once declared, but I
ask you: did the Danish philosopher ever record an album with a
faction of the state military ousting the president from the capitol a
half mile down the road? Between enforced curfews, random power
outages, and the grim knowledge that reactionary forces could execute
you merely for playing music, is it any shock that the electrifying
climax of "Ne Me Fatigue Pas," the song that Kouyate wrote in direct
response to this turmoil -- which I swear he nicked from the Doors --
suggests Jim Morrison setting the night on fire with pipe bombs and
Molotov cocktails rather than with killer weed and lava lamps? With
the drums and rhythms more forceful, the arrangements denser and more
complex, and new labelmate Jon Hassell providing nice texture on
trumpet and keyboards on "Aye Sira Bla," this comes reasonably close
to making life during peacetime sound as urgent as it did when they
thought their world was ending, even with the weak instrumental
"Bassekouni" ending the record on an indecisive note. Thanks at least
in part to Violet Diallo's English and French translations, which
reveal the steely lesson underlying the otherwise spirited "Te Dunia
Laban," which spells out for the extremist opposition the inevitable
connection between such heroes and villains as Sekou Toure, Patrice
Lumumba, and Nelson Mandela: no matter how much power you accrue in
this life, sooner or later you wind up dead. A MINUS
Nellie McKay: My Weekly Reader (429) Cabaret types,
they're not like you and me, are they? I recall my good friend Scott,
who back in 1987 insisted that Barbra Streisand's self-serving The
Broadway Album should rightfully win the Grammy over "Short
Stuff," his bemused epithet for Paul Simon (when I demurred
Graceland was far superior, his jaw dropped indignantly). Scott
later chronicled his adoration for Doris Day in a well-received
one-man show, which brings me to Threepenny Opera veteran
McKay, who follows her own tribute to Ms. Day with a
normal-as-blueberry-pie selection of sixties covers. Given the green
light, "cool" people like you and me might plump for the Kinks and the
Impressions, "Candy Says" and "Alone Again Or," but though we get the
swaggering "Sunny Afternoon," we also get "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a
Lovely Daughter" and "Don't Let the Sun Catch You Crying," all
performed and arranged so that naive young people might think they all
sprang from the same genre, which I guess by now, they do. With
McKay's New York stomping ground represented solely by Mimi and
Richard Farina (oh, I forgot Short Stuff's commissioned "Red Rubber
Ball"), much of the remainder perversely comes from the hippie claque
in California, and not who you'd think either: Frank Zappa, Country
Joe & the Fish, Steve Miller's "Quicksilver Girl," and the perennially
uncool "Wooden Ships," all gussied up in McKay's perky lounge pop,
with genders changed when she thinks it might be funny, unaltered when
she thinks it might be poignant. And for timely social commentary we
have her slipping in the phrase "bloviated turd" into Moby Grape's
"Murder in My Heart for the Judge," as well as these painfully funny
asides: "What do we want? Time travel! When do we want it? It's
irrelevant!" And: "I cannot believe I still have to protest
this shit." A MINUS
Ashley Monroe: The Blade (Warner Bros.) I'm sure you're
bored with reviewers comparing the Pistol Annies' solo projects to
each other every time a new one pops into the racks, but damn it, this
time indulging the critical cliché bears rewards: if Miranda Lambert
aims for the pop jugular and Angeleena Presley opted for the modest
route on that fine record she self-produced with her husband, Ashley
Monroe plots to take her more sophisticated vocal technique to the
realm of "adult contemporary" country in the vein of Lee Ann Womack. I
don't care if Vince Gill produces her records, in the wider scheme of
things that's a commercial risk, especially considering that Monroe is
only twenty-eight -- three years younger than the spunkier Lambert,
ten years younger than the earthier Presley, and a mere two years
older than kiddish fellow traveler Kacey Musgraves, who on her
disappointing new Pageant Material pretends she's still a local
girl waiting tables. Monroe's transformation is so complete that if
you took the two best songs here and subbed them for the two weakest
songs on 2013's Like a Rose, they wouldn't fit, even the bubbly
(and of course thematic) hit "On to Something Good": "I'm better
moving on than going back/I'll ride this train till it runs out of
track," she chirps, her weed and whipped cream days behind her. If
this means that she'll subject us to borderline dreck like "Has
Anybody Ever Told You," it also means she'll display strong command on
masterful strokes like the stirring ballad "The Blade," which is the
title track for a good reason: neither Miranda nor Angaleena could
have delivered it half as well. A MINUS
Giorgio Moroder: Déjà Vu (RCA) Back in the Me Decade,
Giorgio Moroder, Donna Summer, and the unjustly forgotten Pete
Bellotte made the best kind of dumb dance music -- the smart kind. But
though no rock critic has given this throwback anything but shade, it
succeeds in ways that Moroder's buddies in Daft Punk do not -- perhaps
because Moroder isn't especially interested in making an art
statement. On his own, he churns out highly generic fluff suitable for
those who think "cardio" is a noun. With Sia Fuller, Kylie Minogue,
and Charli XCX however, he detonates Bürgerfest skyrockets.
Unlike other records where these three might cameo, you don't get the
feeling they're cashing a paycheck or paying back an aesthetic debt:
they're doing it for love. For wallflowers and milquetoasts who carp
about "songwriting" we have Mikky Ekko (who?) re-purposing Kanye West
re-purposing Billie Holiday, and Matthew Koma (right, exactly) quoting
Elvis Costello. And if that's not "literary" enough for you we have
the pièce de résistance, Britney Spears covering DNA tweaking
Suzanne Vega's "Tom's Diner," presumably because Britney has even less
command of the English language than Giorgio does. The latter track
might be the key to how you feel about this record: as students of
audio engineering know, one of the charms of DNA's original remix lay
in hearing Vega's disembodied but prepossessing, warm but technically
flat contralto against synthesizers that know nothing else but the key
in which they were programmed, while Britney, not unlike Darth Vader,
is at this point in her career more machine than woman. When I'm
feeling persnickety, I think: is this the busty automaton with whom I
want to spend an intimate breakfast? Most of the time though, I think
it's glorious, especially during the break in which a heavily
Auto-Tuned Moroder steps out from the behind the curtain, slaps us on
der Rückseite, and boisterously welcomes us into his Bavarian
ale house. Someone tell Britney that Suzanne Vega didn't know who the
fuck William Holden was either. A MINUS
Mountain Goats: Beat the Champ (Merge) An excellent
writer can fascinate you with a subject that would not otherwise pique
your interest. For example, while repulsed by Hemingway's gauche
Death in the Afternoon (he knows where to find Madrid's finest
whores, but is oblivious to bulls being red-green colorblind), I can
objectively appreciate how he connects the dots between the romance of
a centuries-old tradition and his own peculiar notions of masculinity
and the creative process. Something similar happens with John
Darnielle's concept album about professional wrestling -- such
colorful character sketches as "Foreign Object" and "Choked Out" would
be compelling from anyone, but when he struggles to translate a
Spanish telecast in his head because "I need justice in my life/Here
it comes," fans know he means to evoke the memory of his abusive
stepfather. As with 2012's Transcendental Youth, he continues
to frame his songs in arrangements that incorporate strings and
woodwinds, like the oboes that linger a few feet above the Route 60
asphalt as a repentant father looks back on his life in the sport. A
few holdouts may rue the sparer approach with which Darnielle made his
reputation, but anyone who can take that oboe arrangement and wed it
to a wistful vocal in which that father waxes nostalgically about the
night he "nearly drove Danny's nose back into his brain/All the cheap
seats go insane" has officially earned the Randy Newman Seal of
Approval. And if you've still got doubts, here's the astonishing last
verse of the song that contrasts Darnielle's stepdad with the
legendary wrestler Chavo Guererro: "He was my hero back when I was a
kid/You let me down but Chavo never once did/You called him names to
try to get beneath my skin/Now your ashes are scattered on the wind/I
heard his son got famous, he went nationwide/Coast-to-coast with his
dad by his side/I don't know if that's true but I've been told/It's
real sweet to grow old." A MINUS
Songhoy Blues: Music in Exile (Atlantic) In a scenario
you'll find all-too familiar, they fled their homes for Bamako when
radical fundamentalists occupied Northern Mali -- the next time that
drummer friend of yours complains about couch surfing all over
Brooklyn, tell him what musicians in Northwestern Africa have to
endure. Extraordinarily, Aliou and Oumar Touré formed a band because
of this experience, befriending Blur's Damon Albarn, impresario
Marc-Antoine Moreau, and the Yeah Yeah Yeah's Nick Zinner, all of
whose names show up in pieces about the band more often than the names
of the band members themselves. Sure would be nice to know how the
tough songwriting splits -- these guys have clearly studied their
Chicago blues: the steamrolling tribute to "Nick," who also produces
and contributes guitar throughout, will have you scouring your Muddy
Waters records in search of the original. Zinner also deserves credit
for the terse production -- guitars and drums are turned way up, as if
he thinks he's twiddling the knobs on the Bamako version of Some
Girls. In other words, this "sounds" like traditional American
rock and roll more than Tamikrest or Tinariwen, heavy on the four-four
and not especially interested in incorporating too much Western
audiences will find esoteric. If this were a Chicago blues album, I
might find it impressive sonically, but wanting spiritually. But these
Johnny-Winters-Come-Latelies invest their memorable riffs and vocal
hooks with charisma, authority, and youthful vigor -- even if you've
encountered these coruscating guitar licks before, you'll be
temporarily tricked into thinking you haven't. And if you want to
grumble you've heard one too many songs titled "Mali," even ones as
lovely as this acoustic closer, think for a moment how many of our
homegrown musicians would dare a song called "America." Don't bow down
your head, listen up. A MINUS
Tal National: Zoy Zoy (Fat Cat) Afropop records can be a
challenge to describe, mainly because most of the
non-compilations/albums-as-albums that reach our shores fall into two
categories: variations on the American and/or Cuban inspired music
we've come to know and treasure, or crossover bids heavily saturated
with modern-day production techniques and guest stars. Amazingly,
these ambitious Nigeriens, comprised of a shifting line-up of
musicians from Songhai, Fulani, Hausa, and Tuareg backgrounds, fall
into neither bracket: they achieve their radical synthesis of
homegrown rock and roll and complex song structure, the latter
inherent mostly in concussively abrupt changes in tempo and time
signature, without the "civilizing" benefit of a Damon Albarn- or Nick
Gold-type catapulting them into the modern age with samples,
synthesizers, or, um, Ry Cooder. The merciless ouragan (windstorm)
about which they sing could be the literal one tearing through the
Ténéré desert, the sociopolitical changes sweeping their embattled
homeland, or their cataclysmic drum sound, achieved by two players and
suggesting Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann being thrown down a flight
of concrete stairs, their kits and risers ricocheting off steps behind
them. Yet they remain remarkably tight rhythmically -- Richie
Troughton of The Quietus intriguingly dubbed this bracing
bricolage "Afro math-rock." I sure can't envison Battles or Tortoise
fans dancing to these catchy chants and wild ululations -- not that
they're known much for dancing anyway. But I'd give anything to see
this band's passionate fans twerk through one of their legendary five
hours sets to show them how it's done. A MINUS
Yo La Tengo: Stuff Like That There (Matador) "One thing
classical music types don't understand about singing is that any
opera-trained tenor can belt out a technically flawless version of
'Yesterday,' but as a song it's far more moving in Paul McCartney's
plaintive original." This would be a visiting choral music conductor
addressing my high school's elite madrigal group, a bold statement
which made me (the skinny black-haired tenor in the back row) cheer to
myself -- not merely because I loved the Beatles, but because I
secretly felt alienated by the decorum and sterile formality of the
European choral tradition. Sure, the Korean expat who sat next to me
had a dynamite voice for arias, but his melismatic vibrato sounded
flat out dumb on that Beach Boys medley. Little did I know how much
this vocal approach would play into the music I would treasure as an
adult, beginning with Yo La Tengo's Ira Kaplan and Georgia Hubley, who
realized their thoughtful, empathetic murmurs were their secret weapon
circa 1995's Electr-o-pura, not coincidentally also when their
songwriting blossomed. This collection of covers, remakes, and bonus
originals welcomes such unlikely bedfellows as Goffin/King, The Cure,
The Lovin' Spoonful, Great Plains, George Clinton, and Sun Ra into
their kind, comforting tradition -- steadfast devotion expressing
itself not as a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes, but as a smoke made
with the fume of sighs. Georgia mournfully sings "I'm So Lonesome I
Could Cry" to the twinkling stars from her balcony, while Ira stands
below on the veranda with his acoustic guitar, wondering what's on her
mind to a pensive tune they wrote together twenty years ago. As
always, they sing to each other pretending the other can't hear -- the
inside photo portrays them in the studio as I've always imagined them:
staring into each other's eyes. Almost. That may not define them as a
"real-life" couple, but that does sum up their synergy, their
intimacy, their aesthetic, and their music's modest spell. Me myself,
I've seen a lot of hot, hot blazes come down to smoke and ash. Embers
can be beautiful, too. A
Honorable Mentions
Rhett Miller: The Traveler (ATO) Most Messed Up
Pt. 2 -- or do I mean The Grand Theatre Pt. 3?
("Wanderlust," "Jules") ***
Shamir: Ratchet (XL) Not really a "countertenor" --
countertenors have ranges ("Make a Scene," "On the Regular")
***
Jason Isbell: Something More Than Free (Southeastern)
Caveat auditor: not only doesn't "To a Band That I Loved" memorialize
the Drive-By Truckers, it doesn't even rock ("The Life You
Chose," "24 Frames") **
Gang of Four: What Happens Next (Metropolis/Membran)
Give Andy Gill this: he's better at being a Gang of One than the
Talking Heads were sans David Byrne ("Broken Talk," "Isle of
Dogs") *
Kasey Chambers: Bittersweet (Sugar Hill) Divorce
inspires her most substantial record in years -- now if only her
current God fixation didn't lead to that appalling ditty in which she
plays midwife to Mary and Joseph ("I'm Alive," "Oh Grace")
*
Trash
Beach House: Depression Cherry (Sub Pop) Cannibalizing
entire reviews from other writers signals monumental laziness on my
part, but this is one instance in which the temptation proves too
strong. Now, ahem: "In general, this record shows a return to
simplicity, with songs structured around a melody and a few
instruments, with live drums playing a far lesser role. With the
growing success of Teen Dream and Bloom, the larger
stages and bigger rooms naturally drove [the band] towards a louder,
more aggressive place, a place farther from [their] natural
tendencies. Here, [they] continue to let [themselves] evolve while
fully ignoring the commercial context in which [they] exist." All
right, calling these vaporous tunes "melodies" might be stretching it
a bit (c.f. Bloom, even the overrated Teen Dream), but
that's about as accurate a review as I could write -- should adorn the
record like a Parent's Advisory warning sticker on an Eminem
joint. Actually, I admire any reviewer who can endure this morass of
molasses without slipping into a coma. So where did I pilfer this bit
of prose, you ask? From the Sub Pop Records website. The authors: Alex
Scally and Victoria Legrand. Impressed? B MINUS
Iris DeMent: The Trackless Woods (Flariella) Her
once-miraculous contralto now shriveled to a tremulous warble, unable
to hit the low notes she insists on slipping into her new songs, and
her monotonous arrangements pure drawing room respectability, this is
where DeMent takes her secular audience to church, the humorless
solemnity of which this record resembles in every way except actual
religious content. I remember when DeMent wrote poetry rather than
appropriating it -- not that the magniloquent poesy of tribute subject
Anna Akhmatova connects emotionally on the page any more than it does
wedded to such lifeless music. Consider "Not With Deserters," written
for those who fled her native land of Russia after Lenin's Revolution
(punctuation hers, not mine): "Poor exile, you are like a prisoner/To
me, or one upon the bed/Of sickness. Dark your road, O wanderer,/Of
wormwood smacks your alien bread." Now consider this parody of
Akhnatova by one of her more bemused detractors, shameless deserter
Vladimir Nabokov, from page 56 of his novel Pnin: "I have put
on a dark dress/And am more modest than a nun;/An ivory crucifix/Is
over my cold bed./But the lights of fabulous orgies/Burn through my
oblivion,/And I whisper the name George --/Your golden name!" Anna
didn't find that the least bit amusing -- which really says it all,
don't you think? C PLUS
Neil Young & the Promise of the Real: The Monsanto Years
(Reprise) Some fret that after a series of releases that include a
concept album about electric cars, a collection of folk songs retooled
for garage rock, a scratchy batch of covers captured through a
Voice-o-Graph vinyl recording booth I'm sure sounds hot on Pono, and
now this, an album-length protest against agribusiness behemoth
Monsanto, Neil has regressed to the bonkers unpredictability of his
Reagan Years. Speaking as someone who plays 1980's Hawks and
Doves and 1982's Trans (not to mention 2012's
Americana) more than he does 1989's Freedom or 1990's
Ragged Glory, this doesn't bother me a whit -- Neil's
respectability had gotten way too dull. But the problem here isn't
consistency per se, it's the nature of protest music. It was one thing
for Neil to ask America what they would have done if they had found
Sandra Scheuer on the Kent State green, shot dead by the tin solders
of Nixon's National Guard, but it's another when he wants us to get as
riled up as he is about the dangers of genetically modified food. I'll
probably get some angry feedback for saying so, but no reputable
research has ever found anything dangerous in consuming GMOs, and
though I agree more investigation should be done in that area, a
well-informed friend of mine who knows something about the subject
claims they are the "modern day equivalent of putting iodine in
drinking water, science at its best." Yet here we have Neil, who I
suspect fears the "rules of change" more than he does corporate greed
or environmental catastrophe, making the highly questionable claim
that pesticides are "causing" autistic children, as hysterical as
Michele Bachmann's spontaneous outburst on national TV about the HPV
vaccine being a a trigger for "retardation." He also seems to think
our access to higher truth is blocked by our cultural preference for
silly love songs, forgetting the asinine "It's a New Day For Love" two
tracks previous (I guess loving the planet's more "profound"). In
spite of his well-intended objectives and skill at pulling decent
tunes, an unmitigated disaster, heavy-handed with nothing actually in
the clenched fist. And that's without considering the graceless
musical presence of Willie Nelson's talentless sons, who I heard are
hitting the bar band circuit as Tame Gelding. C PLUS
Best Coast: California Nights (Harvest) Same catchy
tunes within the same octave, same block harmonies, same romantic
confusion, same middle school sad-bad, girl-world rhymes, same
ne'er-do-well-boyfriend. The Disney gloss, well that's
new. B
Aphex Twin: Computer Controlled Acoustic Instruments
Pt. 2 (Warp) "Interesting" I guess, but my antipathy toward
Richard James goes back to a sycophantic college roommate, who under
the influence of two pathetically weak tabs of acid swooned "It's
almost like mathematics!" while forcing me to listen to the first
track of the supposedly "seminal" Ambient Works, Vol. 2 on
interminable repeat. He also swore the churning dishwasher in our
college commissary made more compelling music than the Everly Brothers
and didn't intend a jocose metaphor. Bet he loves this. B
Titus Andronicus: The Most Lamentable Tragedy (Merge)
For symphonic punk-prog, this is listenable enough, and as the subject
of interest of many a mental health professional, I guess I should be
grateful for the overarching concept (bipolar disorder
. . . yay?). But even if the point of these things is to exceed the
sum of its parts, there are a lot of fucking parts -- twenty-nine, to
be exact. And resident Pete Townshend wannabe Patrick Stickles didn't
even write the best one: Daniel Johnston's "I Lost My Mind."
B
Colleen Green: I Want to Grow Up (Hardly Art) A
Descendents fan's concept album about Veruca Salt -- not the band, the
Roald Dahl character. C PLUS
Joss Stone: Water For Your Soul (Kobalt) Despite her
semi-miraculous beginnings as a white soul natural, the barefoot
contralto has always cultivated an aura of hippie retro, which meant
it was only inevitable that after humoring her record companies
nudging her to sell out she would regress to the trappings of, Lord
help us, "authenticity." Dennis Bovell and Damian Marley's presence
aside, I don't know much about white reggae, but I do know one thing:
no fair-skinned Dover lass should ever write an original called
"Sensimilla." C
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