By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World Dwight Twilley Band "Sincerely" "Twilley Don't Mind" (The Right Stuff) Tulsa's own Dwight Twilley has more lives than your average alley cat. The latest reissue of the Dwight Twilley Band's first two albums is the fourth reissue for both since their original pressings in '76 and '77, respectively. Every few years, someone at an indie label discovers the records, their eyes grow wide as 45s and they begin asking everyone they know, “Why isn't this stuff hugely popular? Why isn't radio saturated with this guy?'' They think they've found a pop music gold mine. They have, of course. Trouble is, bad luck and delays caused people to miss these records the first time around and, well, it's hard to convince the masses of a second chance. Pity, because these two records, particularly “Sincerely,'' are examples of everything that is great about pop music. The songs are immediate but timeless. They spark with youthful energy without being base. They are utterly accessible but remain smart. “I'm on Fire,'' the opener to “Sincerely'' and Twilley's greatest hit with partner Phil Seymour, was recorded the night Twilley and Seymour first set foot in the Church studio here in town — their first time in a studio, period. “Let's record a hit record,'' Seymour said, and they did. The chugging guitars, the layered vocals, the infectious attitude — it's irresistible. “Sincerely'' brims with that immediacy and remains one of the most exciting records of my lifetime. “Twilley Don't Mind'' starts with that same eagerness (“Looking for the Magic,'' featuring Tom Petty's ringing guitar, is truly intriguing and unique) but slows down before the flying saucer “Invasion.'' (This “Twilley'' reissue, though, features the best bonus tracks.) Still, these records are more than mere echoes of Abbey Road — they are diamonds lost in the rough, but they still shine. By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World The bands that best uphold the traditions of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll are those that don't holler about it. Your basic '80s hair metal band was no doubt a staunch purveyor of that triumvirate of debauchery, but how subversive can your fans feel about the experience when you're waving your fist in the air at every opportunity and giving away the game with a whooping, "Sex, drugs and rock 'n' roooooooooll!''? The warm, wily wash of the Dandy Warhols' trippy roar is more comfortable — and truly subversive. The sex in the feeling of these songs isn't employed as a domination strategy. The rock 'n' roll has less noise, more melody and, as Tom Wolfe might write, O! the kairos! the vibrations! The drugs are, well, definitely a factor — though the Warhols' hot single, "Not if You Were the Last Junkie on Earth,'' and particularly its garish, "Price Is Right'' kind of video, presents a more poignant case against heroin than anything the Partnership for a Drug-Free America could stick on your television. This is, after all, a band that takes its cues from the Velvet Underground and T. Rex — and they may be the first band of the '90s to claim those influences and genuinely deserve the prestige they transfer. Last week, Eric Hedford got on the phone to shed some light on the Dandys experience. Hedford is the band's drummer and occasional Moog noodler, and he cleared some of the haze surrounding the band's talent for mooching, its troubled effort making the current album ("The Dandy Warhols Come Down'' on Capitol Records) and its chance defiance of categorization. Thomas Conner: You're in Portland (Ore.)? How did you score this rare moment at home? Eric Hedford: Three weeks in sunny Portland, then we go out for another three months ... We'll be concentrating on the South, because it's winter. Smart, huh? Last winter we were touring the north, and we broke down in 70-below weather outside Minneapolis. We fired our road manager on the spot. We plan to hit Florida this winter in bathing suits. TC: How's the tour been going? EH: We put 30,000 miles on our van. Someone told me that's once or twice around the whole planet. We've played with Blur, the Charlatans, Radiohead, Supergrass, Spiritualized ... TC: Those are all British bands. I thought you were trying to avoid being called Brit wanna-bes. EH: There aren't too many American bands we're compatible with right now. Our mission is to find an American band to tour with. The closest we got is this Canadian band we've got with us next. I can't remember their name. (Note: It's Treble Charger, the opening band for the Tulsa show.) TC: Do you enjoy life on the road? EH: It's a trippy way to live. We've got a contest we play called Guess What the Date Is. I never win, and I've got a watch with the date on it. TC: What's different about this tour and your first jaunts with the debut album, ""Dandy's Rule OK''? EH: Well, since we just went around the world cramped in a van, not much. For this next leg, though, we've got a big, rock tour bus. I'm hoping it's going to have some big, cheesy eagle painted on the side. TC: Courtney (Taylor, lead singer) frequently confesses to the band's winning ability at mooching. Isn't that one of the great fringe benefits of being a rock star? EH: All I know is that people are always giving us stuff. I don't know if this happens with every rock band in America. Maybe we just attract people doing this. The people who really count are the ones who give us things like clean socks or fresh food. Those people become our friends. They'll get invited onto the bus. We get plenty of beer and stuff, but it's those things we don't get from home that win us over ... Someone actually gave us socks once after a show. We thought that was the coolest thing. We threw away our old ones. TC: Is there an art to mooching? EH: Don't take advantage of the small people. Go after the corporates, the ones with deep pockets. When we started getting courted by the record companies, we took full advantage of the thing. We didn't say no to a single person. Every label in existence was flying us back and forth to L.A. and New York, buying us these ridiculous dinners and trying to impress us. You have to jump on that because once you get signed the label doesn't give you anything. Then you have to sell a bunch of records before they even send you a bottle of champagne on your birthday. TC: Wow, a spirit of hedonism in a band — how refreshing. What happened to that hedonism in rock 'n' roll? EH: A lot of bands just turned into a big bunch of pansies. I can't figure it out. But then, we think we party a lot and you look at someone like Fleetwood Mac — and, man, we're nothing compared to that. People back in the '70s, like Elton John, they were crazy. They knew how to live. We work hard, too, though. We're pretty good at rehearsing, and we play relatively sober, saving the fun for afterward. TC: How responsible of you. Well, if this reckless spirit is creeping back into rock 'n' roll, does that mean grunge is dead? EH: The mentality lives on, though, as far as that do-it-yourself spirit goes. I mean, the grunge people were pretty good at not being pretentious at first, and I liked how most of them had a good sense of humor. Those are the things we stole from it, and we grew up around it in Portland. We just never dressed like that or tried to think we were cooler than everyone else. TC: Did you consciously try to avoid being like the then-hot grunge bands? EH: We started when grunge was still around. It was the opposing force for us, and we just tried to distance ourselves from it — not because we didn't like it, really, but because it just wasn't us. Grunge died out and then we realized that the rest of the world thinks that if you're from the Northwest, you're a grunge band. They don't realize that there were a lot of different styles going on here. TC: There was some trouble in the making of the new record. What happened? EH: We had a false start. We got done with a big tour (after the first record) and didn't have enough material prepared. We thought we'd just go into the studio and do an experimental record. It didn't work. Some of us were stoned all the time, and some of us didn't care. Capitol heard the record and didn't think it had any songs on it, so we basically canned it. We still have the option of releasing it. I don't know if we will. We went on tour again and wound up focusing on writing good songs. We still used some of the experimental things we'd learned and just applied them to the new songs for this record. It worked out well. It's got new angles -- it's not just 12 pop songs. The video helped make the single ("Not if You Were the Last Junkie on Earth'') pretty big, but now we've got all these people coming to shows expecting them to be all pop. We usually start a show with a trippy, psychedelic jam, and those people stand there not knowing what the hell is going on. We like to take people on a trip — bring them up, bring them down, make it move a bit. We don't have a set list. We just get a feel for what mood the crowd is in and start picking songs. Sometimes that (screws) us up, and sometimes it's incredible. TC: You're a club DJ there in Portland, too, right? EH: Yeah. I was doing that Halloween night. I'm still hungover from that. TC: How does DJ-ing relate to what you do in the band? EH: When I'm a DJ, I don't have a set list, either. You just read the crowd. Also, a lot of my drumming comes from a DJ perspective. I like that monotonous kind of groove. I'm not a big rock drummer who likes to do big crashes and solos; I like just sitting in the background and grooving out. As a DJ, I got into that monotonous thing. And everyone's saying that electronic music and stuff is going to be this next big thing, but I don't like seeing the bands live. They're boring. I do, however, love seeing a DJ live. TC: Does the monotonous groove come from the Velvet Underground influence? EH: I haven't listened to them a lot myself. Courtney and Zia (McCabe, keyboardist) listen to them. It's that same idea, though: the three-chord mentality and not a lot of changes in the song. You just sink into that trippy groove. Plus, a lot of it comes from the fact we're just not good players. We're quite basic, and we admit that, but there's a lot you can do with the basics and still have fun. That way, we're not up there worrying about the big, complex chord change that's coming up. TC: And the Andy Warhol allusion in your name? EH: It's just a cool name. That whole pop art scene was amazing, though. We're notorious for nicking things out of other decades and throwing them together, and that's what the pop artists were doing -- taking what people recognized and presenting it without pretension. You can steal everything and put it together and say it's a brand-new creation. Then sit back and watch people run around trying to categorize you. TC: Been there, done that. EH: What, the categorizing? TC: Yep. It can't be done anymore, though. I don't think there are categories anymore, at least not on the scope for mass culture. EH: Wow. See? You just come to our show and let all that fall away. Fall, fall away. Dandy Warhols With Treble Charger When 7 p.m. Sunday Where Cain's Ballroom, 423 N. Main St. Tickets $5 at the door By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World The Buddha, the Godhead, resides quite as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer or the gears of a cycle transmission as he does at the top of a mountain or the petals of a flower. To think otherwise is to demean the Buddha -- which is to demean oneself. David Byrne, it seems, is a machine. He's moving around the stage like a plastic doll in some art student's stop-motion short film, like two successfully fused halves of the mechanized mannequin parts in Herbie Hancock's "Rockit'' video. He stepped onto the Cain's Ballroom stage Thursday night upholstered in a pink, feathered suit, thick and bulky like the white one in the quintessential video for one of the disaffected anthems of his former band — the song he's opening the show with, Talking Heads' "Once in a Lifetime.'' His voice is clipped and cold, same as it ever was, and this old, cyclical lyric spews forth the same questions — where does that highway go to, and, my God, what have I done? — that none of us gathered for this otherworldly, Harlan Ellison kind of display have found time to answer. He must be a machine. He hasn't aged. By the time the programmed jungle rhythms for "The Gates of Paradise'' (from his latest album, "Feelings'') begin tsk-tsk-tsking out of the timid speaker stack, Byrne has stripped down to a baby blue jumpsuit that outlines a very svelt and fit 45-year-old. Grasping his guitar as the chorus riffs, he plants his feet firmly just inches from the front row of wide-eyed, cautious onlookers. He's so close that the peghead of his guitar nearly smacks the hat off the head of Don Dickey, the cheshire-grinning singer of Tulsa's own Evacuation of Oklahoma. Byrne is right there in front of us. Two nights previous, barricades and burly security goons kept a crowd of fanatics a safe distance from Morrissey, a performer claimed by fans to be coursing with real, palatable passions and, thus, to be esteemed as utterly human. This David Byrne model requires no protection. He is a machine. He must be replaceable. The five people on this stage are machine components, anyway. The keyboard player is merely pulling stops and turning knobs to allow the samples and programs to speak. The drummer plays a live snare and two cymbals; the rest are computer pads. The plucking and strumming of the bass and Byrne's guitar are only the beginnings of the sonic impulses, which — after numerous devices have encoded the frequencies — are emitted as wholly new and unreal wavelengths. Even Christina Wheeler, a dancer and backup singer, takes her turn playing not an instrument but a portable station of sound processors and compressors that capture her voice and utilize it as the breath of a larger, more layered sound. The machinery is co-opting the energy of humanity for its own artistic goals, the kind of live-vs.-Memorex dichotomy we've seen this year mastered by Bowie and muddled by Beck. But this is Byrne, and he doesn't seem to let the technology control him. If I dashed back to the sound board right now and severed the power cables with a quick hatchet chop, I'm convinced Byrne would still be able to make his music. He wears a headset microphone and dresses his new songs in doo-dad drapery, but there is a deeper and more fluid sense of art in this display than in Beck's synthohol or Bowie's ice crystals. Of all the classics to revive, Byrne starts playing the Al Green song that gave the Talking Heads the first sign of a human face, "Take Me to the River,'' and the cold, jerky Devo concert atmosphere begins to thaw. For "Daddy Go Down,'' a roadie who had just been adjusting microphone cables reappears on stage with a fiddle and balances the martial drum machine with Circean sawing. For "Dance on Vaseline,'' Byrne bops back to the stage wearing a black T-shirt and a red, plaid kilt (his third costume change thus far and, for many, the most titillating — a young woman shrieked, "He's wearing tighty-whities!'') and chuckles about the, um, slipperiness of love. People are bellowing, People are bouncing. People are bobbing. Byrne, the efficient showman — show-man -- smiles and shakes and sweats. Machines can't do that. The music swells and glows, like oceanic phosphorous — pouring through the sensual balladry of "Soft Seduction,'' foaming with the borderless joy of "Miss America'' and flowing swiftly through the righteous riffing of "Angels.'' Finally, the set ends with a song based on that live snare drum, another Talking Heads anthem -- "Road to Nowhere'' — recorded at the dawning of the derision of the post-boomer generation and written as a reductio ad absurdum argument against the prophesies of our detachment and cyberization. No, we may not know exactly where this highway goes to, but with Byrne running in place and the rest of us unconsciously jumping up and down on the Cain's spring-loaded floor, it's clear that the road leads somewhere and that Byrne is as good a piper to follow as any. In fact, he raises us to such cheer and wonder that we won't let him go. We call him back for an encore. He returns, this time in the most astonishing costume I've seen on a public stage: a full-body skin-tight suit, with only eye and mouth holes, illustrating the body's underlying muscles and bones. Like an alien child of the gimp in "Pulp Fiction'' and educational television's Slim Goodbody, Byrne sings a slow, eerie version of "Psycho Killer'' while climbing across the stage in slow motion. After folding himself into a yoga posture, the band bows, exits, and the crowd demands more. Byrne returns in another tight jumpsuit featuring flames from toe to chest. The rhythm festival cranks up for "I Zimbra.'' After a shouting, dancing frenzy, the band bows, exits, and would you believe Tulsa demanded a third encore? Exhausted and hoping to settle us down so that we'll let him leave, he returns and plays the new lullaby "Amnesia.'' In our newfound calm, we discover we are at peace. It feels good to be alive and to be human. David Byrne, it seems, is very human. By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World The only logical place to go after Tuesday night's Morrissey concert was the Fur Shop, a downtown watering hole just blocks from the Brady Theater and owned by several fellow Morrissey fanatics. One of them, Mike Aston, floated through the bar wearing a dumb grin and one of his dozens of Smiths T-shirts, boasting that he actually touched his hero at the edge of the stage. The stereo attempted to play Morrissey's "Kill Uncle'' album, and the crowd just glowed. Collegiates and curmudgeons alike maintained airy, blissful faces as they guffawed about the particular moments of the show — "Did you hear him introduce the band as a Tulsa band?'' "He couldn't stop touching his hair!'' and "Look! I got a piece of a stem from the flowers he threw out!'' Complete strangers stopped at our table to discuss the concert. These were Morrissey fans being ... gregarious. Bring on the millennium. The show was short but stunning — and I say this not solely because I am a lifelong fan of the former Smiths leader. I had entered the Brady Theater with trepidation, steeling myself for a letdown. He's so pompous and so British, he'll hate Tulsa and make fun of us, I thought. He's pushing 40, he's been looking tired — the publicity photos for the current album have been nothing short of embarrassing — and he'll have lost his spark, I thought. By mid-show, I thought, I'll be throwing back into his face his own lyrics from a song called ""Get Off the Stage'' ("You silly old man, you're making a fool of yourself, so get off the stage''). But from the first song, ""Boy Racer,'' when he licked his palm and criss-crossed his chest with it, all fears were allayed. Clearly, the man who introduced sexual ambivalence and ambiguity to the mainstream of popular culture maintains a surprising sex appeal. The spark is still there, and as the show progressed it grew hotter and hotter. The crowd, estimated at 1,800 and from throughout the region, was putty for the next hour. For a tour that is intended to support the new album, "Maladjusted,'' he nearly ignored that batch of songs, performing only the single, "Alma Matters'' (which has more much-needed umph in concert), and the laborious street-crime dirge "Ambitious Outsiders.'' Instead, Morrissey and his crack band tore through material from his last three solo albums, concentrating on 1994's "Vauxhall and I'' (seven of the 11 tracks). And then came the Smiths songs. Having not performed the songs of his old band in several years, the appearance of one Smiths song — let alone two — was reason for intrigue. Perhaps Morrissey simply missed singing some of the old standards. Perhaps the recent royalties lawsuit against him from the Smiths rhythm section — a case that he lost and is none too bitter about — inspired the brief retrospective. His lone encore, "Shoplifters of the World Unite,'' alludes to the former possibility, but the other choice, "Paint a Vulgar Picture,'' surely indicates the latter. This was the moment midway through the show in which Morrissey's real passion surfaced. Until then, he had been dashing and suave, but his much-revered noble chin had been twisted in more than a few smirks and possibly derisive comments to the audience ("Thank you for pretending to know any of these songs''), which screamed and trembled with as much mania as any Morrissey audience I have encountered. For "Paint a Vulgar Picture'' (which he introduced as a Glen Campbell song), though, any provincialism fell aside and we watched the Morrissey of our heady days of youth — mildly bitter, endlessly clever, worthy of pity and simultaneously biting and flip. "Paint a Vulgar Picture,'' from the 1987 posthumous Smiths album "Strangeways, Here We Come,'' was the first song in which Morrissey abandoned his lyrical ambiguity and went straight for the jugular. Its ridicule of the entire music business, as well as the fanatical fan adoration that feeds him, still rings alarmingly true after 10 years — and it still backfires, turning the ridicule more on himself than others. But if the lawsuit was indeed the catalyst for the kind of passion he poured into this old invective Tuesday night, perhaps he should be dragged into court before every tour. But the substance of this show wasn't as titillating as the style, particularly for a majority crowd that likely had never seen him live before. (This is Morrissey's first-ever appearance in the Sooner state, and on this tour he's strangely avoiding Texas, far more populated with Morrissey fans.) The mere presence of the godhead before the masses incited the usual frenzy. Beefy security men fought a hard battle to tear away desperate young men and women who had managed to crowd-surf onto the stage and wrap themselves around their hero. It happens at every single Morrissey show, and he hardly misses a note anymore. After one particularly boisterous girl had been pried off his person, Morrissey sat down on the stage and actually seemed to marvel at the occurrence — amazed that it still happens, even in Tulsa, Okla. At least he still marvels. When he takes it for granted, that's when I start singing "Get Off the Stage'' in earnest. By Thomas Conner
© Tulsa World Let's take a song from David Byrne's latest CD, "Feelings,'' as an example of our post-postmodern everything-and-the-kitchen-sink era of art. Knitting together the unabashed, knee-slappin' country-and-western chorus are delicate, jittery jungle techno rhythms. Sounds absurd, but it works beautifully. Or "Daddy Go Down'' — a Cajun fiddle see-saws on a playground of droning sitars and tell-tale scratching. Walk into your local record label office and pitch that to a talent scout. See what kind of looks you get. David Byrne is used to strange looks. In the 20 years since the debut of the Talking Heads' first album, he has led that band and his own solo career through a series of unbelievable and harrowing stylistic twists and turns, and every time he pitched one of his art-student ideas, he met numerous odd looks. He's racked numerous successes — personal (a wedding — at which Brave Combo played -- and a daughter) and commercial (you know the hits — "Once in a Lifetime,'' "Wild, Wild Life,'' "And She Was,'' etc.) — in those 20 years, though, and there's no good reason to stop now. "I'm used to the look of bewilderment,'' Byrne said this week in a telephone interview from a tour stop in Florida. "I just have to explain that I'm from the same planet you are — you just don't realize how strange it is out there. You're living in some TV dream world.'' Fortunately, Byrne has reached a position from which he can act on his whims with relative freedom. For instance, his record label, Luaka Bop (a subsidiary of Warner Bros.) signs and produces artists from around the world that normally wouldn't get looked at twice by American labels. It cuts out the middlemen and those looks of bewilderment. "Look at the new Cornershop record. It looks like it's making some kind of impact, but if you went to someone and said, 'We have this band with an Indian singer and their single is about Asha Bosley, this woman who stars in Indian musicals, and we think it's a hit record,' they'd look at you like, 'What planet are you from?' But it worked. Every now and then one of them clicks,'' Byrne said. Cornershop found success for the same reasons Byrne continues to astound listeners: they both realize the patchwork potential of pop music now. They mix styles. They bridge the gaps between musical genres. They play to our expanding awareness of the world. It's not intentional, of course. Byrne doesn't hunker down next to his wall of gold Talking Heads records and plot ways to better communicate with today's collage minds. His consciousness is a collage, too, so the music comes out that way. Upon the release of "Feelings,'' Byrne explained it this way: "We all seem to have these musical styles and reference points floating around in our heads, things we've heard at one time or another that rub off on us — sometimes in small ways, as a feeling in a melodic turn of phrase, other times in the overall style of a song. There's a subconscious cut-and-paste going on in our heads that doesn't seem strange at all. It seems like the most natural thing in the world. It's the way we live now ... borrowing from the past and future, from here and there.'' It's the way Byrne lives, anyway, and he said the ideas for style-melding sneak up on him. "It doesn't come when you have your forehead furrowed, figuring out what to do with a song. It comes when you're not paying attention, when you're making coffee late in the afternoon and there's a record playing in the background,'' Byrne said. " 'The Gates of Paradise' is an example of that. I had a jungle record playing while I was in the kitchen, and my ear caught something. I realized that the rhythm I was hearing was the same basic beat of the song I had just been working on.'' In the making of "Feelings,'' those moments came with greater frequency, Byrne said, because of the way the album was made. The songs were recorded with musicians and producers all over the world — the dance trio Morcheeba in London, the Black Cat Orchestra in Seattle, Devo in Los Angeles, Joe Galdo in Miami and Hahn Rowe in New York City. No big studios, either — everything was economical, in home studios. That contributes largely, Byrne said, to the natural, relaxed gait of the songs. Nowadays, with advancements in technology and lower prices, home recordings sound as good or better than those from big, complicated studios. This is not breaking news to musicians, but it's a new dynamic to the musical marketplace. "All artists have gone through this — you make a demo at home that sounds great, that has this intensity and feel and spontaneity, and it gets scrubbed clean in the studio. They listen to the final product and go, "There's something missing here. Why doesn't this sound as exciting as the demo?' That's an old story,'' Byrne said. "Now we're coming around to where if you take a little more care when recording the demo, you can release that as the record.'' That's what Byrne did this time around. The result is an album that packs a suitcase of musical styles that ordinary musicians wouldn't be able to carry across the room, but the disc holds together with a surprising fluidity and coherence. It may be the most enterprising effort Byrne has tackled since the heady days with his old band. "In the beginning, the Talking Heads were always kind of beat-oriented. Always in the living rooms and the loft there was R&B in the air as well as experimental music and rock stuff. That resulted in the same fusion that I think I still capture from time to time,'' Byrne said. "It's a natural tendency to end up putting together the different things in your experience. You act out what you love. That's how different music comes into being. What we call rock 'n' roll is a patchwork of many different things. It's not like Elvis Presley had no roots.'' Byrne prefers continuing on his own path, too. The other three members of the Talking Heads reunited last year without him, calling themselves simply the Heads and using different vocalists for each song on the resulting CD "No Talking Just Head.'' Bad blood still exists between Byrne and his former bandmates, so his part in the reunion was never an issue. "Years earlier I had tried to talk to them, and they didn't want to even talk to me,'' he said. "It's been going on for a very long time. It just finally got to the point where I realized I was not in this as a masochist and that I don't need to be whipped and berated. Music should be a joy. It was time to move on.'' Even when Byrne gets venomous or angry, though, his music somehow maintains an air of cheer, optimism and hope. Even with a foreboding lyric like that in "Daddy Go Down,'' the song's rhythmic momentum instills a crucial air of confidence. In fact, it's that rhythmic element that pulls off that trick, Byrne said. "You can dance to it,'' he said. "For me, you can say something very bleak and pessimistic, but if you counter it with a groove, it implies that the human being is going to persevere and survive. At least, that's what it feels like. Despite what ominous clouds gather, the groove and the life force is going to pull you through.'' David Byrne with Jim White When: 7 p.m. Thursday Where: Cain's Ballroom, 423 N. Main St. Tickets: $20 at the Ticket Office at Expo Square, Mohawk Music, Starship Records and Tapes, the Mark-It Shirt Shop in Promenade Mall and the Cutting Edge in Tahlequah |
Thomas Conner
These online "clips" reproduce a self-selection of my journalism (music etc) during the last 20+ years. It's a lotta stuff, but it only scratches the surface. I do not currently possess the time or resources to digitize the whole body of work. These posts are simply a bunch of pretty great days at the office. Archives
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