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Maybe my second most-played album this year. Brian Wilson, That Lucky Old Sun -- in which our man finally delivers an entirely solid album of pop glory in the form of an odd conceptual ode to California, the less boosh-wa version of his Van Dyke Parks collabo "Orange Crate Art.
I think I would too, if this list had numbers. REM, Accelerate -- who knew they had it in 'em? This one is tending to hover at the bottom of official polls, like they feel they should nod to it so REM doesn't think its okay to go back to writing bad Beach Boys pastiche -- but I think it stands on its own. Better even than the last batch of Jayhawks records -- and that's saying something, the group never managed anything close to a bad record.
Oddly, the best track is the bonus track "Three Too Many" which is the very best song Gene Clark never wrote. Sunday, December 7, Holy crap! I got reviewed by Pitchfork! I'll take it. Shatterproof were repeatedly denied a shot at releasing their second album's recordings elsewhere and eventually broke up, and when I heard this song for the first and only time on college radio a year or two later, it was credited to two of the ex-members' subsequent band, Lunar 9.
For a song I'd spent so little time actually hearing and so much more time trying to reconstruct inside my head, "Prozac Melody" was surprisingly close to what I thought it should've sounded like: a leisurely but massive-sounding guitar overlaid with a bed of pseudo-orchestral keyboards and a warmly Anglophilic borderline-falsetto lead vocal. As for the rest -- heh, sure! It needs it. Thanks to Ashley for finding that review! Like a piece of rich chocolate candy filled with arsenic.
Posted by Jon Hunt at AM 7 comments:. Monday, December 1, So when did it become uncool to like Oasis? I remember in, like, '94 or '95, when "Definitely Maybe" came out, it was so goddamn cool to be an Oasis fan. Ed Ackerson from Polara, who was and still is the coolest guy I know, hipped me to them early on -- I remember him telling me they were like the Stone Roses only more rock, "and what the hell is wrong with rock?
When my old band Lunar 9 got accused of "aping Oasis" -- which we never did, it's the same reason Oasis get accused of aping the Beatles, its so easy to pigeonhole melodic rock music with whatever's the handiest and easiest correlate -- it didn't really seem like an insult.
In fact, I took it as quite flattering -- it meant my songs were, y'know, memorable if perhaps a bit easy at times true! I suppose Oasis didn't help matters by making "Be Here Now" which is the very definition of rock n' roll coke bloat but, then, do we fault Fleetwood Mac for making Tusk? The Stone Roses for making Second Coming? The Stones for making Goat's Head Soup?
No, we do not, or should not. They followed it up with "Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants" which got more attention for the title typo than the music within, and "Heathen Chemistry" which didn't get any attention at all for anything. At that point, saying you liked Oasis was just about like saying you liked Matchbox 20 -- it meant you sucked. It wasn't even cool anymore to say you liked the first two albums, which I think we can or should!
It wasn't even cool to have pudding bowl haircuts anymore. In fact, it was actively encouraged. If you were in a band, and you had Oasis influence you buried it deep under a layer of dark black fuzztone and sang in a really LOW REGISTER see: my heavy metal post and that pretty much covered it up like a thick layer of pancake over a zit. And like, for a time, I was Oasis Fan 1.
I'm not afraid to express an unpopular opinion if, in fact, I believe strongly in it, and I'll defend it eloquently. And yet, even I fell prey to the anti-Oasis sentiment. When someone likened my new batch of songs, which are far more fuzzy and rawk, to Oasis, I remember being a little stung. Then it struck me, and I'm about to express an unpopular opinion: Oasis are basically those bands, only they write better songs. It's true. Honest to god. I bet they have the same batch of influences -- the Beatles.
The Stooges. The Small Faces. Psych-rock in general. The Stone Roses. My Bloody Valentine. The Velvet Underground. They probably dress the same only the American bands have beards, now and they probably think the same and maybe they do slightly different drugs coke vs. And its not like the Cool Bands write better lyrics -- shit, the lyrics on the Dandy Warhol's best record fucking quote "Charlotte Anne" by Julian Cope, and I'm hard pressed to understand the sentiment behind Darker My Love's excellent but really-equally-lyrically-vacant-to-Oasis "Two Ways Out," as much as I adore it.
They aren't even more consistent -- was there even half a good album in the Brian Jonestown Massacre's latest, "My Bloody Underground? They're those bands, only with Memorable Hooks.
For some reason, this has Fallen Out Of Favor with the hipster contingent. It is now far more cool to write long droney songs with maybe one or two notes involved in the melody. Unfortunately, this does not result in More Better Songs. It might bring more to mind the Velvet Underground and the long bits of "Sister Ray," but what it alas means is that you can go to shows by lots of these bands and go home without remembering a single song.
This is not good , people. This is bad. Meanwhile, the new Oasis record is receiving the predictable "best album since Most American critics fall back on the usual "they suck 'cause they ape the Beatles" trope -- which has never really been true except in the occasional ballad, if anything the group started out aping T. Rex and moved onto louder things -- and treat the band as a kind of hysterical British joke, like the rock equivalent of a Roger Moore Bond film or something.
Never mind, though, "Dig Out Your Soul" is as good as some of the critics who listened to it are saying it is -- you'd have to be braindead not to feel a thrill from "Shock of the LIghtning" or to feel the awesome psych-groove in "Falling Down. There's great songwriting all over the thing, and great playing, and great production, and its subtle and psych and kool and dark and all other manner of adjectives and its time you took another look and maybe realized its cool and maybe they always were rather cool, okay?
I realize, though, that at the end of the day it is still basically pop music, and if you have a problem with pop music IN GENERAL, like songs with hooks that are and get played on the radio, you're not gonna get turned on to Oasis. No matter, though, next time someone says my songs sound like Oasis I'm gonna be more than okay with that, thank you very much.
I've come to terms with it all. Posted by Jon Hunt at AM 5 comments:. Wednesday, November 26, Yay! New Miyazaki film!! If you haven't seen the master's films -- and I don't use the term "master" lightly; he is absolutely, without question, the finest animator working today -- you need to, now. Every one's a gem, from his 80s masterwork "Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind" to the gloriously adorable "My Neighbor Totoro" to the magnificent "Princess Mononoke" to my personal favorite, 's "Howl's Moving Castle" and everywhere in between, he doesn't have a single dud in his catalog, nor is he likely to, ever.
His attention to detail is astounding -- every texture, every cloud, every mountain is lovingly rendered with absolute care, and it makes his films a joy unparalleled.
His new film is called "Ponyo On A Cliff By The Sea," and it's due to be released domestically sometime in , though it was already a runaway hit in Japan. I've read that Miyazaki took special care to render water and waves in this one, which takes place mostly at sea. It's the story of a goldfish princess who wants to be human -- kind of a twist on the "Little Mermaid" myth.
It is heart-meltingly adorable. When it comes out, go see it. And rent every single one of his other films, if you haven't already. I loved "Mimic" even, I've seen it like ten times. I loved the first Hellboy movie. I loved all of Mike Mignola's Hellboy comics. The first film was dark -- not, like, BATMAN dark, but it had a moody surreality, and you had the feeling there was some genuinely menacing spirituality going on, y'know?
Like -- you wanted to believe Hellboy was gonna kick some serious ass, 'cause the freaky Nazi guy with the metal mask was fucking terrifying and if he was gonna fuck with you, you were GOING DOWN, in a really ugly way.
But it was still funny, y'know? Yuk yuk yuk, only not really. And none of the darkness felt -- well, DARK. Is this as horrible as I think it is? Monday, November 24, Weekend Photo Bolg. Ahh -- a relaxing weekend for once! I could blog about the strange gig we played on Friday at 2AM at a gallery downtown that smelled like fresh spray paint but I think the brain cells covering that memory were killed by the fumes.
So let us move onto the REST of the weekend, which was lovely. First off, we hit the Schindler House , a fantastic s residence a few blocks from us which has the distinction of being the first piece of architecture built in the Modern style in America.
It's been lovingly cared-for and restored, and is used currently as an art gallery. Fans of modern architecture, check this out all photos, of course, by the talented Miss Trixi B, except the ones she's in : This is an awesome view of the back of the house. Notice all the wood -- and notice how low-hanging everything is, the ceilings were only about 6'5", meaning my friend Jay Hurley would be banging his head all the time if he lived there.
That viney thing up near the top left? They're open air, up on the roof of the building. This fantastic shot is one of the open-air fireplaces in the backyard. On our walks 'round the neighborhood, we also discovered THIS house, about which I know absolutely nothing Dear folks who've been dumped, been through a divorce, a breakup, or some other horrible relationship-ending explosion of shit, How often have you heard this phrase: "Why can't you just get over it?
It's out of concern , usually usually -- I'd say that Trix's boss who said to her, snarkily, "it's been a month now , why can't you just get over it" was probably slightly less than concerned for her well being and its certainly almost never meant maliciously but -- -- here's the thing. It's not like you can switch on a switch and "get over it. As I've mentioned before, the breakup leaves everybody with a list of fucking outstanding issues. Since nobody ever follows my advice on " how to properly break up with people ," most of the time they think the best thing to do is to be quote-unquote "honest" and tell the other person just exactly why they're breaking up with 'em, and those psychological scars, combined, mind you, with feelings of abandonment and fear and depression and two thousand other emotions that just come along with any breakup, no matter how big or small, run fucking DEEP.
And the way it works is: you have to work through every single one of them, one at a time, painfully , before you can heal.
And just so everybody knows: that can take a really long time. How long? Did you hear that? Half as much time as the relationship lasts. Now, that's just a general rule of thumb. That's obviously not hard-and-fast by any means. Some people heal faster than others, obviously, and some people heal slower. There's people out there who've been through a divorce or death or breakup or whatever who never heal. And sometimes they heal outwardly but are still suffering like damn inwardly.
Like I was glad I was out of the relationship, really glad. Going over ALL the hurt, all the bad feelings, all the stupid crap I went through bit by bit by bit until somehow, magically, I finally worked it out to my satisfaction. That's how I do it. Pretend arguments in my head. Or "draft" emails that I never send, that's my current M. But other people do it differently. And this where I get really condescending -- to the folks who say "why can't you get over it," you honestly can't know until you've been through it.
You say to yourself "but I've been through all kinds of breakups! But every breakup effects everybody differently. And how the breakup happened makes a huge difference too, like a really huge one. A mutual "parting of the ways" hurts far less than getting dumped for a supermodel or even a totally normal average person, y'know? And even if the person you're concerned about is currently happy in a NEW relationship?
Honestly, that doesn't make a bit of difference. You can't because there's still some healing to do, and it takes how long it takes. Doesn't matter one bit. Just doesn't. Because it isn't about the quality or quantity of the person. So people? Be patient with the healing folks, okay? It takes how long it takes. Sometimes it takes a scary amount of time. But it does happen. Posted by Jon Hunt at PM 8 comments:. Ronnie James Dio or, why I think shrieky voiced lead singers are awesome.
But yeah -- honestly, there's something about the Dio era of that band that I really like. My buddy Dave Beckner swears by it, and I have to say he has a point. There's more actual pop songs on "Heaven and Hell" than there is on the entire first ten years of Ozzy's administration. And yeah -- there's a part of me, the part that was raised on Halen and Leppard, the fucking Beavis and Butthead that still lives inside my head, that thinks songs about dragons and wizards and kings and scantily-clad barbarian women are just COOL, huh huh huh.
Its the kind of stupid crap that you draw pictures of on your high-school notebook, and also it rocks, and you can bang your head to it, and at 7 AM stuck in traffic on the way into Venice for another day where my comps that I worked for days on will get killed or at least changed beyond recognition, it seemed a little transcendent.
Any idiot can sing like the guy from Pearl Jam. I'd give you a sound clip to prove it -- I'M an idiot, and I can sing like that. It's low. You don't have to have any chops. You dont' have to have a range. All you have to have is a lotta testosterone and the ability to write shitty lyrics about how crappy stuff is. And what does that get you? Well, Nickelback is what. And that is, by no means, a good thing. Because okay, that's the thing, right? Shrieky voiced lead singers write about chicks and dragons and wizards and more chicks and going to California and how Love Hurts and shit like that I know he didn't write that, but let me riff, here , and all the low-voiced assholes can do is write about how much shit sucks.
What's up with that? At any rate -- I will posit that metal written by shrieky guys always always trumps metal written by the low guys. And that brings me to Justin Hawkins. You may remember a band called The Darkness from a few years back. Then at some point he went into rehab, and then quit the Darkness. And so what do they do? You see? So low guy that joined what's left of the Darkness? You may go to hades, my friend, because here comes Hot Leg. I've Met Jesus.
Posted by Jon Hunt at AM 14 comments:. Tuesday, November 18, Give me some solace, but just a quantum, they sell big bags of solace, but I don't want 'em! I'm just gonna get it out of the way right up front: I never, at any point during Quantum of Solace , had any trouble figuring out what was going on. That's one of the main complaints I've heard over and over about this film: that the editing style -- quick, fuzzy cuts mixed with odd symbolic cutaways -- makes it impossible to follow.
Dunno -- maybe I'm just used to that style from my years watching music videos see especially Mark Romanek and Sam Bayer or maybe I'm just so BORED with the slickitty slick style of the Brosnan-era Bond movies that I'll take anything that's different. Anyway -- got it, followed it, done and dusted. Also: I keep hearing over and over again that there's "no plot.
There's just the right amount of plot. Plenty of plot. There's a guy, he's up to no good, he's trying to fuck with the world, Bond figures out his complicated scheme and stops him. Is there typically more plot in a Bond film? A subplot featuring a gay love affair between two of the Bond girls? Some kind of subtlety that I normally miss? It features the usual amount of plot. And just a note: the more you say the word "plot" the funnier it sounds.
That all said: I liked it. I fully went in expecting it to be a flawed film, after reading so many reviews bitching about the previous two complaints, but I found myself completely captivated. Its relentless, to be sure -- the action starts right atop and never lets up for even a second. Okay, for a second -- we get the redemption of the Mathis character from the last film -- but other than that, there isn't any pause to reflect at any moment during the film.
Which to me is great because I'm not sure I want a let-up, here. It just keeps going, bashes you in the face over and over, and then it wraps up neatly. It's fun. And it isn't completely po-faced, either. There's plenty of humor, it isn't relentlessly dark -- see especially the growing relationship between Bond and Judy Dench's M, which this time 'round is played for laughs as Bond racks up the body count to Dench's great and vocal dismay. The audience I was with guffawed in all the right spots, too, so it isn't like the beats miss their mark.
Daniel Craig continues to be excellent -- he smoulders. Craig's a funny-looking, jug-eared freak, but he fucking smoulders. He walks into a scene and he's SEXY even when he's not. His sexy catches you off guard, which seems more like the kind of sexy a blunt instrument is supposed to have. If he walks through the world being smarmy, everyone's gonna know who he is.
Oh, and the opening titles sequence was magnificent. But then, I'm a White Stripes fan. I've never felt more like I was watching a different film than the critics. I say: go see it, pronto. Friday, November 14, Bond. If you know me, you know I'm a huge Bond fan.
Always have been. The first Bond film I ever saw was "For Your Eyes Only" -- I can't remember if I saw it in the theater or on TV, but I've seen every film since then in the theater, usually on the day they're released it takes an act of God to keep me away, frankly. My favorites, if you must know -- you're all dying for a geek-list, right? Its a tremendous film first and foremost, and he's a lot better than you remember , "Dr.
Roger Ebert , in his review of the newly-released "Quantum of Solace," declares his preference for this Bond, and I couldn't disagree more.
This is not the fantasy world of "Goldfinger," but an actual world filled with border disputes and angry superpowers and druglord clashes and fucked-up brutal fist-fights. Fleming's superspy always existed in the real world, too. He was human. He was a brutal thug with mad skillz. He liked his drinks a particular way, he liked fancy clothes and fast cars and hot women, but only because those were the small pleasures he could take in a life filled with brutality and ugliness.
He drank too much and took too many damn pills to dull the pain of his work. He felt. He was real. We watched "Die Another Day" -- which I kind of see as the nadir of the Brosnan era -- the other night, to drive this point home.
The Bond we get at the beginning of the film is almost the literary Bond. It pushes him. He feels. He's angry.
He's a real guy. Then, about halfway through the film, the invisible car is introduced by John Cleese as Q, and we drop right out of the real world. We're now in Sci Fi Fantasy Land again, and for the remainder of the film we get cliche after cliche taken straight from "Goldfinger" -- big villain. Hot chicks with funny names. A satellite that can destroy the world. Gadgets that couldn't possibly exist.
Quips and stupidity. Which is why I'm so happy about the reinvention of the film series, starting with "Casino Royale. Daniel Craig's Bond is as close to the literary Bond as we could possibly get in 's blockbuster-driven cinema.
He is that brutal thug with mad skillz, and he's living in a world that's pretty much our own. He has gadgets, but they're simple and practical -- he has a car thingy that diagnoses poison, that's about it. Other than that, this Bond relies on his wits and his fightin' skills.
He's still charming as hell, but his repartee isn't filled with ludicrous puns and ridiculous single-entendres. For chrissake, he sleeps with trashy married women -- that's all he can get, at first, and that's totally believable.
A complaint I heard a while back from someone who probably caught a few of the Moore films on TV, not a fan by any means was that "Bond would never fall in love" like he did with Vesper Lynd. Bury Tomorrow. Cannibal , Album. Johnny Burgin. No Border Blues , Album. Backdoor Ramblers. Backdoor Boogie , Album. Goin' Down South. Preacher Got A Gun , Album. Allan Caswell. Tequila Amnesia , Album. Brian McKnight. Exodus , Album. Simon Jefferis. Vibrations , Album. Five Alarm Funk.
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Lyrichord was founded in by Austrian immigrant Peter Fritsch, who died in Many of the titles are nearly impossible to find in playable condition; online, however, Lyrichord provides digital samples of its entire catalogue, plus the original text of the liner notes. The sound is badly muffled and Manns sounds like he's calling from the next star, but let's put that aside for a second and talk about the music, which is brilliant.
The title of this album could scan as somewhat nationalist, even-- between the sea and the mountains is where nearly all Chileans live. The opener, "Arriba en la Cordillera", is one of the most stunningly gorgeous things I heard last year, a simple arrangement of guitar and voices backing Manns as he calls out an aching melody that obliterates the language barrier between him and me.
Manns had to leave Chile for 27 years after the coup that brought in Pinochet, but he continued to work to preserve Chilean folklore and, now back home, is still at it today at age He riffed on the trio's background for a sound you might call "flatpack Africa"-- a hazy mix of hit factory hooks, programmed polyrhythms, and a dubby roll reminiscent of Trans-Global Underground or the Orb. There's also a much wider range of sound sources than Europop usually admits: Amongst the cheerfully blocky keyboards you'll hear flutes, banjos, organs, and a surprising number of guitar solos.
What makes the record so bewitching, though, are the three vocalists: thickly accented, unschooled, heartbreakingly sincere. Their rawness takes them nearer outsider art than manufactured pop, and the clumsy lyrics-- about boys, sticking together, the war their homeland was engulfed in-- reinforce the feeling that you're listening to bedroom tapes given star treatment.
How much of that is Bard cleverly playing up to stereotypes of immigrant naivety I'm not sure, but even if the whole project was born from cynicism he couldn't have found more enchanting co-conspirators. Whether Monk's emotions really exist-- whether her mannerisms correspond to real feelings, exaggerations of them, or distillations too powerful for people to actually have-- hasn't ever been clear to me.
But her expression isn't without force or skill; and with its streaks of of medieval song and playground hysteria, only obscure insofar as its constant, unflinching intimacy is something most listeners won't-- or possibly can't, for whatever reason-- understand.
Jackie Moore : Sweet Charlie Babe [Atlantic; ] Jackie Moore was a Florida soul singer who got to the party too late to ride the crest of the Southern soul wave but nonetheless made some fantastic records for Atlantic in the mids. Sweet Charlie Babe has that thick groove that typifies the best of Muscle Shoals and Stax, but tempers it with orchestration that points toward the coming shift to disco.
The string arrangement on "Clean Up Your Own Yard" slips into a quote form Aram Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance" at one point, "Darling Baby"-- originally a Holland-Dozier-Holland production for the Elgins-- is given a great country soul treatment, and Jay-Z sample source "If" delivers the obligatory "the world is going to hell" social soul track with aplomb. Then there's "Time", a mind-blower that splits the difference between psychedelia and disco. This has slowly become one of my favorite soul LPs.
Caroline Peyton : "All This Waiting" Caroline Peyton has been about one step from your record collection since , the year she hooked up with a commune-living band of fusion enthusiasts called the Screaming Gypsy Bandits outside of Bloomington, Ind. In , she auditioned for Columbia Records with Clive Davis, only to have another label man tell her she'd be bigger than Janis Joplin if she just found a band. Still-- unless you've internalized the credits from Eccentric Soul's Wayfaring Strangers: Ladies From the Canyon , where Peyton's "Engram" finally gets its due-- she's just a name.
But "All This Waiting", the appropriately titled track that should earn her a spot on your shelves, is the masterpiece of her two-album discography: Here, above two acoustic guitars, Peyton sings of holding out for something. But here it's only an early ARP synthesizer floating beneath her wondrous air, making the wait seem celestial and ultimate and somehow human. In other words, it was made 30 years ago, and I heard it in August. Totally worth the wait. Phillips was, after all, a thankless and self-initiated jackleg preacher, which is tantamount to talking about Jesus on the street corner-- gotta be resourceful.
But while idiosyncrasy makes for good stories, it doesn't always make lovely music. What props up Phillips' 16 brief, primitive recordings isn't his voice-- creaky, indistinct-- and it isn't even his musical accompaniment, per se, it's the combination: The plucked string instrument sounds feather-light and blurry, the musical equivalent of dust motes floating in a sunny room; Phillips wheezes at times like he's about to pass out from the spirit-- not because it's rocking his humble body to the core, but because he didn't realize just how ethereal and sweet god's love could feel.
That gospel music's project is an attempt to offer uplift and transcendence the spiritual divine, the sacred through the tawdry and corporeal hollering; hardship tales is a given in Phillips' music. What isn't-- and what's here in every fleck of sound, every tiny ridge and jag-- is tenderness. Shatterproof were repeatedly denied a shot at releasing their second album's recordings elsewhere and eventually broke up, and when I heard this song for the first and only time on college radio a year or two later, it was credited to two of the ex-members' subsequent band, Lunar 9.
For a song I'd spent so little time actually hearing and so much more time trying to reconstruct inside my head, "Prozac Melody" was surprisingly close to what I thought it should've sounded like: a leisurely but massive-sounding guitar overlaid with a bed of pseudo-orchestral keyboards and a warmly Anglophilic borderline-falsetto lead vocal. I found a clean vinyl rip of their sole self-titled album on a filesharing service and downloaded it on a whim; under those circumstances I didn't get the benefit of any back-cover credits or liner notes, so I have no idea who produced it or who the musicians are.
What I'm left with are my impressions of the music itself, which boil down to "the single most intense disco song I've ever heard. The titular chorus-- "I got a thing! For your love! Tibor Szemzo: Tractatus [Leo; ] One of the only records I can think of that truly deserves the "minimalist" tag-- and some by Jandek, and some by Skip James-- Tractatus is 30 minutes of a six-note lullaby hummed over quiet bass plucks, some synthesizer filigree, and snippets of the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein read in a variety of languages.
Thankfully, it's barely ever English-- the last thing tremulous placidity needs is to be sullied by ramblings most people wouldn't understand in their native tongue. They sound nice and poetic though. I'd picked up a few records by Szemzo-- a Hungarian electro-acoustic composer-- in Budapest after digging around at Wave the first and one of the only independent record stores in the city. When I auditioned Tractatus on the store's CD player, I pressed play, looked down, and looked up only to realize 10 minutes had passed completely without trace or memory-- a testimony, if there ever was one.
I'm not trying to sound the revolution, necessarily: "If the Kid The subject matter is exactly as Various Artists: Sweet Music OST  I spent a decent amount of fall watching, re-watching, pondering, having idle daydreams about sex during, psychoanalyzing myself over, and reading history surrounding Serbian director Dusan Makavejev's Sweet Movie. The soundtrack, mostly comprised of songs by Manos Hadjidakis, is a perfect corollary to the film.
The movie features a scene of a full-grown woman being nursed, a group of colorfully dressed Viennese hippies shitting on dinner plates, some Nazi footage of a Russian massacre of Poles in , a series of comical hymen inspections, and a wayward sailor being stabbed by an attractive sociopath in a tub of sugar. The movie wasn't even available on DVD until this year, and is still banned in several countries; nobody ever really got it together to make a soundtrack, so my roommate ripped the audio from the DVD and made his own.
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