another archive missive, this one from 2011 originally appeared on losingtoday.com and features…..
earthling society, the chemistry set, tiny clocks, moron valence, broken arms, robert miles. the word, shaneolinski, leisure society, panda su, the wind up birds
T minus 8 and counting…..
From the typing presses of the Sunday Experience……
This missives word you never hear these days is – twaddle.
Earthling Society ‘green manalishi’ (fruits de mer). For a label whose back catalogue boasts an enviable plethora of mind warping gems – and here I’m thinking of those brace of Vibravoid 7’s, that flaming gnomes debut, that Cranium Pie cutie, that near perfectly exquisite Hausfrauen Experiment outing and many more besides – along comes Earthling Society to kick everything into touch and provide by our humbling reckoning FdM’s finest moment to date. Pressed on 400 slabs of coloured wax (the colour of which as yet undecided) this latest addition to the FdM roster sees Messrs Laird, Blackow and Gutarra (better known as the Earthling Society) pitting their musical wits against Peter Green’s immortal ‘the green manalishi’ and an obscure curio from Adelaide based stoner psych blues purists James Taylor Move entitled ‘and I heard the fire sing’. goes without saying that the Earthling Society have so far managed to elude our normally well heeled radar – to date there’s been several critically acclaimed full lengths found escaping into record world with their latest ‘station of the ghost’ via 4zero currently looming high on our wants list. One of the last things that Green committed to pen before quitting Fleetwood Mac, depending on which references you care to read it was either written following (the most plausible) a dream of a green dog (representing money) or else documenting his descent in LSD madness or about a potent strain of the drug known as ’the green manalishi’. anyhow left in the capable hands of the Earthling ones it emerges sounding like some almighty mind turning melodic monolith resulting from a seriously shit faced and wasted face off between Brian Jonestown Massacre, the Black Angels and Mugstar, amid their epically frazzled and fried re-drill the landscapes continually fracture, dissipate to a near point of calamitous chaos only to reshape and reform with a dream driven unrealism, freakish bonged out beatnik braids blurrily evaporate and fragment to a cannibalised groan of dissected Mountain riffs – in short a pristine lesson in stoned out stoner psych blues. As to their cover of the James Taylor Move’s ’and I heard the fire sing’ – so far out its off the radar, pharmaceutically enhanced flavouring, fuzzed out mind vaporising freak beats and Hendrix-esque bliss kissed motifs guarantee an aural trip that’ll flip your wig.
You can hear the original James Taylor Move take here….
Further reading via –
The Chemistry Set ‘impossible love’ (regal crabomophone). Now quite clearly the blighters are spoiling us now. A new sister imprint to FdM which features on its inaugural outing two slinky slabs of wig flipping groove from the legendary Chemistry Set. Loved and admired by the likes of the late Mr Peel and Mr Wilson the Chemistry folk spearheaded the latent psych pop scene of the 80’s and where the face and sound of the day’s hipper minded underground before disintegrating in the early 90’s at the hands of in house rifts. Re-appearing back on the musical radar c. 2008 prompted mainly by the reaction to their lost ‘sounds like painting‘ set from 1989 which had been feverishly embraced by the download generation they‘ve since put out 2 full lengths ‘alchemy#101’ and ‘this day will never happen again‘ – both of which have haplessly avoided thus far our listening space – something which we will seek to remedy soon. That said there was that spiffing cover of Del‘s (Shannon) ‘silver birch‘ on FdM’s ’ a phase we’re going through’ compilation which had us all a ga-ga at losing today base camp and now this brand spanking new twin set. Rightly described in passing as the Stoned Roses of its generation ‘impossible love‘ is in some ways a return ticket back to the heyday of the baggy / Madchester scene of yesteryear, an intoxicating brew that sweetly distils and evokes memories of My jealous god, the Paris angels, world of twist and ’screamadelica’ era Primal Scream this seductive sonic soiree extracts the very finest threads of this trip-delic scene and weaves a Technicolor dream coat that parades a warping shot of neo psych / ambi / soul that oozes and bleeds a shades adorned uber cool aura from its very grooves. sumptuously wrapped in a heady and hazy swirl of shimmering bliss kissed arabesque motifs built upon a glorious surge of looped mantras, hulking beat underpins, freakily frazzled riffs, chilled eastern accents and solar radiant brass fanfares this dear hearts is the soundtrack to summer and quite frankly the best thing we’ve heard of its ilk around these here parts since Freebass dropkicked ‘you don’t know about me’ into our ear space. Flip the disc for the lysergic enhanced kaleidoscopic paisley pop pout of ’we luv you (put that in your pipe and smoke it mix)’ – of course an update of the Stones’ gem from ’67 though here flavoured and framed into a woozy head expanding cosmic voyage that’s finds itself traversing through an opulent space wave of phasing vocals and wah-wah-ing melodic myriads to which whose given remit is to invite you to leave your physical self at the departure lounge and let your mind wander. Any questions – no – well then go forth and seek – 500 copies only all on coloured wax and bound to shift like shit of a hot shovel or something or other.
Tiny Clocks ‘the Victorian noise’ EP (backwater). My oh my what’s this we observe through our kaleidoscopic viewfinder eye, crooked rhyming couplets and a curious flair for beautified baroque melodica traced in music hall follies and breathlessly kissed with an eccentricity as English as afternoon tea and scones. Tiny Clocks are shy creatures. Seriously. Very shy creatures. By our reckoning – since they formed way back in 1990 – by the way they are essentially a duo – Marck Love and Steve Mann (the latter – all around good guy and head honcho of the Backwaters imprint – Reb Capper, the future kings of England et al) – they’ve occasionally been sighted just 4 times in record world – the last being the 2000 release of the full length ’a tricycle in August’. so with this borne in mind it might be a good idea to decorate the listening space with plenty of colourful bunting in celebration – we suggest of a tie dyed and florescent nature – because there’s the distinct possibility that the next time they pull into dock we’d have all advanced in years somewhat considerably. ’the Victorian noise’ EP comprises of a quartet of rarefied treats that bear the kind of indelible hallmark that would have them considered plucked from the surreal vocabulary of Mr Barrett. Musically Tiny Clocks are located within the same psyche folk sound space to which the likes of the Murmurs of Irma, Soft Hearted Scientists, Freed Unit (‘Radio Lady’ in particular sounds as though its fallen off Leicester’s finest weird psyche cadets ‘gigglegoo’ full length) and Robyn Hitchcock (especially ‘toys from Switzerland’) lurk, brewed with a lilting lo-fi whimsicality that can trace its lineage back to the Small Faces and a Deram era Bowie in his Anthony Newley wannabe guise whilst found stopping off somewhere for a brief rest at the kookily abstract world of Dalmatian Rex and the Eigentones (none more is this in evidence than on the playfully quirky ’Ventora Ocean’). all said we here are a tad smitten by splintered and fractured ’Jane, its not December’ with its faux primitive glam riffola and T-Rex(y) posies. More please?!?
Morton Valence ‘me and home James’ (bastard). The Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra of the download generation. Discuss. I merely offer this small observation for considered discourse. The evidence – pretty irrefutable when considering the merits of ‘me and home James’ the second full length from Morton Valence and the long awaited follow up to their acclaimed ‘09 debut long player ‘bob and veronica ride again’. Morton Valence as all who heard that aforementioned debut will no doubt attest do a neat line in outsider pop. By outsider I don’t mean arty or left field – rather more taken to describe the way they occupy a sound space subtly traded and informed by an astutely classical appreciation of perfectly honed pop into the melting pot their opined overtures are chipped and clipped in a faded glamour that’s turned deftly by a scratched majesty. Crafting soundtracks for the crushed and disenfranchised there’s a demurring genteel demeanour about Morton Valence that’s splintered by a vulnerability and a timidity that’s gouged by a calculating menace that hits with the surprise of a sucker punch, all at once playful, purring and prickly they swerve, swoon and soar with a prescriptive pop prowess that’s as head turning as it is numbing. For every bleached and hollowed lovelorn hope dashed cruelly there’s a mellowed spite to even up the scales.
Much in common with ‘bob and veronica’ – ’me and home James’ is despatched with the same scarred, damaged and damned heartbreak though this time finding its solace, frustration and hopelessness mirrored by the drizzled streets of a London landscape viewed as were from a twilight trip across the north / south divide by cab. Book ended by the serene chorus’ of birdsong and cast amid a sepia trimmed accent Morton Valence apply something of a timeless tune craft to proceedings, these souring suites are dinked with an alluring mellowness flecked and flashed with a warming and breezy countrified resonance that tingles dreamily and lazily to a ghostly 50’s purr that’s daintily demurred to the sweet ache of honeyed harmonies and a tenderly tweaked spectral shill of pining riffs as on ‘these were the things I was dreaming of and then you fell out of the sky‘ with its Damon and Naomi like lull and the slide treated tender lament of ‘woman in the window’. In terms of creativity and something for those in need of comparable reference markers you needn’t stray further far than Crimea’s near perfect ’secrets of the witching hour’ set from a year or three ago – none more so is this the case than on the breathlessly statuesque title track and ‘just another guy’ – the former – perhaps for us the sets best moment – found orbiting upon a yearning and glacial ghost lit shanty axis. Trace along the grooves to ‘bad times for the hare krishnas (home to Don Van Vliet)’ with its fracturing reverb halos while elsewhere the pulsing motorik murmurs of ‘sailors’ may sound to some of the more attuned among you something approaching Battles in a head off with Swimmer One while the impeccably forlorn ’I’m gonna stand by you’ is introspectively scuffed with a hurting hymnal gracefulness seldom heard these days outside of a Low Anthem release. Of course dare we forget to mention the Velveteen prowl of ‘man on the corner’ as it blossoms and erupts from its sallow and monochromatic probing to fragment into a fractious skin blistering tarmac scorching inferno much recalling of JMC at their finest, whilst back to Lee and Nancy – in case you thought we’d forgot – we suggest you head over to the love tipped 60‘s shimmer toned uber coolness of ‘if you were the river’ with its hippy trippy west coast shades, cleverly cast cigarette symbolisms and chicly tweaked Spector-isms. Forged in that rarest pop gold then wouldn’t you say.
Broken Arm ‘negative’ (gringo). Ah, just what the doctor ordered four slavering slabs of grizzled groove from new kids on the chopping block Broken Arm who hail from Leeds and in former lives once graced variously the line ups of Sailors (who I seem to recall were fondly admired around these here parts once upon a time), woman and like a kind of matador. Welded onto 7 inches of brutal black wax Broken Arm seem determined to pummel the would be listener into submission, blending hardcore, noise core and the finer elements of grunge they wear their 90’s era touch n’ go affections with unabashed pride with Jesus Lizard and Shellac proving to be the prime influential movers. And while we heartily agree with the press releases john spencer blues explosion references – none more so is this in evidence (albeit as though in a headlock with black flag) than on the swamp fried sludge tarred brooding bastard that is ‘the house rules’ over on the flip a serious slab of wiring and self loathing scuffed up and scuzzy gnarled blues bone machine if ever we heard one – there lies beneath the simmering surface elements of Snuff, Sink and Leatherface choking for air space. Much loved as they are both the unruly and flame throwing agit pop of ’palate cleanser’ and the locked groove gouging ’golden route’ (two of the three sharp shocks making up the a side) pale somewhat to the spazzed out contortionist cranium crunching ‘disappearing act’ as it stammers and stutters with scowling finger jabbing abrasiveness venting forth with unhinged shambling frenzy.
Robert Miles ‘miniature world’ (s:alt). could have sworn we’d reviewed this previously but a quick check back through recent rambles and – hey ho what do you know – we haven’t – certainly been getting a hammering on the old kitchen player. One of two releases being put out by the Miles guy – the other being the ‘thirteen remixes’ EP which sees cuts from the recent ‘thirteen’ full length rephrased by Italo duo Bellini / Weller and Ukraine’s Pollyul who I seem to recall reading – bear with us as we’ve haplessly lost the accompanying press release – were selected by way of a competition which generated over 600 applicants. Don’t know why I’m telling you all this because we haven’t got the release to review but hey at least we have ‘miniature world’ which is the other outing due to hit stores the same day. Here featuring a brace of ’miniature world’ grooves – the original album edit and a reframed ‘critical world’ mix which adds the vocal talents of Charlie Grant. hyper gliding electro pop is the best way to describe it, starts of sounding like some classic 70’s era Jean Michel Jarre loop left lying on the cutting room floor before unfurling into something approaching stately and elegant, all cruise controlled motorik underpins dipped in the kind of pristinely solar powered ambi – pop prowess that ought by rights to prick the ears and cause the heads to turn of those much admiring of the likes of Swimmer One and Blacktzar.
The Word #100 – congratulations to the Word who this month celebrate the publication of their landmark centenary issue. Do remember picking up the first issue (along with – as I seem to recall – the first issue of Ink) and being somewhat taken by its casual and laid nature – the front row of pop publications – we love the way it steels itself with a cool reserve, never over excited, neither critical, snobbish or condescending – a safe haven for 40 something’s who aren’t quite ready to curl up give up on music and start listening to Cliff just yet and feel a tad tired of the next best thing circulation / advertising obsessed rags or their Beatles and Stones loaded cousins. We’ve oft sniggered at their ’best and worst’ and end page 99% true regular fixtures, taken with the balance of music / films / books and thankful for the omission of copious ’fashion’ portraits that far to many pop magazines seem to adopt these days in order to bump up the page quotas (no doubt in place of adverts and quite possibly more lucrative given they have their models sporting t-shirts you wouldn’t wipe your enemies arse on let alone your own and jeans whose crotches end somewhere below the knees making them look like oomph loompa’s – do you have mirrors in your homes?!). Anyway 8 years on – its managed to outlive the much missed X-Ray and Bang who were trading around the same time – this celebratory issue does a brief round up of its 8 year print history – the woes of nearly biting the dust before getting to #10 and a roll call of the aborted covers (have to admit we do prefer their caricature covers these days. Gervais and Merchant do some office talk, Ed Sanders does Fug n’ all, spots with PJ Harvey, the National, Big Jim Sullivan, hugh laurie, loudon Wainwright III, mourning the Roxy and some bloke called Keef Richards (there’s that Stones criticism blown out de water). To wrap up matters Andrew Collins prompted by BBC4’s scheduling of oldie TOTP’s shows from 1976 questions our collective obsession with our musical past and asks whether our rose tinted glasses are a little to tinted to see through while Andrew Harrison considers the naffness of BBC6 Music’s new marketing logo ’building a digital home for music’ and offers up the slightly more palatable ’anarchy in the DAB’ though its our bet that the boffins who thought up this tedious nonsense are hauling there overpaid wedge to the bank whilst whistling ’money for nothing’.
And of course lest we forget to mention the cover mounted ‘now hear this’ CD set which is a kind of shop window pic n’ mix delight of the month’s latest releases – among the pick for us of this months 15 choice cuts you’ll be treated to Pete Lawrie who I must admit caught us on the hop and had us double checking the cover credits to make sure it wasn‘t Tom Waits. Elsewhere there’s the Bongolian mixing 70’s styled Chic sleekness with even earlier 70’s blaxploitation grooves, Orkestra del sol who we’ve heard good things about do a neat line in Raymond Scott styled 30’s powerhouse albeit relocated to the shores of the Nile while Beat generation’s ‘same damn time’ sounds to these ears like some after hours smooching tryst between a super chilled 808 State and a ‘thieves like us’ New Order while the breathlessly arresting ‘fill in the colours’ by Fiona Bevan gently coos and bewitches like some hybrid offspring brought to being by the cross fusion of DNA samples drawn from Feist and Kate Bush.
Shaneolinski ‘getting closer (retainingthesoulbynumbers)’ (tontena). Totally wired to coin a phrase popularised in pop by a certain Mark E Smith, perhaps the most off radar and wilfully impish release that’s come our way in a fair old while. And yet dear hearts I feel something of ‘blimey how did we miss this so far’ moment coming on for it seems that Shane O’Connor (for it is he who is shaneolinski) has been something of a cult figure on the local Norwich based musical landscape since pitching up his tent there sometime way back in the early 80’s – alas much as is the case with these things information is near non existent. That said ‘getting closer’ may best be described as a psychedelic phantasmagoria (if indeed you can describe something such), a gathering of choice (17 in case you were asking) cuts plucked from a by all accounts extensive repertoire previously set the task of worrying the listening spaces of this fair nation via the release of ridiculously limited tape compilations. O’Connor applies a craft that draws likeness to the cream of the E6 crew – Doss, Mangum (‘Not a soul around’ providing a perfect example – just love the busily trundling locomotive rhythms) and Barnes in so far as his irregular and skewed appreciation for the abstract and the bizarre – amongst this array of Alice in Wonderland delights there lies the occasional flashes of Pollard, the Gorki’s John Lawrence, Momus and Andy Votel drafted into the mix for good measure. Much in common with Edward Ka Spell and William D Drake (whose latest opus we recommended highly last time out) he shares the same English eccentricity that can be traced through the songbooks of Barrett (’livid heck (ragged pink philanthropist)’ – being the key note chief example with ‘ink and paper‘ following in hot pursuit), Davies, Stanshall and of course the Cadiacs – except where Drake dallies with the grand O’Connor’s freakish follies appear and disappear as though observed in the corner of the eye like apparitions. ’getting closer’ is if nothing a sonic sweetshop delighting in screwing up your headspace and leaving you breathlessly decamped in a wired and weird world envisaged through the frazzled lenses of Edward Lear.
Upon this kaleidoscopic canvas you’ll be treated to wonky word plays, detuned chords, fairground melodica, squeaky toys (on the Camberwick Green blissed out sharing funny fags with the Beatles in pepper land ’party hat’ – and since we are talking Beatles there‘s always the near perfect homage to the Rutles as per ‘considered‘), goofy music hall facades and ping pong balls (I kid you not – for we suggest you enter at first instance the crooked art pop paint bomb that is ‘fast puppy‘ which to its manic verve pit’s the zaniness of the native hipsters against the screwball impishness of a youthful B-52‘s). Sometimes creepy (‘Cocoon’) occasionally crooked always kooky – from the Buddy Holly uh uh hu croons on the beaten till bent bubble grooved day-glowing ‘lousy losers’ at times sounding not unlike an amicable fist fight between Wreckless Eric and the Rich Kids to the hauntingly eerie and warping shadow spun mirages that crooked ramble throughout ‘vixen’ with its delicately dinked baroque pirouettes, ’getting closer’ will enthral as it unpeels to reveal the disquieting dexterity of its author, quintessentially a disturbed and flawed genius wiring your headspace into a surreal dream coat of sound, like the aforementioned Drake there are pre-occupations with tea – a common pop trait of eccentric English psychedelia (incidentally Gilbert O’Sullivan’s latest outing turns in a similar obsession – how do we know – because we caught the blighter on the goggle box last week – bugger hasn’t aged a day – still big hair and stuff). The wig flipped freaky ‘normal cum oddities’ will delight as much as it will disturb – we could go on and probably already have, just buy the blighter and nail this most potently peculiar and most rare of psych preserve.
Leisure Society ‘this phantom life’ (full time hobby). Quite something else, if fact can we get this on prescription anyone? Believe there’s an album mooching around in that there record world by this lot alas we haven’t got a copy (yet) so excuse the teeth grinding and occasional utterances of archaic anglo saxon phrases. ’this phantom life’ – what can we say -upbeat and life affirming – a jubilant jamboree that radiates with powder puff posies of cloud parting mood lifting effervescence – part country tweaked hoedowns and mountain fresh blue grass loveliness tingling with dinked ornate orchestrations that blush and blow a sweeping and genuflecting cortege of willowy wood chipped symphonies and cavorting brassy swirls. Think that covers it. On the flip ’flying’ – which admittedly treads a similar trail more commonly associated with the Low Anthem in so far as it excavates sounds quite clearly not of this era, all trembling vocals and murmuring melodies that appear to wander by like shimmer toned apparitions – add in the lolloping banjos, a sense of humbling gracefulness and a kind of endearing hymnal folk undertow and you have yourselves a touching lobe note.
Panda Su ‘I begin’ (peter pan). How we adore this utterly gorgeous and affectionately lazy eyed EP from Fife’s Panda Su. ‘I begin’ is the follow up to last year’s ’sticks and bricks’ debut – another release which I’m gutted to say we missed somewhere along the way. Snuggled warmly in her igloo sound shed only to occasionally peek out upon the frosted topped landscapes the doe eyed (alas we are only gathering that you understand) Panda Su purrs, coos and entrances with this impeccable quartet of fragile ice sculptures. Tinker bell love notes bathed in a longing shy eyed spectral grace which betwixt the creaking and yawning clockwork clicks and the dinked rustic recoils lies a demurring twinkle some netherworld of willowy raptures and faintly ensnared apparitions, there’s a forlorn almost apologetic romance trembling between these grooves, the nimble folk-tronic doodles reference a youthful Minotaur Shock and Landshipping albeit seductively traced with the dream like ghostliness of Fever Ray as revealed on ‘bee song’ and ‘I begin’. That said the faraway dimpled ‘alphabet song’ with its sweetly thawing twilight twinkle and softly unfurling quiet majestic opine treads delicately across an alluring path once trailed by the Sunday’s while ‘facts and figures’ tugs, traces and orbits an introspective persona more readily telling of a youthful Suzanne Vega.
The Wind Up Birds ‘meet me at the depot’ (sturdy). Blimey I can feel hairs standing on the back of my neck and the sinews tightening, panic stricken agit punk pop all the way from Leeds courtesy of the Wake up Birds who thus far have seemingly tuned heads, garnered admiring glances and won acclaim from all fortunate enough to have them veer up on their radar. Third single in following their ’tyre fire’ and ’courage’ outing – which alas to much teeth gnashing and irksome grumbles we here appear to have missed – reveals they’ve lost none of their bite or prickly panache to knock out the odd sub three minute sonic sortie. Case in point ‘meet me at the depot’ for all its directly channelled frenzied bored anthem brittleness – think I, ludicrous, the hill fields, I like trains and Decoration infused with (from how I remember them) the grim recalcitrance of Rooney (I say from how I remember them – if memory serves they were around in the late 90’s very Arab Strap – well the bloody internet for all its ease of reference doesn’t – can’t find a listing anywhere and the cd’s I have I can’t locate for comparison – so just bloody trust my senile mindset on this one) weaving the kind of hopeless apathy, desperation and frustration as did records by the Undertones – well the first one or two at least – which is kind of handy to mention here because cleaned up of the drizzled council estate gloom there’s some nifty bubble grooved harmonic pop restlessly nagging away in the background. Flip the disc for what admittedly is our favoured cut of the brace the straight up front and in your face snotty terrace chanting of the youthful Buzzcock-ian in an after closing pub bawl with the Redskins and Serious Drinking punk pop melee that is ‘popman’. nuff said I think – go buy.
A quick email from Beta Lactam Ring to tell us that there are two full lengths from the mighty Seven That Spells currently taking up brief residence in record world orbit – yes two of the buggers – okay they are oldies – pressed up on heavy duty wax no less and no doubt sounding infinitely more way out than their CD cousins – first up the limited to just 125 copies only edition of ’it came from the planet of love’ which originally came out in 2006 on the Moscow based imprint RAIG – much sought after around these here parts and judging from the excerpts on the BLR site plotting similar (p)sonics to those much missed green milk from the planet orange – whatever happened to those blighters. Answers on the back of a blank cheque made payable to yours truly most welcome. The other re-release is a welcomed re-sighting of Seven that Spells’ debut outing for the Lactam dudes way back in 2007 – ’the men from dystopia’ is a release that all acid psyche drone space freaks should all own and covet – fondly mentioned in these very pages at http://losingtoday.com/reviews.php?review_id=4408&band_alpha=s – this one comes as a limited 250 only issue – and I want both. Other BLR goodies looming on the horizon – well there’s a new Earthmonkey album which will be studied, surveyed and scrawled about in the next missive – an absolute killer mind warping double set. A debut from Peterite which Chris at Beta Lactam kindly sent over mp3’s of – however our pc had a something of a meltdown the other week and erased all knowledge of the files – so ooops sorry. All said noted for their exquisite tailoring of releases next up on the BLR release agenda is a by all accounts must have 7 LP gathering entitled ‘drone compendium’ which will see limited run outings curated by and featuring Aidan Baker alone and with Thomas Baker and Alan Bloor – among Mr Baker’s esteemed guests the collection will feature recordings by Arc, Mnemosyne, whisper room and adoran and a special subscribers only set from Nadja. Details can be found via http://www.blrrecords.com/prod/2159/drone_compendium_1-7_world_2_shipments.html – where you can also find the labels latest attractions being aired on their latest pod cast. oh and there’s a Legendary Pink Dots set in the offing – a limited repress of the bands cassette only 2002 outing ‘atomic roses’. spoiling us – eh.
More of this type of thing sometime at the weekend – as ever many thanks for tuning in – if you fancy getting in touch – we love vinyl things by the way – the contact details are as follows –
May your tunes be with you – over and out – take care