Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: 1973 (Page 1 of 8)

Best Practices Mandates Immediate Fencing In

In the last installment of Your Festivals and You, we discussed the above semi-debacle, Summer Jam ’73 at Watkins Glen Grand Prix Raceway in Upstate New York. The promoters sold 150,000 tickets and then 600,000 kids showed up. This kills the Thruway. Once again, the producers and backers are not placed in the stocks for, oh, about a week or so, and once again New York’s governor does not call out the National Guard. (Reagan ABSOLUTELY would have sicced the Guard on the hippies, and had them set fire to a few black neighborhoods on the way back to their barracks. You couldn’t have gotten away with this bullshit in California at the time.) There is no way to keep the fans out.

Because–as I’ve mentioned before, and you can see for yourself in the posted photo–the Watkins Glen Grand Prix Raceway is located in a field.

Terrible strategic positions, ranked:

  1. John Travolta when he was in the bathroom at John McClain’s apartment and left his Uzi in the kitchen. That is the bottom. Worst possible place to be. Cannot be defended. 2/10, would not pet.
  2. Alley in between two buidings with lots of windows. A skilled operator tries to avoid this situation. There could be a sniper in any window. Or maybe just a guy with a brick. Literally no way to gain an advantage over your opponents from this position.
  3. Food Court. You cannot hold the food court. That’s the first thing prospective SEALs are taught during their training. Can’t be done, maggots! Food Court is a chaos engine! the instructors scream. The young men sound off in the affirmative, though they have no idea what their instructor means. They will learn. Oh, they will learn. And then the instructors try to drown the trainees. (I’ve watched several documentaries on SEAL training school, and it seems like 90% of it is just holding the recruits underwater and not letting them sleep until they go insane.)
  4. The upstairs closet. Michael Myers knows you are in there, Laurie. Stop being such a dummy.
  5. A fucking field. You can fight in a field. Until this very century, that was what war was (except for the navy stuff). Your guys and their guys oiled themselves up and ran at one another. Field is a great place to fight. Think of the alternatives! Swamps, mountains, forests: all wrong for fighting. You want a good field. Gettysburg is a field. Flanders Field is a field. Nothing like a field. But you can’t fucking hold a field.

Unless you build a wall.

This was Englishtown in 1977, and it was the next mega-concert on the East Coast after the Summer Jam. California had their Jam at the Ontario Speedway in ’74, and drew 350,000 for ELP, Deep Purple, and Black Sabbath; the show was well-received, and the kids were well-behaved, and so there was another California Jam in ’78 that drew in equal number. Missouri also had a massive rockyroll event you’ve never heard of in 1974 called the Ozark Music Festival. 350,000 teens showed up there, too, but everyone overdosed and fucked in public and shit on the ground, and the Missouri legislature immediately passed a law against staging a concert that size.

Anyway, Englishtown is a racetrack just like Watkins Glen and Altamont and Ontario; same problem, therefore: How to limit attendance to ticket-holders only. The promoter John Scher’s inspired idea was to circumplant rail cars around the track like Caesar at Alesia. 150,000 (or so) came out, which is what the producers had prepared for, and–but for the scorching heat–everyone had a good time. There were enough hot dogs and bathrooms for everyone.

So: it could be done. A multi-act, all-or-several day(s) festival-style show could be produced in America without the governor getting involved, just a lovely weekend  listening to hairy men playing Chuck Berry covers in a field.

Many in both the music and business industries found that to be interesting information.

Summer Jam Girl Summer

They won it at the movies. Woodstock and Altamont had movies, and they were goodies. One was perfect for the midnight show, and the other had a guy getting stabbed. Not movie-stabbed. Stabbed-stabbed. Both films were drenched in import: this is culture now. Maaaaan. (Obviously, Gimme Shelter‘s soundtrack was better than Woodstock‘s.) They complemented each other: Apollo and Dionysus, miracles and nightmares, you know how it goes. Hog Farm versus the Hells Angels, that sort of jazz.

It is because of these films that the two festivals achieved their lasting hold on the cultural ur-mind–maintained brand awareness,  if you’d like–and have grown the cottage industries around their decaying, but still mineral-rich, corpses. Like mushrooms. Books and movies and screenplays and high-gloss coffee table books featuring high-gloss coffee table pictures of naked white teens in a lake.

(AN ASIDE: The naked white teens were not frolicking in the lake; they were bathing in it. They were bathing in the lake because there were no sanitation facilities onsite. I haven’t been able to get Woodstock out of my head. Or that goddamned World Party song, but that’s my problem. This Woodstock bullshit is some sticking-around kind of bullshit, though. It vexes me! All of them should have been imprisoned without trial. The second the Thruway opened up, every cop in the world should have pounced on Michael Lang and all the other irresponsible idiots and beat ’em silly. Then: jail. No  hearings, no judge, no lawyers at all, just straight to jail. Not even jail. Beyond jail. Superjail. One of those sci-fi jails where even if you escape, you’re on an asteroid or within a chrono-bubble 45 million years in the past.

You have become a crotchety old fuck.

I was always like this. And how did you get into an aside WITHIN a parenthetical? Can I not have any privacy around here?

Why do you want the producers of the Woodstock festival to go to, as you called it, superjail?

Y’know what: I was wrong.

Thank you.

Everyone should have gone to jail. All the way up to Governor Rockefeller, who absolutely should have called out the National Guard. It is situations like these why one has a National Guard in the first place. Checkpoints on the highway entrance ramps. Nice and simple. Very friendly. Granny and Gramps are waved through. The businessman on his way to work is given a respectful nod. The VW Microbus with Florida plates is stopped, and everyone inside is machine-gunned to death. This did not occur.

You’re saying the National Guard should have murdered young people in order to keep the highways open?

Do you know what the business of America is?

No.

Business. The business of America is business.

That’s chilling and boring at the same time.

Right. America. And we gotta keep them trucks a-rollin’. Imagine, if you would, that the boys are thirsty in Atlanta. You, however, have access to beer in Texarkana. Coors Banquet beer, specifically, which any man sane and true knows is not pasteurized or homogenized or meddled with in any way, and must therefore get drunk up real quick!

This is Smokey & the Bandit. You’re just describing the film. Or the song. Either one. Whatever. You were going to write about the other festivals.

Oh, yeah.)

Woodstock owes all of its fame to Woodstock; likewise Altamont with Gimme Shelter. No one is think-piecing about the US Festival’s anniversary. Many more teens attended the ’82 and ’83 shows than either ’69 event, and a bunch of people got stabbed. But there was no serious motion picture, and so: poof. Gone. The Jams–Summer, California, Texxas–are now but whispers and patchy Wikipedia pages. Each one has a link to an article calling it “the forgotten Woodstock.”

Summer Jam ’73 (known in the vulgate as Watkins Glen) did not intend to be Woodstock, but it was a little bit. The producers of Summer Jam were going to sell tickets! And they did, 150,00 of them, and then 600,000 kids showed up.

Here, Enthusiasts, we see the fatal weakness of fields: they are entirely indefensible positions. This is the Hudson Valley with easy hills and clustered woods that anyone, especially a young, fit, music-loving teen, could traverse with no effort, and Watkins Glen is not so far from several highways. The teens will borrow their mom’s Ford Galaxie, and–

I write to you now from aback; I have been taken there. Watkins Glen is not along the Hudson River at all, but instead way-the-fuck out by the Finger Lakes. Oh, that is the frightening part of New York’s region known as Upstate. I do not like that area. It is is hostile to miracles, and devilish in its dealing. The Jew is not apportioned out his daily kindess there, ‘cept for thereby he bricks himself up with his fellow and calls it a college.

STOP IT.

Anyway, like I said: it was a field. You know who else was in a field? Custer. Thus: 150,00 tickets sold, and 600,00 kids choogled. New York passed all sorts of laws regarding this sort of bullshit, and Watkins Glen never had any rockyroll bands again until The Phishes had one of their weekend-long drug binges there. All summers end, even Summer Jams.*

The Dead, The Band, and the post-necessary Allmans; each playing their full sets, plus an evening-ending all-star jam. For ten bucks! And recall that there were no other entertainment options in 1973. You could go to Vietnam, I guess, but most kids just went to the Summer Jam; many of these kids got there early. Around 150,000 of them. As Bill Graham tells in his posthumous autobiography/oral history, this was a disaster waiting to explode.

“The teens! They”ll stab each other!”

It wasn’t 1969 anymore. It was 1973. If you didn’t keep the teens entertained, they would stab each other. There weren’t enough concessions, and sanitation overwhelmed. The taco guy had run completely out of tacos. And the show wasn’t until tomorrow!

Bill Graham stood on the new stage and looked out. 150,000 youths of America, plus some foreign spies and cops, various time-travelers and aliens. The stabbing would start soon.

The stabbing will start soon, and then Robbie Robertson starts whining.

“Bill, how are we gonna do soundcheck?”

“Now. Please. You’re gonna do soundcheck now.”

“There’s people here, man.”

“They’re your fans, Robbie. They got here a day early because they love you so much. That’s dedication.”

“Bill, soundcheck is a sacred act.”

“Nothing you do in a hockey arena can be sacred! Get up there and sing your Civil War songs!”

And so The Band did, laying on the crowd about a half-hour’s worth of their loose-limbed tall-tales, and the crowd did thus go “Yeah!” and “Fuck, yeah” and “The Band! Woo!” and did not stab one another, not even a little.

Bill Graham rushed to the three trailers that contained the Allman Brothers Band. He knocked on the door of Gregg; he knocked on the door of Dickie; he knocked on the other door. The band assembled, warily. Bill Graham told them about the stabbing. Gregg responded by asking if knew anyone looking to make a large drug deal; Dickie quit the band; the other guys were happy to be there, but they were surly about it.

The Allman Brothers Band performed a certain number of songs. As this is not a Without Research post, I am not bound by the ethos’ tenets. I did look up the Allmans’ setlist. Having not been spoon-fed the answer within the top half of a google page, I abandoned the project. Those southern-fried boogie boys performed a certain number of songs.

It was not enough.

Bill Graham knew now who he must seek. When one needed vast swathes of time eaten up by the band, there was only one to call.

“Boys!”

And the Grateful Dead did look up from their grabass, and did sit up from their tootski. Titties remained honked. It came to be known that the band was aware of the situation.

“The situation, uh, has become known to us,” said Bobby. Bill Graham smiled at him, and then addressed Garcia. He told the guitarist of the stabbing. Garcia was displeased; he didn’t like when people stabbed one another.

“I don’t like when people stab one another,” Garcia said.

“We’re on the same page about this topic. Good.”

Phil piped up.

“Hundred bucks, cash, each of us”

And thus Bill Graham did scurry about, but it was worth it, as the money got the band to play the Wharf Rat Jam.

TOMORROW: The US Festival

Seriously?

Oh, yeah.

Fuck.

*Go read Corry over at Lost Live Dead about the connection between racetracks and rockyroll. Or read it again. I’ve read it three times, and I might go back for more.

Everything Jams, Baby, That’s A Fact

Ah, dammit.

“I’m happy to see you, too, trust me. I took the train all the way down here, and that’s how you act?”

Sorry, Nucky Thompson, semi-fictional crime boss of Atlantic City in HBO’s prohibition-era Boardwalk Empire.

“So you do have manners? That’s great.”

How can I help you, Nucky?

“What is the name of this place? The site, I mean. It has a name, right?”

Yeah. Name’s in the header box.

“Right, yeah. What is it? Could you tell me what it is? I wanna hear you say it.”

Thoughts on the Dead.

“Corpses?”

Excuse me?

“You write essays and such on deceased people? Corpses?”

No. Not the dead, the Dead. They’re a semi-defunct choogly-type band.

“Right. That title, y’see…it makes promises. One specific promise. That you’ll occasionally direct your attention, and your remarks, to the subject of the Grateful Dead. Now, I don’t go to your site, but I hear good things.”

You’re not a Deadhead. I understand.

“No, it’s not that. I live 100 years ago. We just barely figured out radio.”

Okay.

“Okay. How do we fix this problem?”

We murder Arnold Rothstein.

BUSCEMI SLAP!

Ow!

“You’ll get another if you keep being an asshole.”

Okay, okay. How about I recommend a show for the Enthusiasts’ listening pleasure?

“Which show?”

6/22/73 from P.N.E. Coliseum in Vancouver?

“Why?”

What?

BUSCEMI SLAP!

Stop that!

“Why are you recommending this show? How is this a good deal?”

It’s a ’73! It’s a non-horn ’73! You literally cannot go wrong! Playing you could steal a watch to, China>Rider that speaks six languages, huge Truckin’! Enormous Truckin’, braj!

“What did you call me?”

MISTER THOMPSON!

“Better.”

This show is so heady that David Lemieux put it into a box set! Top shelf show, Nuck.

“Okay, we’ll go with it.”

You won’t be sorry.

“Don’t make me come back down here.”

No, sir. Sorry, sir.

My God, It’s About The Dead

Enthusiasts, I have recommended this indelible offering from 1973 before; it’s just that marvelous. 9/26/73 from the War Memorial Auditorium in Buffalo, NY, is a delight of a show. Less of a delight: Harvey Weinstein was the concert’s promoter.

(War Memorial Auditorium is a wonderfully generic name for an arena. Did the designers call it that as a placeholder, but neglect to circle back around and punch it up? And by the time they remembered, the stone had been chiseled? Unless there’s a Revolutionary War hero from Buffalo named Instance Starchroot War and the building’s in his honor. If that’s the case, then I apologize to General War’s descendants.)

It is a horn show, Enthusiasts. If I may be permitted some wanton capitalizing–

You may not.

–it is a Horn Show, baby.

Ugh. The horn shows are failed experiments and curiosities, at best.

You lie.

AT BEST.

The Horn Shows were splendid, the Horn Shows were great; the Horn Shows befriended my weary prostate.

Ew.

There were eight Horn Shows, all during a ten-date tour in September of 1973, and they are fantastic. The Dead had invited folks up to toodle on the trumpets or twiddle their flutes before, but this was different. This was a trumpet and sax–the typical Rock and Roll configuration, give or take a trombone–and their part in the arrangements was to be counter-punchy, and blippative, and overly dramatic. Just like all the other bands’ horn sections. Just like, say Huey Lewis’ News.

Except the Grateful Dead are bush league, and therefore did not rehearse, or even write up charts in the first place. By the Buffalo show–the last of the run–trumpeter Joe Ellis and saxophonist Martin Fierro–have resigned themselves to BAPBAP stabs during choruses, and they’d solo during Eyes, and nothing worked at all ever not for one note; the musicians all seem angry with one another. It is glorious. I’m sure there’s at least several “jam bands with horn section” acts touring the festivals this summer. I am not saying that the feat cannot be performed. I am saying that the Grateful Dead and the Keep On Truckin’ Horns could not accomplish the feat of mixing the Dead’s music with the traditional Rock and Roll horn section.

But they tried. Not their hardest, as that would imply rehearsal, but they tried a little bit.

Want to read more about the Horn Shows? Visit your local library, and eat the librarian. Eat all of the librarians. Surrender quietly. Society will place you in a facility. It may be prison. It will more likely be the booby hatch. Behave while incarcerated. Earn privileges, such as internet access. When you are permitted to once again visit the information superhighway, then click here to read Lost Live Dead’s far, far better telling of the Tale of the Horn Shows than mine. You’re welcome, and remember: Reading Is Fundamentalist!

Chaos Is A Ladder

Jesus.

“Yo.”

Precarious, why is–

“No. Not Precarious. It is I, the Christ.”

Why?

“You asked for me, my son.”

It was just an expression.

“Ah. My mistake.”

Nobody’s perfect.

“I am.”

Eh. So, uh, is Precarious around?

“Lemme get this straight. You’d rather talk to a semi-fictional roadie than to me, Jesus. King of Kings. Alpha and Omega. That’s what you’re saying?”

Yes.

“Precarious!”

“Yo.”

“Jackass wants you.”

“Yo?”

Precarious, is that Ramrod?

“Hanging by his fingertips 20 feet up?”

Yes.

“Yup.”

No safety gear?

“Well, here’s the thing about Ramrod: he’s not a pussy.”

Wow.

“Besides, why do you think Parish is standing there?”

To catch him?

“Or cushion him. Whichever.”

Whole lotta “whichever” in the Dead.

“Sometimes, it seems we were nothin’ but.”

One Of These Men Is Dead, And Yet We Are Informed That There Is A God

Psst. Hey. Garcia. Psst.

“Don’t psst at me, man.”

You gotta do me a favor.

“I really don’t.”

Please do me a favor?

“What, man?”

Keep that chick away from Harvey.

“I was planning on it. You see this look she’s giving me?”

That’s the look.

“That’s the look of love.”

Wasn’t that fun?

“Eh.”

OR

Garcia wore the fuck out of that turtleneck in late ’73.

Turtle, Horse, Cat

Billy?

“Ass?”

You’re white again?

“Had to switch back, man. I got pulled over nine times in an afternoon.”

That’ll happen.

“I wasn’t anywhere near a car.”

Yup. So, uh, why is there a picture of a horse crudely taped to your bass drum?

“Skank sees horse, skank thinks dick.”

Sure.

“Skank has a simple thought process. Salt of the earth. Know what needs salt on it?”

Popcorn?

“Meat. Specifically, mine.”

Don’t you have any other topics of conversation?

“I once punched both Gumbels in the dick.”

I’d almost rather talk about skank.

“Speaking of meat, you can find prime skank at the butcher’s shop.”

Like, ordering something in particular?

“Nah, not in the store. Out back feeding the stray cats. That’s choice skank right there, but you gotta watch out for toxoplasmosis. Then once you bang her, you can shit in a litter box.”

Wow.

“And that’s what America means to me.”

We’re done. Wait: who’s the chair for?

“Elijah.”

Now we’re done.

Fabulous

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did reality just hiccup?”

“I think we may have had a Time Blip, sir.”

“Y’know, just because you capitalize a thing doesn’t make it a thing.”

“Regardless, sir.”

“When are we?”

“1973.”

“Nice. Let’s go get Quaaludes.”

“Maybe later, sir.”

“1973. Ooh, this is exciting. Jenkins, you have no idea how sexist I’m going to be.”

“I think I do, sir.”

“Probably. But I won’t be yelled at for my actions in ’73. Good God, am I going to honk some boobies. Also systemic oppression, but I’m more excited about the honking. Gonna lude up and grab strange titties, and if she gets mad, everyone will tell her to stop being hysterical.”

“I’m still not seeing a difference between the eras, sir.”

“Can’t get ludes any more.”

“I was talking about the sexism, sir.”

“No sexism anymore, Jenkins. We elected a black man, so therefore women are equal. That’s science.”

“No, sir.”

“Political science.”

“Sir, don’t honk strange women’s boobs.”

“How else will the women know they’re attractive?”

“Sir, despite the chrono-shift, we still have work to do.”

“Boob-honking isn’t work, Jenkins. Not how I do it.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Now, you’re sure we’re in ’73?”

“Do we have a newspaper?”

“WUXTRY! WUXTRY! Read all about it!”

“There’s a paperboy right there, Jenkins.”

“How fortuitous. One, please.”

“Here ya go, mister.”

“Thanks.”

BANG!

“Sir, you didn’t need to shoot the paperboy. I had the dime.”

“But now you have the paper and the dime.”

“Ahem. Yup, we’re in 1973. Just look at these stories: President of the United States is an amoral, dangerous lunatic in serious legal trouble; racial tensions are high; Prince Charles is sitting around waiting for his mom to die. Yup, 1973.”

“Such a different time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, as long as we’re not in 2017, the posters don’t have to be hideous, do they?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then. Hire an artist.”

“Gladly, sir. Any ideas?”

“Not ugly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And figure out a way to work the word ‘fabulous’ in there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Live Nudies

The Nudie Suit experiment has never been properly explained; this sounds like a job for Lost Live Dead. There’s not many pics of The Boys in their suits, and they only wore them for a few shows: one (or more) of the Winterland run in December ’72, and then again at New Year’s. The outfits came out again 2/19/73 in Chicago, and then made their final appearance on 3/19/73 at Nassau Coliseum. (And not even for the whole show: everyone changed during set break.)

Wait, you’re saying. Those sound suspiciously like facts, TotD. You don’t traffic in fact and research.

Stop talking, I’d say, or I’ll throw myself out the window and you’ll never find out how the Little Aleppo story ends.

Wow, you’d reply. That got dark real fast.

And then I’d start crying. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted?

Stop this.

They did it. It’s all their fault.

Who is “they?”

Them.

Just stop it.

Fine. The dates from Winterland and Chicago may be wrong–I’m just going on Archive comments–but the Nassau show is a confirmed event. There is, Enthusiasts, evidence.

Look:

Bobby says in an interview that Garcia had his first, in fact had his before April of ’72 because he brought it to Europe with him (even though he didn’t have the balls to wear it onstage.) After March of ’73, though, they were gone forever. Phil still has his…

…and it still fits. (Phil went a little low-key with his, which I disagree with. What’s the point of a Nudie Suit if it can’t be seen from space?)

Who has Garcia’s? Gotta be worth something, more if it hasn’t been laundered.

But let me start at the beginning: 1902 was a terrible time to be born Jewish in Kiev. There’s never been a good time, but 1902 was worse than usual.

“Izzy?”

“Yes, Schmuley?”

“We should go somewhere where there aren’t Cossacks.”

“What is it with those guys?”

“They just seem to like hitting us with sticks.”

“And kicking.”

“Kicking, too. Let’s go to America.”

“You mean the Land of the Free, a country built on immigration that would never turn away needy and desperate refugees?”

“No, America.”

“Oh, okay. At least there’ll be jobs.”

“Sure.”

And so on.

One of these newly-arrived Jews was a young man named Nuta Kotlyarenko, who renamed himself Nudie Cohn and became a tailor, first in Minnesota where he met his wife Bobbie; they opened a shop in New York selling underwear to showgirls, and then moved to Los Angeles in the 40’s to make Western Wear. Spangles and frills and themes, and the last one is the most important: the key to the Nudie Suit is the theme. Anyone can slap some rhinestones onto a jacket, but a Nudie has a raison d’etre.

Look at this bullshit:

That’s some down-home bullshit right there.

That’s Porter Wagoner (right), and he was the first Country star to start wearing Nudie Suits; in fact, Nudie gave him his first suit for free, thinking it would be good promotion. It was. Soon, every male Country star had to have a Nudie Suit.

Hank Williams had one:

The notes represented his love of music.

Gram Parsons had one, too:

The drugs represent his love of drugs.

Every artist has a masterpiece, and Nudie Cohn was certainly an artist. His greatest suit of all time may have been both his simplest and his flashiest. You’ve seen it before once or twice:

“AH’M BACK!”

No, you’re not. Shh.

Anyway, Nudie Cohn died in 1984, but you can still get “Nudie Suits;” they make periodic comebacks adorning roots-rockers or alt-country acts. (You really can’t wear a Nudie Suit anywhere other than the stage. If you walk into a Taco Bell dressed like this, you will get gorditas thrown at you.)

Circling back to the Dead (this is about the Grateful Dead, remember), we still have many questions. Why would Garcia have had one in the first place? A Nudie Suit wasn’t an impulse purchase, nor could it have been a gift: they were hand-made, so you have to visit Nudie for measurement and fittings, and very expensive. And recall that Garcia got his before everyone else did, so it wasn’t a group decision. Garcia–in an entirely out-of-character move–bought himself a Nudie Suit out of nowhere? None of this makes sense. Bobby was the one who thought he was a cowboy. Someone explain this to me.

Like I said, the rest of the band thought it was a spiffy idea, so they followed Garcia down to the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles, where Nudie’s of Hollywood was located, and fancied themselves right up. Bobby and Billy looked like this:

“I was gonna get skank on the legs, but I settled for pot.”

Quiet. This is not a dialogue post.

“Ah, suck my nuts.”

Great.

Even Keith had one, though there’s just this one black-and-white photo of him:

Poor Keith. He doesn’t want to be in a Nudie Suit. He knows he’s not pulling it off. Aw.

Much like the Farewell Shoes, Mrs. Donna Jean was not included. She did, however, wear a very fetching red number when the rest of the band payed dress-up. She looked like this:

Another alternate reality created, another unwritten future. What if they hadn’t learned to write songs? What if they buckled down and rehearsed and continued being the band they were in ’77? What if Brent didn’t die? And: What if they gave a shit about what they looked like?

Alas, it was not to be. The Nudie Suits were put in the closet, and the tee-shirts and jeans came out; in the 80’s, sweatpants and short shorts replaced the jeans. Never again would the Dead have “stage clothes.” But for a moment, they looked bitchin’.

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