Opening rhetorical: If you stood at the crossroads who would you cut a deal with?
The secret words, as Groucho used to say, for this edition are heart and soul. More and more I feel our collective humanity slipping. To live in a time of $1000 bottles of wine AND crushing poverty is a strange thing. Maybe, as some suggest, it has always been thus. In the information age it's just more in your face. For God's sake, there's multiple television series dedicated to tallying the wealth and nauseating excess of celebrities! More than anything else of late I'm attracted to things that bring us into community, joining our shared lands instead of building fences. I do not think I am alone in this desire for connectivity. One finds it in the spirit of this place and that makes me proud to be a part of JamBase. Some of the albums this month are an embrace, a hand to wipe away tears; others find channels for our wildness other than conflict, understanding that aggression can be a tool to build instead of destroy. Before I fall off my soapbox and break something, I'll get out of the way of the music, a force endlessly and hopefully capable of building unions across any differences in culture, bias, and color. Like a wise young man named Jackson Browne once said, "There's a world of illusion and fantasy in the place where the real world belongs. Still I look for the beauty in songs to fill my head and lead me on."
Album of the month:
Sunburned Hand of the Man: Rare Wood
There's something cumulatively seductive about the sound of a group mind falling into harmony with the Great Pitchfork In The Sky. One hears it on Funkadelic's Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow and Can's Tago Mago. Sunburned Hand show the same collective spirit, the same eviscerating gravity that pulls soul to the surface, shakes our cage, flips our pancake, curls our toes. After a productive series of super limited edition vinyl and CDR recordings this is their first CD proper, a chance for those outside their growing following to jump in line. The Hand's incorporation of electric guitars and keyboards into their largely agrarian world harks back to the Holy Modal Rounders, a hippy drum circle that pays attention to the swirl of the water rather than merely splashing about, punctuated by Art Ensemble-isms, Pharoah Sanders every-bell-and-whistle kitchen sink clatter, the archetypal jam session with a mud smeared pigment. Think Morocco's Master Musicians of Jajouka transported to a backwoods lab where the kids gather with extension cords and pots and pans around the campfire. Or mayhap the Boredoms pureed to a hashish mash. Intermittent cries about being naked on your birthday and backwards camels take us to Arabia by way of a Johnny Quest cartoon viewed through acid washed eyes, blurry horns adding silver to the clouds as the sand burns our feet. The "music by" credit is simply a list of sixteen names, no instruments assigned to anyone, no hierarchy apparent, a sign they don't want individual efforts to be spotlighted. The powerfully crunch funk "Glass Boot" is a mélange of huge, forward rushing drums, moaning fiddle, erotic sighs, and enough twisted guitar to make you grab the lighter fluid and burn something in Hendrixesque bacchanalian bliss. They return to more familiar (or as familiar as they allow themselves to be) territory on the closing "Buried Pleasure," a folk throwaway that cuts off rather than fade into the burnt orange sunset. Like the smell of fresh cedar, like dancing shirtless with strangers, like suddenly humming a tune you've never heard before and knowing the full measure of it instantly, that's SHOTM or some whisper of the thing they are. What has been wrought from this wood is a rare and precious thing, the voice of freedom proving their axiom that "there's nothing in the universe you can't express with a sound."
Kelley Stoltz: Antique Glow
Folks like Donovan, Brian Eno, and Paul Westerberg have shown us that pop music can be accessible AND experimental. San Francisco's Stoltz gets this none too common idea, too. The first few tracks convince you he's good but by the ninth cut you may start thinking you've found a new bedroom genius, a fierce sorbet that cleanses our palette. He's so good at his craft he invigorates everyday phrases that would be pasteurized in lesser hands. His voice drips with shifting character, not always smooth but maybe even more interesting when he's shooting from the rough. Recorded between 1999-2001, Antique Glow carries some of the "gentle blue light" and "bright green walls" of the small room that gave birth to it. Colors abound in these slightly out-of-time recordings. "Underwater Where The Action Is" may have you convinced you've stumbled across some grand lost '60s marvel whereas "Perpetual Night" has the vacuum tube moan of Mercury Rev or a slightly stoned Radiohead. The specter of "I Zimbra" haunts the wonderfully insistent "Tubes In The Moonlight." Elsewhere his dexterous finger picking dismantles the blues and twirls bejeweled ballads. This pulls off the trick of plopping into your lap while still maintaining a lil' mystery. Double high hopes that whatever he's been laying down since 2001 is every bit as fantastic.
Rich Robinson: Live At The Knitting Factory
Listen close and you can hear the sticky release of wings coming clear of a cocoon. As one half of the songwriting end of The Black Crowes, Rich Robinson showed an oft-inspired musical hand, pinching the best parts of southern rock, backward blues, and sixties tie-dye pop. But the lion's share of the lyrics were big brother Chris' and more than once the more ignorant and inattentive have suggested his guitar skills were secondary to the other lead players to pass through that band. Now solo, the spotlight firmly fixed on him for the first time, Robinson demonstrates a Zeppelin-like grace; rock, in the true classic sense, accessorized by backwoods fiddle, acoustic daydreams, and pulsating rambles. Pleasantly strained sincerity informs the direct, nicely turned verses and his sweet, tuneful singing shows the Crowes missed out on having a second primary vocalist. The first third gives us a chance to hear what the last couple Black Crowes albums might have sounded like if there'd been less internal strife, a greater unity of vision. After a too easy opener, Robinson piles on the complications. When the string section enters, things really get cooking. It's clear his mention of Nick Drake as an influence all these years amounts to more than simple name dropping. The pull and sway of cello and violin instantly seems the most natural thing in the world for Robinson's songs, a spirit previously hovering just out of earshot, a welcome new heart-skipping dimension. NYC singer Joy Askew, a fit that continually elevates the material, gorgeously augments his suede singing in a way reminiscent of Fairport Convention, where Sandy Denny's vinegar sharply cut all the male oil. There's a temptation to conjecture about who or what some of these new songs are about but let's just say we've all got our lessons to learn and there's more than a few hindsighted thick ones being offered up here. He avoids the entire Crowes catalog in favor of originals save for a pair of cherry covers, a hip shaking take on The Band's "Don't Do It" and a more than credible assault on the diehard Stones' favorite "Memo From Turner." As ever, Robinson plays guitar with dexterity and dedication, a craftsman who rarely brags, letting his work speak for him. What's new is the full view we get of his vision, one we'll see more of on his forthcoming studio album. Until then, this crisply recorded live debut (put to tape by Dynasonic) gives us a glimpse of an exciting new era, different than his past to be sure, but dense with bright possibilities.
Patti Smith: Trampin'
This is quite good. What it isn't is great and in many ways fans of the high priestess of rock wail have come to expect greatness. Her '70s output like the justifiably hailed Easter and Horses are holy poetic, lacerating, revelatory. Since she returned to recording in 1996 after more than a decade of silence, she's been a changed woman. Personal tragedy and the erosion of years injected a very real tenderness into her Ophelia-lilted rave. She's still plenty angry (about all the right stuff incidentally) but now she's as apt to offer a tearful kiss as she is a weathered knuckle sandwich. This latest is a survivor's journal entry, a furious and oddly hopeful message in a bottle chucked into the oceans keeping us apart. The playing is impeccable, the work of craftsmen, and especially juicy when they fall in towards joy or fury as on "Jubilee" or "Radio Baghdad" respectively. Lenny Kaye reaffirms his place amongst the best hands to ever coax music from a guitar and drummer Jay Dee Daugherty carries everything along in an endlessly powerful way few rock percussionists ever manage. Bad part is there's some real goop interspersed with the good stuff. Way too obvious touchstones like William Blake and Gandhi form the core of two pieces that wear thin long before they're over. There's a stridency to these protests, a palpable desperation to see politics play out differently, to wake the masses towards positive action. It's easy to respect and even empathize with her but it isn't always very satisfying being lectured to. Smith has always been a bleeding romantic, "Distant Fingers" tugging at us but balanced by a black-cat-scratch-my-back existential sensuality, a flair for profanity, and a knife wielding dangerousness, all of which are missing here except in small pockets. Maybe, like her last three albums, it will take time to hear the full weight of what she's offering us, for that is what she's doing, laying her honesty and truths at our feet. It took three years before Gone Again found me, revealed itself as a moving elegy for a lost husband large enough to encompass grief of many kinds. As she sings on the closing cut, she's trying to make Heaven her home. It's an admirable goal, one of many, in this latest chapter in the writ large tale of one of music's grand spirits.
Bird trills, mournful piano, philosophical acoustic guitars, breathy analog synths, choir high voices, all ingredients in this whisper-to-a-thunderclap shimmering debut from the Hawthorne, CA five-piece. Though they hail from the same locale as Black Flag and the Beach Boys (a fact noted endlessly in every bit of press about the band so I felt honor bound to do my part...) there's only the tiniest hint of those homeboys in their idiosyncratic sense of pacing, interesting style pairings, and multihued instrumentation. A more pastoral, camouflaged Camper Van Beethoven or 10CC sans the bile and pointy-toothed bite are closer to the mark. A cover of Neil Young's "Birds" comes across like the autumn flyaway it is while "Meeting People" resurrects Kurt Cobain's unplugged ghost and makes it dance with a rickety piano while a smoky vintage '70s style guitar outro soars outwards. Their own songs, notably "Nobody's Perfect" and "The Uncertainty," really get under your skin, just elusive enough to keep you coming back repeatedly to plum their depths. What you surface with is great lines like "Slowly my guitar goes out of tune, wishing all these songs would dance around the room." Add Dios to your watch list now or don't say you weren't warned when the real buzz gets going.
Ron Levy's Wild Kingdom: Finding My Way
Polite, safe, US3 modern day Blue Note quasi funk. Despite a history behind the keyboard that includes stints with B.B. King, Roomful of Blues, and Albert King, Levy just doesn't venture outside some very well defined lines. His touchstones are clearly Jimmy Smith and Booker T. but what grooves he does simmer up are undone by clunky drum programming or too much sugar in the gas tank. Even the presence of Karl Denson and Melvin Sparks don't elevate things much. The compositions are too long to have so few surprises. What one hears is a fine musician restraining himself on this attempt to modernize his soul-jazz sound. Levy has been damn good in the past as evidenced on his B-3 Blues and Grooves album and there's hope in unusual touches here, like Arkady Beletsky's cello on the opener, which hint at other paths than this misguided beats and loops excursion.
Otis Taylor: Double V
Strange, when the last track proves the key to an entire record. "Buy Myself Some Freedom" is an existential prayer by someone immersed in a capitalist culture, The Clash's "Lost In The Supermarket" pulled down into the blues, the terrible ache to banish all the fear and doubt inside, all those things that keep us from home, hearth, and happiness. A far more spare outing than Taylor's previous two records, Double V finds Otis playing nearly every instrument and producing this spare, intense snapshot of life as it is lived in the streets. As a working musician and teacher, Taylor's deep eyes have seen a lot and he pares his stories down to their essentials, a few lines repeated with a minimalist's vigor over patterns that shift in intensity without hopping around the chordal rainbow. Put another way, he gets down to it in a way that'll make you shiver in your sneakers. He's aided by a quartet of gifted cello players, trumpeter Ron Miles and especially his teenage daughter Cassie Taylor, who plays nimble, heartbeat bass and sings in a voice like a grounded angel looking towards the sky. When threaded into the rough burlap of her father's voice it's akin to the Carter Family or Ireland's Watersons, a sound apart, rooted in DNA and shared history. Taylor's raindrop banjo and elegantly simple arrangements call back to the African roots of blues music, a descendent reaching back an open hand towards his ancestors. In his open engagement with slavery, he keeps the flame to anyone who'd rather America's shameful past be discreetly stuffed into the dustbin. While not as instantly engaging as Respect The Dead or Truth Is Not Fiction, Taylor's latest continues to affirm my belief that he is exactly what the blues need, a highly original storyteller who makes the personal and the political one without ever blurring the human faces behind his tales.
Strategy: Drumsolo's Delight
The title is a bit of a put on, nothing to fear on these undulating copper seas, no Carl Palmer percussion excess, the kind of mind numbing self indulgence that gave mates Emerson and Lake time to pop out for a pint and inspired a generation of drummers to embarrass themselves. Strategy (who is Paul Dickow) anchors cell phone chirp and subtle bedroom digital manipulation to Brian Eno's airport ambiance. "Cascadian Nights" sets this quasi-futuristic people mover rolling at a leisurely, checking-out-the-sights pace. When the drums arrive a few tracks later they're clouded in a dub-scented perfume, the industrial bong of machinery moving girders in sunrise slow motion. "Jazzy's Dilemma" ratchets things up to a Luke Vibert/Wagon Christ black box slap but infected with the decaying keyboard logic of the aforementioned Eno. When a human voice blows in on "Walkingtime" it's both refreshing and a scratch unnerving, a vocoderized Marvin Gaye ballad, spooky beautiful and the key to this album. The general warmth of the piece puts the rest into perspective. The drummer here is a pulse, blue veins pumping a sleepwalker's heartbeat. A careful touch in programming and nearly invisible "realtime musicianship" make this one of the most human releases yet from the electronic world.
Vinny Peculiar: Growing Up With...
One has to go back to Robyn Hitchcock in his mad 1980s days to find cheeky song titles like "We didn't paint our nails when we fought the Germans" or "We tried to drown our music teacher in 1974." It's a kind of nutty, easy charm that only the English engage in. I blame the Goon Show and Python. But like Hitchcock, Vinny Peculiar balances things with a gentility that embraces masturbators, God's receptionists, pedal steel melancholics, and graffiti bandits. There's an overriding feeling of youth just a few years on, a couple decades under their belt and hindsight already starting to kick in, that moment when you realize that being "attracted to the politics of freedom" isn't the same as being free. This is "Punk Rock Dreaming" with a "stake inside your heart." Clothed in the same soft fabric as Prefab Sprout's Two Wheels Good or Stephen Duffy's Lilac Time, Peculiar offers a lot to grow up on, heady chamber pop with a humorous edge. Less twee (or self-hatingly arch) that, say, Belle and Sebastian, Vinny employs the mechanics of angst to mine the passions that explode when one is young. If I were 20 years younger I'd already be locked up in my room with this on repeat. As it is, it made me happy sad in the very best of ways.
Eenor: Monkey To Monkey
Fire up the water pipe and shake your mane! Eenor, once the tall, imposingly cool six-string stroker for Colonel Les Claypool's Frog Brigade, brings us a bent metal heart and who are we to refuse such a hard, lovely thing? One has to go back to Guns 'n' Roses' heyday to find this type of groove, rock that reminds us we have hips as we strut over to turn the stereo up. Pleasant tangents from the air guitar-inspiring rush include a credible Ozzy worthy ballad ("It's Even"), middle-eastern stomp ("Swimming Sans Dread"), a pretty dénouement, and a title track that flirts with Giorgio Moroder I-Love-To-Love-You-Baby dance drone. A tad schizophrenic perhaps but that's true of many debuts anxious to parade their plumage. A few friends pitch in on rhythm (notably Tommy Cappell's premium battered percussion on a half dozen cuts) and violin but the majority of the playing is the man himself, which is pretty impressive, especially when combined with his odd lyrical bent, incisive solos on both guitar and banjo (yes, banjo... a perfectly suitable vehicle for the fret minded), and an ear for compelling arrangements. There's a smattering of cartoon falsetto and bare-chested emoting but that's to be expected when one is rocking along a primate go-cart trip past giant hairy monsters to a cave where you're served strawberry jam and butter. Yum.
Mary Lou Lord: Baby Blue
The pairing of Lord and Nick Saloman (better known to musicos as The Bevis Frond) in the past few years is a deliriously fruitful one. She brings something sweet to his prickly pop psychedelica and he's rarely been better (or more focused) than his playing, arranging, and general right hand manship on her records. Lord came up through the ranks of the last great folk explosion in NYC in the early '90s releasing cassettes of her work and busking everywhere from Grand Central Station to a knish shop in Soho, building a following one gently charmed listener at a time. Saloman handles the majority of the writing here, and there's nary a dud in the bunch. Lord hands in "Long Way From Tupelo," one of her best yet, a lost AM radio killer snatched out of time, and the remainder is fleshed out by well chosen covers (Badfinger for the title cut and a fine straight reading of Pink Floyd's "Fearless"). For those that feel like Aimee Mann has slipped off in the past couple years, Lord provides the same kind of meat-and-taters pop but tempered by greater compassion and less awkward lyrical constructions. Bevis' skill at hooks remains strong and grey day floaters like "Cold Kilburn Rain" and "Turn Me Round" (written with Lord) will cling to you like a memory. In her little girl grown voice there's cheer for the wistful homebody seeking cold comfort and gentle distraction.
Jet Black Crayon: Inaccuracies Of The Machine Mind
Floating, tumbling we find ourselves in the midst of Astor Piazzola's tangerine dream, tweet bleeps and military drums putting foot prints in the rained soaked earth, lush aural cinematography abounding in loping, gravity free leaps. As Tortoise dog paddles in their pond, this little fish swims into similar territory but shows a gentler stroke, an unforced presence, gliding through night stalker tangos and even (gasp) allowing a smile to unfurl from time to time. I don't want to call the whole post-rock instrumental thing joyless but... it's pretty frickin' joyless. Tommy Guerrero, Monte Vallier, Gadget, and guest instigators including Tortoise/Isotope 217 alum Johnny Herndon (drums) lay in some yellows and oranges before letting the clouds roll in. Inaccuracies is a heady hot tub, a soak that with time loosens muscles and lets your skeleton shimmy like a buoy on the current. JBC mix glacial, neo-progressive rock with the baby bang burst common to Mo' Wax label recordings in the mid-90s. If not overly challenging it's also not obtuse, a stranger you can easily share a slice of time with.
Hederos & Hellberg: Hederos & Hellberg
A cocktail piano hour sans the cheese and bourbon breathe. Mattias Hellberg (The Hellacopters) and Martin Hederos (The Soundtrack of Our Lives) are well established in their native Sweden though this bears almost no resemblance to their earlier work. They turn the lights down low to cuddle up to eight lovely covers including such soft focus gems as Nick Drake's "Been Smoking Too Long," Gram Parson's "She," and the Velvet Underground's "Pale Blue Eyes." Pared down to bare bone essentials, they quietly embrace their influences with a lover's reach, a sweetly cracked voice swaying with filigree piano. Though the selections may be too hipster careful, Martin strangles 'em like a prettier early Tom Waits (who gets a nod with a particularly sad version of "Soldiers Things"), all heart and late night rumination. Hellberg's piano has the nuance of a jazz accompanist, allowing the notes to be dynamic without ever intruding on the foreground. The rest of the set is filled out by inward gazing songs from Dylan, Randy Newman, Willy DeVille, and Love. This is a dish best served solo in the long hours before sunrise, a letter to the lonely with teardrops staining the parchment.
King Street Healers: Signs And Wonders
"My alchemy comes to me straighter than before." Thus begins the sophomore effort from Canada's sterling sons of rock swagger. The first couple times I played Signs I had the volume at a polite, neighborly volume and something was off. Nothing was hitting me like their grand debut. Then I bumped the knob a hair into the red and the scales fell from my eyes. What we have here is the full-throated, boot tapping, harnessed abandon of the Faces and the Black Crowes, bell-bottom gospel with a Saturday night sneer. "The Last Song" and "Walk Down To Bourbon Valley" are strays that didn't make it onto Zep's Houses of the Holy, mandolin and multi-tracked guitars locking arms with a sensuous vocal from natural born front man, Jeff Mertick. "Revival" takes "Poor Tom" on a swing around a dread free gallows pole. And try not to hambone with the title cut strumming a hard blue ripple fueled by lock tight rhythm courtesy of bassist Dan Thorson and drummer Bob Dreher, who quietly shine throughout. There's a stronger blues influence in Jason Fiske's guitar wrangling this time, a bit more Jimmy Page, Dickey Betts and '70s Clapton surfacing from his subconscious. That one is compelled to invoke such luminaries says a lot about his bona fide soul. Lyrically it ain't always deep but sometimes a good grope is what one craves and this never hesitates to put its tongue in your ear. This'll make you shuffle around the living room in stocking feet, grinning wide, thanking the good Lord for this thing called rock 'n' roll.
Highway 61 Revisited: Masters of Dylan
"The World's Only Bob Dylan Tribute Band" is how they bill themselves. I'd wager others have taken a crack at it but Joel Gilbert and his frisky bunch done smashed that nut good. While Dylan sounds increasingly world-weary, saturated in an oh-woe-is-me vibe, Highway 61 Revisited moves loosely, Blonde On Blonde style, lanky, lean, and mean. Sure at times it can be creepy to hear Gilbert's voice rise in a ghost echo of his idol but the point here is to stick close to source. This collection draws from every phase in Zimmy's career including more recent gems like "Po' Boy" and "Cold Irons Bound" along with excellent renditions of the usually ignored Christian period rave ups "Shot of Love" and "Slow Train." If, as they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery then Bob should feel some pride hearing this band, faithful recreationists who inject some blood into things, taking the idea of a cover band from a corny gimmick to a genuine tribute to the man.
Lou Reed: Animal Serenade
The booklet has a shot of Reed shrouded by a bright white light, beatification in a black t-shirt, the archetypal city man baptizing us in his razor flower words and classical punk melodies. Pouring out his Rimbaud soul with no "fucking loops or tapes," his street cred fully intact, Reed leads his astonishingly intuitive band through his first live set since 1998's acoustic Perfect Night. Lou's never sounded as loose or coherent live as does on this chatty saunter through new songs and old. For those who've ignored Reed's work in the past few years, there's a lot to discover along with edgy, fat free versions of songs from New York, Berlin, and Velvet's classics like "Heroin" and "Venus In Furs." Time has given his music new faces, new insights and Lou seems as surprised as anyone that there's still so much to pull from his catalog. Sure, it's not the high heel stomp of 74's Rock 'n' Roll Animal, but it does hew closer to the heart of Reed's stunning Berlin. Anger is easy, machismo and sarcasm, too. What's tough is tenderness. Reed, in a well-aged gravel croon, reaches for ecstasy, tears, and simple understanding. The band rarely roars because they know most things are revealed in a glance, a hushed word, a touch. His former mate John Cale may get more ink for his endless experimenting but there's just as much self-discovery in Reed's ongoing maturation. Like watching a candle flame or measuring your breath one inhale-exhale at a time, Animal Serenade is a meditation that yields up kernels of enlightenment for the patient ones who allow it into their own ruminations.
Sufjan Stevens: Seven Swans
A pearlescent love letter to God, at least that's what these ears hear. These are songs of love in the cosmological and garden-variety senses, a crawl towards Bethlehem that occasionally rises to its feet to trot joyously into a pair of outstretched arms. The setting is reverberant Big Pink chamber rock, stately, purposeful, plucked from steel strings and echo filled wooden boxes, crooned like a cantor and murmured like a child. Like last year's Terroir Blues by Jay Farrar, beauty is courted, wooed, tasted on quivering lips. Abraham, Moses, and the other righteous ones are present, all seeking transfiguration and maybe a sister in Detroit with black hair and small hands. You can stack this up with Tim Buckley's Goodbye and Hello and Bert Jansch's Birthday Blues, complete visions that endure the years intact, constantly nourishing us, illuminating the days with a burnished glow. To borrow a line from a song here, Sufjan Stevens, I see a lot of life in you.
Vintage Stash selection of the month:
Kris Kristofferson: The Essential Kris Kristofferson
Anybody Johnny Cash thought enough of to call both friend and collaborator is someone you should pay attention to. That he's also written multiple #1 hits for other artists, been a Rhodes scholar, done a hitch in the army, and acted in over 80 films just makes the dude that much more fascinating. All that living is embedded in his music, unflinching glimpses of regret and longing and what one does to live with those feelings. His voice shows him to be the actor he is, able to take on new shapes depending on the lighting and costume. Unlike a lot of the Essential series, which often adhere to well tread radio fare, Kristofferson's collection is 37 white gold nuggets waiting to be discovered. His original versions of "Sunday Morning Coming Down" and "Me And Bobby McGee" are revelations. He wears his politics on his sleeve but never in a simple minded way. As dissent has become synonymous with treason in today's America it's a pleasure to listen to his complex glosses on freedom and the "price of being human." It could have used more than just one duet with long time foil Rita Coolidge and a couple of the more recent songs mentioned in the liner notes but those are pretty minor complaints. The production and performances elevate the already rich base materials without getting in the way of Kris' stories of drunken woe, high plains living, and slow awakening understanding. A sourcebook for anyone who wonders what the art of songwriting is all about and one of the most satisfying collections to emerge this year.
Next up we take a listen to My Morning Jacket's acoustic EP, Jay Farrar's new live album, a pair of fresh releases from the Creekdippers, a new Secret Chiefs 3, Marillion's Marbles, and the reissues of Muddy Waters' late '70s collaborations with Johnny Winter, and Serge Gainsbourg's reggae marvel, Aux Armes Et Caetera. Until then, do as the bumper sticker slogan suggests and practice a few random acts of kindness. It'll do you more good than you can possibly know.
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