Album Review By Eric Sandberg In 2019, the era of fourteen writers and producers on one song, there is no better sound to hear on a record than the buzzing of a single coil guitar pickup fed through an analog spring reverb — a sound that signals what you are about to hear could just be perfect in its imperfection. In order to achieve such perfect imperfection it seems one must travel to the northern Sahara and Niger to seek out Mdou Moctar a Taureg (not the Volkswagen) musician who is the first to play traditional Berber music with an electric guitar — a lefty Fender Stratocaster, no less. Moctar was raised in a strict religious family where music was not permitted. He made his first guitar out of a plank with wire and nails. After years of practicing in secret Moctar earned his living playing at weddings. He was discovered by the western world via cell phone recordings of his performances collected by tourists. Eventually some genius went out of his way to deliver an electric guitar to the musician and the results are, frankly, stunning. Ilana (The Creator) is Mdou Moctar's first album recorded with a full band, including a rhythm guitarist, bass and drums. The band sounds like they have been playing together for decades — a desert Grateful Dead but infinitely more intense. I have always been fascinated by the music of the Middle East and North Africa, particularly Morocco, but Moctar uses the traditional Berber music as a launch pad for some of the trippiest psychedelic guitar excursions and non-traditional fleet-fingered soloing ever committed to tape. Each track on this nearly perfect album takes you on a different journey through an unfamiliar world. It is mesmerizing and it reveals more of itself with each listen — and you will be compelled to listen, again and again. The centerpiece of the album is the epic seven and a half minute "Tarhatazed" [I can find no translation]. This song has it all: a massive groove, a great riff and an extended guitar solo that would make Eddie Van Halen weep. "Tarhatazed" This song is followed by the upbeat and hopeful sounding [I have no idea what he's singing about] "Wiwasharnine" which can be seen and heard below as Moctar performed the song live on KEXP. The live performance confirms his assertion that he is not familiar with the techniques of western rock guitarists and developed his chops on his own. His finger positioning on his fretting and picking hands is unlike any traditional rock guitarist. "Wiwasharnine" live on KEXP
I cannot recommend this album strongly enough. It's not just a record, it's an evolving experience.
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Interview by Eric Sandberg At fifty-eight years young, Stewart O'Nan has seen seventeen of his works of fiction published along with two non-fiction books, one of which is Faithful [with Stephen King] a best-selling bleachers-eye-view of the first championship season for the Boston Red Sox since Babe Ruth was traded. All of this since he, with the full support of his saintly wife, Trudy, abandoned his career as an Aerospace engineer to earn his MFA, ultimately publishing his first collection of short stories In The Walled City [Drew Heinz Literary Prize] in 1993. His first novel Snow Angels was adapted as a film and at least two other novels are in pre-production with names like Tom Hanks and Emily Watson being bandied about. Early in his career, Granta named him one of America's best young novelists. Stewart O'Nan and I both grew up in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Squirrel Hill. We went to the same schools [he lived right across the street from Linden Elementary where we first met in Kindergarten], though we didn't routinely hang out [and start a band] together until high school. We reconnected after my father brought me a copy of Snow Angels he stumbled across in the Faulkner book store in Pirates Alley, New Orleans. Since then, I've been just one in a legion of avid readers of O'Nan's works all over the world. With his new novel Henry, Himself set to publish on April 9, I reached out to Stewart to ask him if he would allow me to exploit our acquaintance by granting me an interview. He foolishly agreed. If you're a fan, I guarantee that you'll not read a Stewart O'Nan interview quite like this one anywhere else. Eric Sandberg: When Scott Turow writes a new book it's going to be in a courtroom, if it's Kathy Reichs, bones are sure to figure heavily. You are a literary writer with a healthy curiosity and we fans never know what your next book is going to be about: A family tragedy, a crime spree, World War II, fire and plague, a restaurant about to close — I could go on...and on. Yet with all this variety in your work, you've managed to write three books about the same family. What keeps bringing you back to the Maxwells? Stewart O'Nan: I guess it's that feeling that I haven't told the whole story. That goes way back to being a short story writer — the amount of compression that goes on. In order to get that compression, you leave a lot out. When I was writing Wish You Were Here I thought the book was going to be all about Emily Maxwell but, as it turned out, I thought the other characters were just as interesting so I followed them as well. I really didn't get to tell her whole story, so when I started writing Emily Alone I needed to give her some room. And then, just thinking about Henry, he's dead and there's two other books. So we have hearsay about him from the other characters but we don't really know him. I started thinking 'Who exactly was Henry?' I'm always attracted to a life story. Emily Alone is a life story the same way Henry, Himself is a life story. I figured let's give Henry his room and go back and see what I could find. Eric: I recently read an essay by the Argentinian novelist César Aira in the Paris Review where he discussed at great length his theories on the "Law of Diminishing Returns" in analyzing the source of his writer's block. I will admit that much of it was over my head, but one section particularly caught my interest as he discussed the necessity of creating all the "circumstantial details" required to flesh out a novel. "Once they are written down," he states, "their necessity becomes apparent", but while inventing them, they seem "childish" and "silly" and fill him with an "invincible despondency" (laughter). I thought of you, [SO: Thank you.] whose best works are tapestries of circumstantial details that create a whole greater than their parts and, based on Aira's experience, I wonder how you've made it this far without topping yourself. SO: John Gardner said, in The Art of Fiction, a lot of what's in a novel isn't there because the novelist wants it there, it's because the novelist needs it there. It's like that Laurie Anderson line "You know, I think we should put some mountains here. Otherwise, what are the characters going to fall off of?" You want to build a world that is your character's world and you want that world to challenge your character — to challenge everything that is dear to that character. But you've got to have that world there otherwise, what is to be lost? If Henry dying doesn't lose us that good world around him, if we don't see and feel that world, then we'll never feel the loss. We're not losing anything. There are a lot of stories I like to read, and I like to write, which involve character or character consciousness trying to save what is lost — trying to salvage a world that is gone. Older people, in their seventies and eighties, that's what they're trying to hang on to...or make sense of — both of those things at once. They're trying to hold on to both the good and the bad. But in order to have the good in the bad, you have to have that whole world with all the little stuff, like luggage, a dead deer on the roadside, everything. That's the fun of it. That's the discovery, finding the stuff that you didn't know was there — that you didn't know that you needed — that end up meaning a lot to the characters. Eric: It sounds like you're the opposite of César Aira, you revel in the circumstantial details. SO: For particular books I guess that makes sense. For other books maybe it doesn't mean that much. A book like A Prayer For the Dying weighs in at about one hundred and forty manuscript pages, there is a ton of stuff that is left out. It's all action. I was reading a book called Understanding Comics [by cartoonist Scott McCloud] the other day. It talks about the structure of comics and how, in different cultures, the movement from frame to frame differs. In some cases the next frame will take you to another scene and in others the next frames are different moments within the same scene. I think, in this book, I'm doing that a lot more than moving from scene to scene. I'm hanging on to the scene. I'm doing that close up stuff like in a French film. There are a lot of one person scenes — a lot of scenes with no dialogue. Eric: In Henry, Himself. Henry is fascinating in his dullness. He has the odd hobby, but the only thing that seems to inspire — and I hesitate to use the word - passion in him is the almost futile need to restore order no matter how mundane the thing that has gone slightly awry — not necessarily with his family, but with stopped up drains, bald patches in the grass and broken garbage disposals. SO: This goes back to the big question of who is Henry? We're the sum total of all the things we do — that we dream. Henry is very tamped down in a way. He's part of the "Greatest Generation". They're there to be steady, they're there to take care of things and make sure that things work. I think that their passion was in their work. Their wives were supposed to take care of the home and they were supposed to go out and have a career. By the time that we meet Henry his career is long passed. He can hearken back to it and think about it, but it's pretty much gone. There is also this lingering effect of his war time experience that keeps him steady and not too excitable about things because nothing is ever going to be as wild and chaotic and maddening as his war experience. When he comes back all he wants is for things to be quiet and peaceful. I knew your brother and your mother but your father was like Phyllis's husband Lars to me. I never saw him, never met him and if I ever asked about him, my guess is I didn't get a memorable answer. How much of your father have I finally met after reading this book? SO: Not that much, I think. It's a combination of my father and my grandfather, who plays much more into it, I think. That's the time frame. Also the job — my grandfather worked for Westinghouse. The house where the book takes place is based on the house they lived in on Grafton Street in Highland park. Eric: When we were lads I don't mind telling you now that I looked up to you quite a bit. Aside from you being several inches taller, you always seemed to be a bit ahead of the curve and you saw things differently than most people. You were the funniest person I knew. Walking to school with you was often a master class in observational humor. Sometimes it's hard to reconcile that Stew with the often harrowing tales written by the Stewart O'Nan I discovered much later in life. An acquaintance of mine, a singer-songwriter named Peter Himmelman, writes serious songs of great depth and passion which touch on the human condition, much like your books. But in person, he always has everyone in stitches. Do you have an explanation for this dichotomy, and are you still funny? SO: It's hard to say if you're funny or not... Eric: I suppose I should ask Mrs. O'Nan that question. SO: It's always up to the crowd. At the time we were growing up there was a great irreverence. We were seeing Monty Python on channel 13. This was fresh stuff when we were eleven or twelve years old. I think we were thirteen when when Saturday Night Live debuted. Richard Pryor and George Carlin were probably the funniest men in America. It was a very funny time — the freewheeling late sixties/early seventies, anything goes. You could poke fun at anything, and probably for good reason. The major institutions in the country had been debunked and seen as morally bankrupt, which is still true today. So I think it was just about getting into that spirit. We were watching f*cking Laugh In! My first major influence, if we were to throw out Tarzan, would be the Peanuts comic strips. It's still some of the best American writing I've ever read. It does everything. It has a huge range. It's about jokes but, in a weird way, it's deadly serious about these little kids and what they represent. At the beginning of my writing I think was more influenced by serious stuff but I was also influenced by Horror and Science Fiction. That's what I read mostly from my teen years up until my early twenties. If my earlier books are a bit more dire that's the influence of the Horror and maybe some of that morbid Science Fiction. Another big influence was the Horror comics I used to read at the Squirrel Hill Newsstand. Tales of the Unexpected, Creepy, Eerie and, God forbid, Vampirella. I liked that morbid, mordant sense of humor and the idea that 'you're going to get yours' — that weird sense of macabre poetic justice. Yeah, it's hard to be funny on the page, unless you're George Saunders, I guess. Eric: I've heard you speak at readings about your writing process - boxes and boxes of legal pads, yada, yada, and what you choose to write about seems to be sparked by your own curiosity — and how satisfying that curiosity can lead to a book. West of Sunset, for example: you were doing research for a book about Los Angeles and got caught up in a footnote about F. Scott Fitzgerald in Hollywood. Your curiosity about that led to a very different book. I recall visiting you at your apartment at Boston University and you played me cassette recordings you had made of late night street interviews you conducted with pimps, prostitutes and drug dealers in the Combat Zone. For someone who was studying Aerospace Engineering at the time, I wonder if that was the germ of the curiosity that led to your ultimate career choice? SO: It's that documentary curiosity, that wondering about how other people live beyond my own small scope. That's always been there, I think. It also goes back to just reading. Even though I was there to study Aerospace Engineering, I was still reading voraciously because I had a library card there so I would go into the stacks at BU's Mugar library and check out Camus and Flaubert — I was going through a big French phase at that time. Again, I'm not sure why. I had no big plans for being a writer but, whether it was comic books, Peanuts, Stephen King or Harlan Ellison, I was always a reader. At least that's always been my explanation for how it happened — how I went from being an Aerospace engineer to being a short story writer in my basement after work. I just love to read. Eric: I just finished a little light reading, a book called The Sentence Is Death by Anthony Horowitz. One of the red herrings in this murder mystery was that a noted literary writer was secretly the author of a series of trashy, sex-fueled million-selling fantasy novels [laughter]. Her agent defends her, stating "You know the market for literary fiction, Anthony, it's tiny, almost non-existent." Once again, I thought of you. SO: That's what they always tell us, but that's where the big fellas come out of. Everyone said Anne Tyler would sell three thousand books her whole career and now she's at the top of the Best Seller list. 'Alice Monroe, you're not going to make any money writing short stories...' Nobel Prize. If it's good it will sell. Eric: It's not a very well kept secret that you wrote a spy novel under a nom-de-plume [A Good Day To Die, James Coltrane]. It wasn't made into a movie with Matt Damon, or even Mark Wahlberg. Was it hard to resist making it just a tad too literary perhaps? SO: If I could have sold it as a literary novel I would have but I had too many books piled up at that point. I had three, if not, four books ready to go. I just wanted them off of my desk. That book is basically a twist on For Whom the Bell Tolls. I want to say that City of Secrets is also kind of, too. Here's that lone figure that is part of a revolution but doesn't know exactly where he stands. Having grown up in the sixties and seventies, and lived through all those weird hijackings and bombings, the SLA, Entebbe, Munich, all that stuff, you think about all the people who got caught up in that. For young people, with no direction it can happen very quickly. It's always a fascinating one for me. It's like Graham Greene: is this one of his entertainments or is this one of his deadly serious spiritual quest books? Or is it the two of them together? Robert Stone had that same problem. When I was writing City of Secrets I was thinking a lot about that. That apocalyptic strain in pop fiction versus serious fiction versus how it is in actual life.
It's like making movies. It's very stylized. I can see where that author doesn't want to go in that direction —paint the setting, move the characters around. It's not a very flexible business model, I guess. Eric: You seem to be doing OK. SO: For me it's always a challenge. What kind of book is this going to be? Is this going to be a 'square' book or is it going to be a funky, weird book? I like the funky, weird books where you pretend it's square but its actually funky and weird. It's a shell game that you play with the whole business. There's a Henry Rollins lyric "Soul in the mainstream is such a labeling dream." You have to appear to be doing one thing when you're actually doing another. It's tricky. A novel can be anything at all. The question is can you get an audience in the door, with the how? and what will they stand for? And at what point can you close the door behind them so that they can't escape? Something like The Speed Queen and A Prayer For the Dying, which are overtly weird, whereas something like Emily Alone and Henry, Himself appear to be pretty square but are, in fact, very odd. But will the reader sit still for it and, if so, what reader? That's always the question but, by the time you write 'em, it's too late. You do the best you can, you throw them out there and try to move on to whatever is next. That's always the hardest part — figuring out what's next. Eric: That segues perfectly to my final question: is there anything new that has peaked your interest that you're getting started on, and can you give us an oblique hint as to what it might be? SO: I got nuthin'. Album Review by Eric Sandberg When Founding Yes singer Jon Anderson announced the forthcoming release of of his fourteenth solo album 1000 Hands —Chapter One-- I was bemused, at best. Of the dozens of solo albums released by the various members of Yes [hundreds if you include keyboardist Rick Wakeman's catalog] only a couple are worthy of the band's best work. Jon Anderson's first solo album Olias of Sunhillow [1976] was written, composed sung, played and produced by Anderson by himself. He spent countless hours out in a barn teaching himself to play a myriad of instruments and recording multiple overdubs of his unique high tenor voice. The result was stunning. In and out of Yes, throughout Anderson's spotty solo career, Anderson became increasingly less inspired and, frankly, lazy when it came to making albums, preferring to solicit completed music tracks from other musicians, both known and unknown. He would take these tracks and warble nonsensical hippy-dippy platitudes over them, exposing a voice weakened by the acute respiratory failure he barely survived in 2008, just prior to a planned Yes 40th anniversary tour. Much to his chagrin, Yes replaced Anderson with a stand-in and he has been an exile from the band he founded ever since. Well, sort of. Over their fifty years of existence, Yes has had over thirty-five different members pass through the ranks so it's not too difficult put together another version of Yes [or twelve] from among the remaining cardholders. At the age of seventy-four, through disciplined physical and vocal workouts, along with the support of his second wife Janee, Jon Anderson has miraculously brought his voice back to near full strength, and has been fronting Yes: featuring Anderson, Rabin & Wakeman on several world tours over the past few years. All of this brings us to 1000 Hands, Anderson's first solo album since 2011's Survival & Other Stories, an album of music he solicited from random musicians via social media. Anderson has been working on bits and pieces of the album for a number of years, which is why it features many guest musicians, including the late Chris Squire and the estranged "other Yes" guitarist Steve Howe. The album, which was recently completed by Anderson in Florida with producer Michael Franklin, features contributions from a veritable host of world-class musicians including: Larry Coryell, Stuart Hamm, Alan White, Billy Cobham, Chick Corea, The Tower of Power Horns, Pat Travers and features some tasty flute work by Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson on one track. With all of this, the question still remains: what did Jon Anderson bring to the proceedings? The answer is just about everything he has. After the opening prelude track "Now" Anderson unleashes the full power of his voice and melodic skills on "Ramalama" a song that actually brought a little tear to my eye. Though the rest of the album doesn't quite match the heights of "Ramalama" it is a remarkably consistent collection of strong melodies, beautifully arranged, played and sung. The lyrics are more focused but still retain Anderson's usual message of love, peace and light. They are easily swallowed when paired with the more inspired music accompanying them this time around. If you are not a fan, or just a casual fan of Yes, I am not encouraging you to seek out this album, but if you are a long-suffering devoted fan of Jon Anderson's I can tell you that 1000 Hands is your reward. Sadly, the album is only available from Jon Anderson directly at this time and, although his team has done a remarkable job of getting the word out, they have failed just as badly at letting people know where they can buy the album. I was unable to find a way to obtain it until I complained in a comment on a Facebook post promoting a review of the album, and another fan sent me the apparently secret link. All in all, it's just another example of the chaos that has ever swirled around Anderson's long career. By the way, here is the link: 1000handsjonanderson.com Your welcome, Jon. Book review by Eric Sandberg Anthony Horowitz is a clever Dick...er, Tony. His name made its first attempt at penetrating my hardened transom some years ago as it appeared on my television screen as the writer of various TV episodes of Poirot and Midsomer Murders [this was before opening credits meant one last peek at Facebook before a grisly murder occurs]. It wasn't until Foyle's War, a show I looked forward to as much as a new series of Inspector Lewis, that the name Anthony Horowitz achieved a foothold in my addled pate. Even then I was more in awe of the remarkable performance of Michael Kitchen than I was of the writer putting words in his mouth. The first book I purchased by Horowitz was not for myself, but for my father, who is a fan of Foyle's War and, as a young man, loved reading Ian Fleming's James Bond. As Trigger Mortis promised to contain original material by Fleming and was written in the style of the original novels (no futuristic gadgets or metal-mouthed giants chomping on tram cables), I thought he would enjoy it, and he very much did. A few years ago, I heard a radio interview with Horowitz who was describing the plot of his then forthcoming novel The Magpie Murders. A book editor becomes embroiled in the murder of her most popular writer while clues abound as to the identity of the killer in the victim's final, yet to be published manuscript. A book within a book. That was enough for me. Anglophile that I am [I briefly got the taste of living in London as a ten year old in the early 70s] I ordered the book from Amazon UK before some US editor could 'translate' the dialogue from delightful idioms such as "Go on in and 'av a butcher's" ['Go inside and have a look for yourself']. The book was nearly impossible to put down — complex threads woven into an easy read. I had barely finished it when I saw a new murder mystery from Anthony Horowitz was imminent. The Word Is Murder promised a new, hook: one of the two main protagonists would be Horowitz himself. As he narrates his own story, Horowitz introduces us to the latest in a long line of brilliant, quirky English detectives, Daniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne is an ex-police detective, fired from the force for mishandling a prisoner, but is called in to consult whenever a case is a "sticker — that is, a case which presented obvious difficulties from the start." In Daniel Hawthorne, Horowitz has created another intriguing, inscrutable, imperfect character, shrouded in mystery but, like all the best literary detectives, is always three steps ahead of everybody else. Hawthorne's [seemingly uncharacteristic] desire to have his exploits chronicled by a biographer leads Horowitz to become Watson to Hawthorne's Holmes. Of course Dr. John Watson is as much a fictional character as Sherlock Holmes, but Horowitz is a real person and he cleverly adapts real aspects of his life into the story. In one memorable scene Hawthorne interrupts a critical meeting Horowitz is taking with Peter Jackson and Steven Spielberg about Horowitz's rejected screenplay for the next Tin Tin movie. Throughout the book the fictional Horowitz wrestles between his common sense telling him he should not not be involved with Hawthorne, and his extreme curiosity about this gruff, intrusive and brilliant detective. It is this curiosity, and an unhealthy itch to solve the case before Hawthorne, that nearly gets him killed — which begs the question: if you die in your novel, what happens to the real you? The real Anthony Horowitz
Another aspect of Hawthorne's character that the fictional Horowitz must endure is the blatant homophobia Hawthorne exhibits as he questions witnesses and suspects that appear to scrum for the other team. Horowitz's discomfort is ours as well and this keeps these books from from being too precious and makes us all the more curious about Hawthorne's murky past. At the opening of the second Hawthorne novel, The Sentence Is Death, Horowitz again intertwines his real life with the story, describing in elaborate detail what goes into creating one simple scene in an episode of Foyle's War, in which real life actress Honeysuckle Weeks steps off of a period bus. One thing after another goes wrong and, as time is running out, the film crew's one chance at a successful take is spoiled by the sudden appearance of you know who in a modern taxi. Another sticky murder has occurred and Hawthorne has been called in to consult. Even with urgent script rewrites, his agent breathing down his neck for a sequel to his Sherlock Holmes novel, The House of Silk, fictional Horowitz can't resist a new game being afoot. It's another complex case, full of red herrings, widows, ex wives, spelunkers, lawyers, businessmen, and a couple of unpleasant cops who do not want to be embarrassed by Hawthorne. As the investigation progresses, fictional Horowitz continues to conduct his own clandestine inquiry into the mystery of Hawthorne. He uncovers one secret that explains an aspect of Hawthorne's mystique, only to encounter something else that only deepens the mystery of his past. As in The Word Is Murder, the solution to the murder was unexpected, though the clues were all there. My one quibble with this story was a particular secret uncovered by Hawthorne [a red herring] that the real Anthony Horowitz, writing the book, perhaps over-telegraphed. It didn't quite ring true that the fictional Horowitz was gobsmacked by a revelation that most astute readers had sussed out a few chapters earlier. This distraction [for me, anyway] was either intentional and meant to put the fictional Anthony Horowitz in his place, or a sign that the real Anthony Horowitz just might have a little too much on his plate — with Alex Rider (his popular Young Adventure series) novels and TV scripts, Tin Tin screenplays, Hawthorne novels and God knows what else he's committed himself to. In any case [and I hope there are many more cases...and a TV adaptation], I eagerly await the promised third installment of the Hawthorne mysteries but, no pressure, Mr. Horowitz. Take your time. https://www.anthonyhorowitz.com/ An album review by Eric Sandberg Ian Brown is possessed of a natural gravitas of the sort Liam Gallagher desperately aspires to. Ian doesn't have Liam's snarl, but his once pot-ravaged voice has settled into a soft, pleasant timbre that carries a big stick. Where Liam writes lyrics that are painfully naive, Ian's words range from knowingly innocent to jaded omnipotence. Everything the former Stone Roses front man does is brimming with confidence and a quiet swagger. After conquering the world with their 1989 debut album, The Stone Roses fell into the 'we need to get out of this record contract and sign with a major label' trap, delaying their Geffen Records follow-up, the appropriately titled Second Coming, until 1994. By then, visionary, atmospheric producer John Leckie had moved on and Ian Brown's voice had been reduced to a rasp from smoking pot. I met three of the four members of Stone Roses [Guitarist John Squire was the no-show] at a sparsely attended record release party in a tiny restaurant on the Sunset Strip in December of that year. Mani and Reni, the Rose's world-beating rhythm section, were jovial and friendly while Ian did his best but seemed preoccupied. After the event, as I drove by the front of the restaurant, I saw Ian standing alone on the curb with his hands in his pockets, staring into the night's sky. "What am I going to do now?" I now imagine he was thinking. My Second Coming CD booklet signed by Ian Brown The sweepstakes for who would have the most successful post Stone Roses career seemed to favor guitarist/artist John Squire. Despite its failings Second Coming was a showcase for his fluid, lugubrious and sinewy guitar chops. But never count out sheer chutzpah and the willingness to start from scratch to reinvent yourself. Aided and abetted by endlessly imaginative knob twirler, Dave McCracken, it was Ian Brown who found a completely new musical direction. Salvaging his faded voice and emphasizing his lyrical wizardry, Brown and McCracken created a sea of colorful and varied soundscapes married with intriguing word play and themes. Brown's solo career took off — four straight Gold albums, "Best Solo Artist" and "Godlike Genius" awards from New Musical Express and Q Magazine's "Legend" award, along with the briefest, but coolest, cameo ever in a Harry Potter film. Confirming what we all knew: Ian could not possibly be a Muggle This run of ingenuity and continuous reinvention ran up to his fifth solo album, 2007's The World Is Yours, which paired his rap-savvy rhymes with powerful string arrangements, delivering enough Bond theme songs to lead off the next twelve movies. After a Greatest Hits package Brown released one more album My Way in 2009 which showed him, for the first time, seemingly unsure about his direction, as evidenced by his puzzling cover of Zager and Evans' "In the Year 2525." The next move improbably turned out to be a full-on Stone Roses reunion. The band played several headline gigs and festivals and released a new single "All For One." The song divided fans. John Squire's trademark guitar pyrotechnics were paired with arguably the most inane and simplistic lyric Brown ever wrote. A follow up single, released only on 12" vinyl sounded like an outtake from Second Coming. As the band attempted to record a new album, Brown was captured on video outside the studio proclaiming what was happening inside to be "glorious!" This proved to be disingenuous as Brown closed Stone Roses final UK appearance in Glasgow with “Don’t be sad it’s over, be happy that it happened.” Ian waves goodbye to Glasgow on behalf of Stone Roses and their career Photo: NME Now, at the age of 56, Brown has released a new solo album Ripples. After fronting his old band for a spell, Brown has opted to continue in that format utilizing simple guitar, bass and drum arrangements with minimal gimmickry. The lead track "First World Problems" is announced by a soulful retro harpsichord riff and Brown's patented barbed lyrics. This is followed by the Stooge's influenced "Black Roses" and "Breathe and Breathe Easy (The Everness of Now)" which features Ian alone on acoustic guitar, plaintively singing "Wake up for the war on your mind." It almost sounds like he's having a go at good old Liam on this one. 'This is how it's done, son!' The album continues with a pleasing assortment of R&B inflected rock tunes with Ian testing his new found confidence as a real singer. Sadly, the album ends on a bum note with a half-hearted attempt at reggae which should have been relegated to a B-side.
Ripples doesn't break any new ground, and is not an album I would introduce to an Ian Brown newbie, but it is a welcome return for long-time fans who are either still smarting over, or relieved by the fizzled Stone Roses reunion . Book review by Eric Sandberg — Master of the Mundane: Stewart O'Nan - Henry, Himself Viking https://stewart-onan.com/ Since 2002 Henry Maxwell has loomed large as a literary character without actually appearing in a book. Henry is first mentioned in the opening pages of O'Nan's novel Wish You Were Here. In this book, which takes place a year after Henry's death, we learn about Henry obliquely, as if the words are separated and arranged to form a white silhouette of him on the page. The central theme of Wish You Were Here is the impact of Henry's absence on his family: Emily, his wife of fifty years, his older sister Arlene, his grown children Kenny and Margaret and their children. The family is gathering for one last summer at their cabin in Chautauqua, a tradition dating back to Henry and Arlene's childhood. Wish You Were Here continued a subtle shift in O'Nan's approach to his particular brand of storytelling begun in his previous novel Everyday People. Up to this point O'Nan had garnered a reputation as a master of literary horror. Not the kind of horror that his friend Stephen King churns out like regular issues of a comic book, but more of a modern take on the horror of Edgar Allen Poe - the sort of horror that inhabits our daily lives - the horror derived from our poor choices, our disappointments and denials that we subconsciously run from and inevitably are forced to turn and face Stewart O'Nan with Stephen King — Go Sox!
O'Nan's first novel Snow Angels (later adapted as a film starring Kate Beckinsale and Sam Rockwell) starkly deals with a heart-wrenching series of tragedies in a bleak, small Pennsylvania town, while his third novel The Speed Queen has the narrator describe her own murderous crime spree (to Stephen King via cassette recordings) while simultaneously absolving herself of her actions. O'Nan's examinations of the nature of evil achieved a new level of sophistication and profundity in his 1999 novel A Prayer For The Dying. Set in the backdrop of fire and plague A Prayer For The Dying chronicles one man's descent into a literal and figurative Hell and is required reading in some college Literature and Psychology courses. With Wish You Were Here O'Nan laid claim to a new title - master of the mundane. Not a lot happens in its 517 pages - no crime sprees (well, maybe one small one), wars or murders - just a family coping with the loss of a patriarch and their stories of disappointment and hope. It is an engrossing read. "Stewart O'Nan sees with a vengeance" one New York Times reviewer wrote early in O'Nan's career, and see he does - all the humdrum details that make a life. After four more acclaimed novels, including the bestseller Last Night At The Lobster, O'Nan decided to check in on Henry's widow. Emily Alone finds Emily Maxwell ten years on from Henry's death and struggling with a creeping sense of 'what was it all for?' as her kids and all the families of her Pittsburgh neighborhood have long since moved away or died, her children's lives in chaos. When her only friend/sister-in-law/nemesis Arlene suffers a stroke she is jarred from the monotony of her life into making a bold move. But what of Henry? The specter of the late Henry Maxwell is the driving force behind two critically acclaimed and popular novels. Who was he? In O'Nan's forthcoming sixteenth novel (excluding a collection of short stories and two non-fiction books) we finally meet Henry, himself, and he's not a terribly interesting guy. It is, in fact, Stewart O'Nan's great gift as a writer that he can make the last good year of a boring man's life so compelling. Henry, Himself provides the reader with a glimpse of the Maxwell clan intact, Henry is in relatively good health (if not in good shape) in the year he turns seventy-five. Readers familiar with the other two novels in this trilogy will feel an added sense of tension as they try to piece together the timeline between this story and the first book. I won't give anything away except that the final paragraphs are among the most poignant I have ever read. The book unfolds in a series of self-contained short stories ranging in length from two paragraphs to eight pages. Many chapters focus on such earth shattering topics as a broken garbage disposal, a basement drain crisis, dead grass patches from dog pee, rodent infestation and a gift left in a toilet bowl. Midway through the book, as each prosaic aspect of Henry's routine is revealed, I become paranoid that O'Nan has been secretly remote viewing my own life, so keen and universal are his observations. Like a good stand-up comic, O'Nan turns a trip to the john into comedy gold, except we're not laughing. Each episode, many of which revolve around holidays, anniversaries and birthdays, tell us more about Henry and, by proxy, ourselves. The narrative style only becomes tedious in one chapter which goes into excruciating detail about all eighteen holes played at a Putt Putt golf course in Chautauqua. The segment tells us nothing we don't already know about the characters and has thoroughly cured me of any nostalgic notion of going putt putting the next time I visit my father on the Outer Banks. What's most fascinating and ironic about Henry is his seeming detachment from his own family, their foibles and crises, preferring that Emily bear the brunt of their alcoholic daughter's misadventures, and his hesitancy to broach the subject of a crumbling marriage with his son-in-law. Henry bonded his family more through a strict adherence to tradition than he did by being emotionally available to them. Strewn throughout are Henry's reminiscences from his own childhood, his job as an engineer on an important project which was ultimately shelved, a previous, heady love affair before he met Emily, and perhaps most telling, his experiences as a foot soldier in World War II. His ability to detach from his grim experiences in Europe informs his emotional remoteness from his family. Henry, Himself is a satisfying and hopeful rumination on the human condition as only Stewart O'Nan can write it. It is not absolutely necessary to read the other two books before reading this one. Knowing what happens in the future is almost a distraction from the story being told here but that knowledge most certainly enhances the poignancy of its conclusion Album reviews by Eric Sandberg — The Red Beans & Rice Combo - Let the Joy Begin — Tom McDermott - Podge Hodge — Charlie Dennard - Deep Blue I grew up in Pittsburgh in the seventies as an anxiety-ridden white male. My father is a jazz and classical music loving PhD and my mother, a talented artist. I formed a love of music at an early age mostly under the tutelage of 13Q AM and their cool illustrated music charts distributed weekly at the National Record Mart (Boy I wish I still had those). I eventually graduated to WDVE FM and all the Pink Floyd, Yes, Led Zeppelin, etc. that came with it. I explored more 'off the beaten path' music from friends. I still remember standing on Stew O'Nan's porch, ringing the doorbell as a swirling dirge of Klaus Schulze flowed out of his bedroom window. Mark Gaudio told me about a song by Chris Spedding called "Get Outta My Pagoda." I had to hear that. I discovered Gary Numan when a DJ played "Are Friends Electric" at 2:00 AM while I was cleaning the kitchen counters at Beth Shalom Synagogue. That led me to Ultravox, Japan and David Sylvian, Ryuichi Sakamoto and many others. My father was bemused by my musical tastes. He once reluctantly admitted that The Wall was "musical" but he clearly saw Rick Wakeman, Keith Emerson and Steve Howe for the frauds they were when they attempted to play jazz. Try as he might, my dad was never able to get me to see the light when it came to jazz or classical music. I was so ignorant that, several years ago, I sent him a copy of Miles Davis Kind of Blue for his birthday. His response was confusion. "I despise modern jazz" he told me. Until that moment, I didn't understand the difference between traditional and modern jazz. A few years ago Facebook afforded me the opportunity to reconnect with a wonderful guy who sat behind me with a trumpet in Band and Orchestra at Taylor Allderdice high school for four years. As we got reacquainted, Tom Roberts learned that I had done absolutely nothing with my life while he was developing an impressive musical career, playing in a jazz duo with his wife, suffering on the road as part of Leon Redbone's band and developing his prodigious piano chops as he helps to keep the art of "stride" piano alive. Aside from our mutual school friends, you could imagine that Tom has a lot of interesting friends on his Facebook feed. Names like Wayno and Tom McDermott and Scott Black. Now Tom McDermott and Scott Black are people my dad is always talking about. My dad and my saintly stepmother Sue spent a lot of their retirement hanging out in 'Nawlins', befriending musicians like Tom, Scott, Evan Christopher, Tom McLaughlin, Jack Maheu and others. He had even heard of my friend Tom Roberts. Perhaps my only real talent in life is posting pithy comments in other people's social media threads. I've parlayed this talent into cyber friendships with many of these people, including a gent named Charlie Dennard, who is as nice and humble as he is an incredibly talented pianist, organist, composer, arranger and band leader. Tom Roberts, recently settled back in Pittsburgh and has formed a jazz trio fronted by the aforementioned Wayno (who is also a brilliant cartoonist who more than likely appears in your dying local newspaper every Monday through Saturday). The Red Beans & Rice Combo, Charlie Dennard and Tom McDermott have all released new albums in the past year and, whether it is an altruistic desire to support virtual friends or a sense of guilt instilled in me from growing up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, I purchased my first ever jazz albums for myself. First was The Red Beans & Rice Combo's Let The Joy Begin. Because Wayno is more of a talented crooner with a twinkle in his eye than a vocalist on the order of Sarah Vaughn, this band mines a rich vein of whimsical jazz/pop. "Calling All Cars" by Allen Toussaint, Jimmy Liggen's "I Ain't Drunk," "One Meatball," "Save The Bones," "Who Drank My Beer?" You get the idea. The album lives up to its title - it is pure joy from start to finish, anchored by drummer Dave Klug, filled-in by Robert's world-class piano (and whistling) and brought to life by Wayno's charming ukulele skills and vocal delivery. Let The Joy Begin is now my go-to album when I need a lift, replacing Black Sabbath's Sabotage. L-R: Dave Klug, Wayno, Tom Roberts Tom McDermott has released many albums in his career as a New Orleans club fixture and is perhaps the most famous of my new virtual friends. I have one of his my father gave me called Louisianthology which, to my best guess, was conceived to introduce New Orleans jazz and its influences to children and employs a liberal use of electronic instruments to hold their attention. Podge Hodge is McDermott's 17th CD release and also lives up to its name. It is a 24-track hodgepodge of tunes curated from earlier, out of print, albums along with a generous helping of refashioned numbers, many of which are previously unreleased. It sports a wide assortment of Jazz styles, full band numbers (clarinetist Evan Christopher is featured) and solo piano. As such, Podge Hodge serves as a perfect companion anthology to Louisianthology for adult ears. Tom McDermott and friend - photo by John McCusker/The Advocate I honestly had no clue who Charlie Dennard was when he sent me (!) a friend request on Facebook (I must have typed something pretty funny in one of Tom McDermott's threads). I had to look him up. You should too. His list of accomplishments and collaborations is too long to cite here, but it is impressive. He has a new album out of all original material titled Deep Blue. I am not even going to try to review this album because I'm not remotely qualified. I've read several reviews of Deep Blue on jazz websites and, like just about everything my uncle Bernard Holland wrote about music in the New York Times, I didn't understand a word. One thing I can say is that I like it very much. It's beautiful. The arrangements are crisp, the engineering and mixing make you feel like you're in the room, and the musicians utilized to expand on Dennard's piano themes are clearly among the best in town. The opening track "St Charles Strut" announces itself with a captivating drum solo and the motif teases you with the melody from "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes" but stops short by repeating the penultimate (my father's favorite word) note rather than complete the familiar line. I honestly am not sure whether Dennard is doing this on purpose or he is just too high brow a musician to be aware of it. Charlie Dennard
These three wonderful releases, along with a box full of CDs my dad sent me - teeming with George Lewis, The Dukes of Dixieland, Errol Garner and countless others - are finally getting through to me and for this, I am grateful. https://www.facebook.com/RedBeansCombo/ https://www.tomrobertspiano.com/red-beans-rice-combo http://mcdermottmusic.com/ https://www.louisianamusicfactory.com/shop/compact-disc/tom-mcdermott-podge-hodge/ http://www.charliedennard.com/ https://charliedennard.bandcamp.com/album/deep-blue By 1981 Trevor Horn had accomplished a lot as a musician. while playing bass in Tina Charles backing band, Horn recruited two of its members, Geoff Downes and Bruce Wooley, to do a 'Toto' and form a studio band called Buggles to record their own songs. After they wrote the song "Video Killed The Radio Star" together, Wooley left to form The Camera Club with, then unknowns, Thomas Dolby and Matthew Seligman and recorded his own version of the song. Of course the slickly produced version by Buggles was an international hit, the video for which launched MTV almost two years later. Then, in one of the oddest career left-turns ever documented, Buggles were tapped to replace the departed Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman in Yes. This lineup recorded Drama, a strange album that mixed heavy metal with new wave, electronica and progressive rock. Trevor Horn (foreground) and Geoff Downes in their Buggles days A world tour followed which was successful in America but was savaged in their home country of England, mainly due to Horn's struggles with matching Anderson's high tenor. Yes broke up and Horn and Downes began recording a second Buggles album, during which Downes bolted to join his ex-Yes band mate Steve Howe in the massively successful Asia. Horn completed the album with session musicians and its failure potentially signaled the end of Horn's adventures in modern recording. So it was 1981 when Horn's wife and business partner, the late Jill Sinclair, suggested that Horn would only ever be a second rate artist but, as a producer, he could be a world beater. Sinclair's prescience proved uncannily accurate as Horn, using a series of fledgling bands like Dollar, ABC, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Seal and non-musician Malcolm McLaren as his canvas, dreamed up great swaths of the eighties as we know it. Horn in his natural environment during his heyday as a producer Now, almost twenty years into the new millennium, there are no new hills to conquer, no more young hopefuls beating down his door to be synthesized into platinum superstars, and Horn has spent a lot of time looking back on his amazing career, performing Buggles reunion shows and playing bass in The Producers, a band similar in concept to The Rock Bottom Remainders which featured only authors like Stephen King, Amy Tan and Scott Turow. He produced another Jon Anderson-less album for Yes featuring mostly songs he and Geoff Downes had written for the band in 1980 - only to go back a few years later to remove their stand-in singer's voice and add his own. Horn's latest venture is another look backwards. The long lead time between the announcement of Trevor Horn Reimagines The Eighties and its release in the US had me salivating with anticipation for months. Unfortunately, now that it's finally here, I'm suffering from cotton mouth. Trevor Horn has reimagined the eighties as a bleak, post-apocalyptic musical landscape where once bouncy, spirited songs are reduced to funeral dirges or, worse, pared with singers whose particular gifts are ill-matched to the song they've been asked to sing. The first clue that something is amiss is the choice of Robbie Williams to sing Tears For Fears' "Everybody Wants To Rule The World." Williams' disinterested, flat delivery made me rush to listen to Curt Smith's original plaintive and hopeful approach, just to clean my palette. It gets worse before it gets better. English singer Gabrielle Aplin is forced to warble over a deconstructed, plodding arrangement of Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing In The Dark" that even Theresa May couldn't dance to. The less said about Seal's take on Bowie's "Ashes To Ashes" (the song that essentially announced the eighties) the better. With Seal The combination of Marillion singer Steve Hogarth and an overblown orchestral arrangement of Joe Jackson's "It's Different For Girls" makes the track sound like a rejected song from Yentl. Horn and Rumer turn "Slave To The Rhythm" (once a smash dance hit for Horn and Grace Jones) into a companion to Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work" where the rhythm in question might as well refer to contractions. Setting aside the pointless reading of Duran Duran's "Girls On Film" sung by All Saints, perhaps the most egregious reimagining on the album is former Spandau Ballet singer Tony Hadley's doomed attempt at Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It?" Why?! To be fair, there are a handful of tracks that work. Frankie Goes To Hollywood's "The Power Of Love," sung by Matt Cardle, lends itself nicely to Horn's dramatic approach, sounding like a contender for the next Bond Film. Dire Straits' "Brothers In Arms" is a song that transcends the eighties and, as performed by Simple Minds, is hard to ruin. My two favorite tracks on the album are sung by Horn, himself. "Owner Of A Lonely Heart," the Horn produced number one hit by Yes is stupid fun, especially when the samba kicks in before the guitar solo. Horn's reduction of A-ha's bouncy synth anthem "Take On Me" to a slow romantic ballad actually works beautifully. More like those would have been nice. Concert review by Eric Sandberg — The Richard Thompson Trio at the Teragram Ballroom February 20, 2019 Richard Thompson plays a Gibson SG on a rousing cover of The Sorrows' "Take A Heart" I like Richard Thompson when he's angry...at least angry when he's writing songs and ripping guitar solos on a new record. Thompson's most recent album 13 Rivers was written and recorded amid the end of his second marriage and could well have been titled Shoot Out The Lights II. Each of the albums thirteen songs is sung in the first person - the lyrics, personal, often harrowing, occasionally spiritual. The guitar playing throughout sports a ferocity not heard on a Richard Thompson record in a while. If the Richard Thompson who appeared on the Teragram Ballroom stage Sunday night with his "very large trio" was angry, you wouldn't know it. But who can really tell? Thompson is a consummate showman who leaves his dark side in the dressing room. I wouldn't say he was warm but he was certainly jovial and partook in the kind of banter only Englishmen of a certain age can deliver, even cribbing a classic line from the Bonzo's Neil Innes "I've suffered for my art, now it's your turn." When an audience member waved a copy of the 13 Rivers CD at him he quipped "So you're the one still buying CDs." When another patron expressed his enthusiasm for the announced next song Thompson chided "I'm so glad this meets with your approval. It is all about you after all." Thompson began the lengthy set with "The Bones of Gilead" a polyrhythmic tour de force from 13 Rivers that harks back to his Capitol Records era. Thompson's long time guitar tech Bobby Eichorn sat in (literally) on this and many tunes throughout the evening providing strong rhythm support. Left to right: Bobby Eichorn, Richard Thompson, Michael Jerome Thompson front loaded his set with several of the strongest songs from 13 Rivers, promising he would get to the "classics" eventually ("about 2 AM") but, to my ears, these songs stand up with Thompson's venerable fifty year catalog nicely. In previous years Thompson served as his own opening act, performing a set of acoustic numbers before being joined by his band. His current approach is to integrate the acoustic numbers throughout the set which created a satisfying flow to the proceedings. Thompson's bassist Taras Prodaniuk clearly came from the factory that makes long, lanky, lantern-jawed bass players, who know the proper way to stand, delivering every note needed but not one note more. Drummer Michael Jerome is a marvel. His picture should be in the dictionary next to the word 'drummer.' Despite standing directly in front of a living legend I found it hard to take my eyes off Jerome. From the perfect flat set up of his kit, to the way he sat - his controlled ferocity - he has clearly been instructed by the best and paid attention. The rest is his gift. Jerome's drum riser seemed more like a trampoline as it appeared his drums could tumble off at any moment. Thompson, Jerome and Prodaniuk raise the excitement level with a fiery extended jam on "Can't Wait." One of the shows highlights came early with "Guitar Heroes" in which Thompson pays homage to and emulates the playing styles of Django Reinhart, Les Paul, Chuck Berry, James Burton and Hank Marvin, high praise from a guitarist who has an equally original and immediately recognizable style of his own. As promised, Thompson packed the second half of his set with the classics, visiting his old band Fairport Convention with "Meet On The Ledge" and "Genesis Hall," "Wall of Death" from Shoot Out the Lights, a lovely acoustic performance of "1952 Vincent Black Lightning" and his standard set closer, the rousing "Tear Stained Letter." The first encore featured Richard on acoustic guitar singing "Beeswing" followed by the very welcome last second substitution of perhaps his most beautiful song "Dimming of the Day." All photos by Eric Sandberg The full band returned for one final encore performing another future classic from 13 Rivers ("Pride") before Thompson surprisingly donned a black Gibson SG for a rocking cover of "Take A Heart" originally by 60s British Beat band The Sorrows. There were a few moments in the show where Thompson really seemed to be enjoying himself. He occasionally flashed a toothy, self-satisfied grin, too fleeting to capture on camera but reminded me of this: Acoustic finger-stylist Ryley Walker opened the proceedings with an arresting mixture of de-tuned John Fahey and John Renbourn style drones on a beat up Guild that belied the shimmering sounds emanating from it. Walker managed to hold on to the sparse early crowd with his wit and talent despite making blasphemous comments about the merits (or lack thereof) of Syd Barrett's solo work Ryley Walker, looking a bit like Ed Sheerhan, but exhibiting far more talent.
Note: this review was completed with invaluable suggestions from Michael Berman Concert review by Eric Sandberg — Rosanne Cash with the John Leventhal Band The Soraya Center Center for the Performing Arts, February 17, 2019 L-R: John Leventhal, Rosanne Cash, Matt Beck, Sam Phillips, Dan Reiser, Zev Katz, (Photo from Mrs Lev's Instagram) Rosanne Cash is an American original. It's not often that one can bestow such a label upon the offspring of an icon ("Julian Lennon is a British original" wrote no one ever), but in a long career as a singer, songwriter and author Cash has earned it. She was born a Memphis girl, raised a Valley girl and adults as a New York City sophisticate. Eight years after helping inaugurate it, Rosanne Cash and her band, led by husband/bandleader/guitarist John Leventhal, returned to the Younes & Soraya Nazarian Center For The Performing Arts (nestled in the campus of Cal State Northridge) to perform a mesmerizing set of numbers from her excellent new album She Remembers Everything, along with a selection songs from her Grammy winning trio of Americana albums, The River and the Thread, The List, and Black Cadillac. The beautiful and multi-tiered Soraya theater was packed with an appreciative audience that included famed producer Don Was and legendary Hot Band guitarist Albert Lee as Cash and band took the stage and immediately filled the room with an ethereal sound that resembled country music but suggested something more. Albert Lee flanked by Multi-instrumentalist Kevin Barry (left) and guitarist John Leventhal (Photo from Mrs Lev's Instagram) Cash's voice is powerful and a little quirky, no one sounds quite like her. It's the kind of voice capable of carrying an entire evening of slow and mid tempo songs (I'm guessing they don't get booked to play too many hoedowns) but the songs are beautiful, emotional and powerful. On their own they tell stories but hearing Rosanne Cash tell the stories behind the songs before she sings them is an extra special treat. She talked about her dad and the list he gave her of one hundred essential American songs, and told of the strength of her grandmother who toiled and loved her family in spite of her no account husband, and she cast back to her Cash ancestors who fought on both sides of the Civil War. The band, consisting of Cash's husband John Leventhal on guitar and piano, newcomer Matt Beck on keyboards and mandolin, veteran session and road warrior Zev Katz on bass, brush master Dan Reiser behind the kit and Cash's secret weapon Kevin Barry on guitar and lap steel, settled into a virtually flawless performance supporting these exceptional songs, including a brilliantly arranged cover of The Beatles' "Things We Said Today" and Billie Gentry's "Ode To Billy Joe" both of which allowed me to hear these songs in a different light. Kevin Barry gives David Lindley and Greg Liesz a run for their money on the lap steel and he played his boss to a draw on a breathtaking extended Stratocaster duel that nearly brought down the house late in the show. But none of this could overshadow the woman at center stage as Rosanne Cash commands attention with her voice and and poise. The joy she exhibited as she brought her friend and collaborator Sam Phillips to the stage to sing a couple of songs with her was sincere and contagious. Most importantly for a veteran artist, she was able to play a healthy selection of numbers from her newest album without losing the audience for a moment which is a clear indication that her muse remains undiminished. https://www.rosannecash.com/tour |
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