“I’m a big Goth. I love ghost stories,” Toria Wooff says from the stage, to the surprise of nobody present. With her raven-black hair and bride-white laced blouse, she already looks as though she has stepped through time, down from the Lancashire moors which overlook her hometown of Horwich.
Toria is about to launch into her own ghost story, the haunting self-penned folk song ‘The Waltz of Winter Hey’. But before she does, she has borrowed another ghost story she wishes to tell us, that she heard up in Scotland.
The Piper and the Dog is a story of Edinburgh Castle. Hundreds of years ago, a tunnel was discovered near the castle dungeons, and while it appeared to travel all down the Royal Mile underneath the city, nobody knew exactly where it went. The townsfolk sent down a brave piper to explore, and his dog followed him. Up above, the townsfolk could hear the man’s pipes as he played and so could follow where he went.
At some point the sound of the pipes ended suddenly, as though stopped by an external hand. In telling the story, Toria does not evoke the name of Great Hand, the spirit that is said to dwell in these accursed underground paths. Perhaps it is just as well, on a night where 66 souls have packed into a close, dark underground basement of their own to hear her vocal pipes play. But she does tell us that the piper was never found. And that when the dog made its way out, the townsfolk found its hair singed as though by flame.
The basement on Charles Street in Manchester does not appear to have any ghosts of its own, none apparently having passed over with the lease in 2018, when this antiques warehouse built in 1912 was converted into a music, food and events venue. But it is a worthy setting regardless for Toria Wooff’s haunting brand of Gothic folk. After descending the steps to the basement, I am enveloped by its thick darkness. With the exception of the red lights of the stage, the prevailing light comes from dim orange conches scattered around the room.
My own discovery of this artist came not from dungeons, but has proved just as fascinating to explore. Just a few short weeks after first hearing her name (pronounced like “roof”) and deciding to listen to her sole, self-titled album many times over, I am here listening to the whole thing played live. I marvel not only at the swelling power of her vocals, which are as immaculate as they are on the record, but at how quickly these songs have become familiar to me. The bones of the songs are strong, and in Toria’s performance she fills them with body.
It is a night of bones, for the six-song set of the opening act also proves strong. Appropriately enough, there is in this basement a Creepy Crawly, the stage name of Rachel Cawley. One of the things I find so rewarding on nights like this is the opportunity to take a chance on new music and have that vindicated; to not only experience a talented local-born artist like Toria Wooff take flight, so soon after discovering her name, but to hear emerging talent like Rachel’s.
Backed by Tom Latham on electric guitar, Rachel sits at her keys and sings a compelling set of deep and meaningful songs, including ‘Afraid to Fail’, ‘Slowly Goes the River’ (“a song lamenting the linear passage of time,” she says) and ‘December ’88’, a song which becomes even more profound when you learn the story behind it. This is true art. Rachel ends by picking up a banjo, warning that this “could go badly”. However, ‘All the Stars in the Sky’ proves anything but. A banjo on a strong-boned song is a memorable feeling, and I’m sure I’m not the only new fan Rachel has acquired from the basement tonight.
But the night truly belongs to Toria. She shapes it to her will. Backed by her friend Polly Virr on cello, a resonant instrument that fills the room and swells our hearts, she performs the entirety of her remarkable album in sequential order, as well as a trio of unreleased songs neatly placed between what would be ‘side A’ and ‘side B’.
With such a concise setlist, it is hard to pick out moments and the magic of the night can only be recalled in its grand sweep of melody and feeling. Some songs stand out, of course. The crowd-favourite ‘The Waltz of Winter Hey’. The tender ‘That’s What Falling in Love Will Do’. The new songs which tantalise us with evidence that Toria’s incipient flight may prove to be broad and lasting. And then there’s the stunning and mature ‘See Things Through’, a song that burns slowly and doesn’t seem like it’s going to knock you over until you realise you’re already on your arse.
In between songs, Toria morphs from ethereal song-bride into pure Lancashire lass, grinning and telling deliberately crap jokes and connecting with people in the crowd over the Susan Hill novel The Woman in Black, which inspired her ‘House on the Hill’ song tonight. While on paper such things may seem to risk dispelling the delicate, haunting tone of Toria’s music, in reality it does not. Such moments earth her, allow us to recognise her as genuine, and make it all the more remarkable when after a laugh she picks on the strings of her guitar again and casts another spell.
There is a sense of everything being correct, of this being one of those nights of live music where everything falls into place and it is remembered: the pure, soaring voice which seems to have carried down from the Wilderswood moor; the confident folk picking on Toria’s acoustic guitar; the times when Polly’s cello bursts with a violently beautiful sound at the optimal moment of a song’s release, as in ‘The Flood’ – a concoction of timing and beauty and flowering expression that together makes the experience as a whole truly special.
It is Toria’s biggest gig of the tour, and while the 60-plus people who have filled the Yes Basement may not seem like a large number in the scheme of things, the enthusiasm and the energy of the fans here – and the same from Toria in response – have made it seem like 600. The basement has heaved like a living thing, and while Great Hand himself may not be here to silence the music, when Toria chooses to end it herself she receives her own great hand of applause. As the crowd slowly filters out, I think of us as pipers who, having descended, have heard such music in the dark that we have no wish to return to the surface. But in the dissipating magic of the basement, I morph reluctantly from the piper into the dog who is marked by his experience. I walk up the stairs and out onto Charles Street, a light rain falling in the night to soothe my singed skin.
Setlist:
(all songs from the album Toria Wooff and written by Toria Wooff, unless noted)
The Lodge, The Deaf Institute, Manchester, England
“Thank you for being here instead of going to see Bruce Springsteen,” Esther Rose says from the stage after finishing her song ‘Chet Baker’ about halfway through her set. While Esther plays in front of a group of about thirty people here at The Deaf Institute, across town the Boss is performing his third and final Manchester concert in a week in front of a crowd of more than twenty thousand.
For my part, I can only take a half-credit of Esther’s gratitude. I’d already seen Bruce live on Saturday for his second Manchester salvo, and had finished writing my review of the night in the hours before this next gig, hitting the ‘publish’ button just before I headed out to the Deaf Institute. From Born to Run to Safe to Run.
‘Chet Baker’ is one of only two songs from Esther’s Safe to Run album to be played tonight, but it’s a fitting one for the start of my review. A chance encounter with the song on an Instagram story a couple of years ago introduced me to Esther’s music and immediately had me hooked. After illness prevented me from seeing her live when she came to Manchester in September last year, I was determined tonight would be different, particularly as she is riding high from the release of her new album Want just a few weeks ago.
Perhaps because of that recent triumph, Esther Rose seems comfortable tonight in returning to her origins, opening her set with two songs from her debut album This Time Last Night, ‘Wanton Way of Loving’ and ‘Jump Down Baby’. Both songs show that the catchy melodies of Want are not new developments; Esther has had this gift for years. Perched atop her stool, smiling and singing happily, Esther attempts to ignite a singalong on her opening number. “Everybody!” she yells, somewhat ambitiously. “Somebody!” No takers. “Anybody!” she laughs.
The crowd laughs also; we recognise that we’re not quite doing our part. It’s not that the audience is bad, or unwelcoming. Perhaps there’s a culture clash, with Esther’s sunny and vibrant American presence outmatching her more inhibited – or repressed – British audience. Perhaps it’s the lights; certainly, Esther believes so, and she asks for the room’s lights to be lowered, improving the ambience and encouraging those who are shy to feel a little looser. Or perhaps the reason is just the small number of people in the crowd, each person expecting someone else will be the one to whoop or holler or dance; the musical equivalent of the bystander effect.
It’s a challenge also faced by Hannah Ashcroft, the opening act tonight. Stood solo behind an electric guitar, which gives her music a funky edge, Hannah meets a disparate audience of perhaps 17 or 18 people with a six-song sequence of bended guitar licks and hooks, starting and ending strongly with ‘Under the Static’ and ‘Amoeba’ respectively. Tuning her guitar in between songs, Hannah fills the silence by mentioning her friend bought her a capo because she takes too long to tune. “I lost it,” she says, “so here we are!” Her catchy pop-tinged music is a fine warm-up for Esther’s own brand – if I am allowed to appropriate her lyric from ‘Shadow’, they are from the “same book, different page”.
By the time Esther takes the stage, the number in the crowd has peaked at around thirty. Whatever the reason may be for our inhibition, Esther is undaunted, conveying a warm and gracious presence throughout and making this small gathering feel like the most important group in the world. Even when she asks a photographer to stop taking pictures – they’ve been using a mechanical shutter, and its percussive snapping has become distracting – there’s no thorn on this Rose. “There’s not gonna be much change up here,” she tells the budding paparazzo softly from behind her sunburst acoustic guitar, her platform-booted legs crossed in a pose she will maintain all night.
I don’t exempt myself from criticism here. I hang back in the crowd at every gig I attend, and I couldn’t be any more of a wallflower tonight if I was singing ‘Sixth Avenue Heartache’. But I’m keen and grateful to be here tonight, even if I don’t broadcast the fact. When Esther says, with a playfully exaggerated vulnerability, “crowd participation is optional – but I’m up here all alone,” I feel a bit guilty. When she says that if there’s any song we want her to sing, then shout it out, I am tempted to overcome my usual inhibitions and holler for ‘Handyman’. But I don’t. (And she sings it later anyway, towards the end of her set, so there’s no regrets.)
But what I do realise as Esther pursues her set is that artists don’t need encouragement in order to express themselves, even if they dearly value and are grateful for it. Every artist at some point commits to their art in the face of indifference, entropy and personal limitations – even Bruce Springsteen, who probably has twenty thousand people waving in sync to ‘Bobby Jean’ at this very moment. Roses need no hands to bloom; Esther Rose can blossom even if those of us in the room are faithless gardeners and do not always tend to her.
It means I can listen with a sort of reverence as Esther navigates her way through a fine set of songs, including eight from the glittering Want. She name-checks musical friends like Dean Johnson before singing ‘Scars’ and Bella White before ‘Chet Baker’ (“this song is about Bella, though when I wrote it I thought it was written for my younger self”). She hands out a postcard to be passed around the room, on which she drew a conceptual map of how some of her new songs link together. (Somebody must pocket it or post it to China, because it never reaches my side of the room. Later, I will buy one from the merchandise stand.)
Esther sings so crisply her high voice almost breaks on ‘Tailspin’ – “just love me”, she sings – and again on the titular ‘Want’, her “elder millennial anthem” which closes her set. This commitment deserves a reward, and by the end of the night she has received the singalong she has been seeking since her opening song, turning musical director to co-ordinate the audience in the singing of “got to let it go” on ‘Spider’. It’s endearing to see how much this small victory means to her in her smile.
“I don’t like those big shows,” Esther had said earlier tonight, after thanking us for being here with her instead of with Bruce Springsteen. “I’d much rather be here, listening to some unknown singer-songwriter.” It’s a sentiment she expands upon later, shortly before debuting a new song inspired by Joni Mitchell. She’s been reading the book Traveling by Ann Powers – it’s a biography of Joni – and her newly-penned song, delivered with Joni-like vocal patterns, feels hot out of the oven, with a line about her “travelling companion still at the wheel”.
In the book, Esther says, Joni was quoted as saying her ideal audience is 30 to 40 people. “This is someone who could be headlining with Bruce Springsteen,” Esther remarks with awe, and while she herself is competing with the Boss for Manchester’s attention tonight rather than sharing it, the implication is clear. Esther feels grateful for playing for her ideal audience. She loves to tour, she says, because living in the moment is what it’s all about. Her performance tonight shows that the philosophy of an artist, the perspective from which they approach their work, the gratitude they show for an opportunity to let even a few dozen hear it, are more profound signs of artistic success than any box-office head count. A life on the road can be a life lived well. In Manchester tonight there are two lights shining.
Setlist:
(all songs from the album Want and written by Esther Rose, unless noted)
Wanton Way of Loving (from This Time Last Night)
Jump Down Baby (from This Time Last Night)
Don’t Blame it on the Moon (from You Made it This Far)
Tailspin (Esther Rose/Ross Farbe)
Heather (from the Rough Trade Exclusive version of Want)
As I approach the doors of the Co-Op Live arena to scan my ticket, my ears catch the soaring guitars of ‘Learning to Fly’ playing over the venue’s speakers. I’m always buoyed when I hear a Tom Petty song in a concert hall – before this evening, it has happened at twoTyler Childers gigs – because it reminds me of why I decide to be here experiencing such events. A big fan of Petty, I had never seen his band live and, after his sudden death, I realised with a pang that I never would. It made me resolve to never again pass up an opportunity to hear the music I love, and in recent years I have been privileged to witness the likes of Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney and now Bruce Springsteen live on a stage, as well as exploring a wealth of music from a burgeoning country and roots scene, a cast of young unknowns and future greats including the afore-mentioned Childers. All of this comes to my mind as Mike Campbell’s slide guitar solo plays over the speakers. I look up with a smile as a white gull glides through a cloudless blue sky.
This is how I had intended to write my review; a mere narrative of the night, its sights and sounds and feel recorded for posterity, even if only for myself. But the Boss has spoken. Days earlier, Bruce Springsteen had taken to the same stage in Manchester and delivered a planned speech attacking Donald Trump, warning against authoritarianism and charging the President with an assault on civil liberties in America. It’s a speech he will deliver again before his set tonight.
The speech made headline news – and drew a rebuke from President Trump, who labelled Bruce “a dried out prune of a rocker” who “ought to keep his mouth shut”. Consequently, the shadow of Trump looms over this second night. It means that, even as I queue outside the Co-Op Live for Round Two, the story continues to swirl. Will the Boss double down? Will Trump respond again? It means, on a purely selfish note, that I feel slightly peeved at having missed that first historic night simply because I chose the second of Springsteen’s three dates in the city, like a man who walks past 3 Savile Row just as the Beatles are packing up from their rooftop concert. And a devil in me also ensures it means that, when I am at the merchandise stand buying a tour t-shirt, I feel compelled to pick out the orange one.
In a way, it’s a shame that the political overshadows this night of music, for the E Street Band prove to be on great form. Nils Lofgren tears it up with some deliciously dirty guitar soloes and spins around like a man a quarter of his age, drawing many a roar from the crowd. Max Weinberg booms tirelessly on drums. And Jake Clemons proves the boots of the Big Man are not too big to fill, delivering those stirring saxophone notes which take Springsteen’s songs to another level entirely.
This night, then, can be seen as a meditation on power: the political power that Bruce explicitly targets in between songs, but also on the power of music to overcome and transcend differences. When the Boss speaks at the start of the night, it’s not solely a political statement – though it is very much that – but a statement on the value of “rock and roll in dangerous times”.
I must confess: I have an instinctive suspicion of musicians getting political. While I’m not of the opinion that artists should “just shut up and sing”, which has been a charge thrown at Bruce from some quarters since his on-stage statement a few days ago, I do sometimes resent having to work harder to separate the art from the artist. Political statements from artists are not always perceptive, are often simplistic, and at their worst can be opportunistic or self-aggrandising. Reacting to or commenting on those statements, whether for or against, gets you on the radar of some very tedious people, particularly in our social media age, and dragged into exhausting arguments with those who treat ad hominems, non sequiturs and logical fallacies like old friends to be welcomed to dine at table. Online politics is a pit of vipers, and if you fall in you get bit by fangs on all sides.
This is not a charge I lay against Bruce Springsteen, to be clear. His statements are not simplistic or lacking in perception; they show nuance and clarity, even though I find myself surprisingly cold at some of the broader sweeps of his brush. The Boss has always been political in his art, even if tonight feels especially politically-charged, and it’s an essential component of his lyrical content. What is more, there is a noble and unrepentant strain of political protest in the roots of the Irish and American folk music that Springsteen draws water from. Far be it from me to stifle what shoots may choose to grow from that well.
But I do find myself wishing I was sailing into my first Bruce Springsteen concert on calmer waters. Because now, instead of commenting on how fun it is to hear ‘Hungry Heart’ from the stage, or ‘Badlands’, or ‘Born to Run’, I find myself having to get my political ducks in a row. I can’t enjoy ‘Bobby Jean’ or ‘Dancing in the Dark’ to the full, or look back on them with fondness, until I square this circle of how I feel about the intersection of art and politics on Bruce’s stage.
I’m not a professional Trump-hater – certainly, I don’t make it part of my online identity. Nevertheless, I do feel deeply sick about the treatment of Ukraine, and President Zelensky, not least by the toadying Vance. And speaking as we are of power, I recognise the latent power that Trump has ridden to political victory, born out of things ignored until they evolved into something that could no longer be ignored, and I lament that they were suppressed so long that this seemed their only outlet.
I once read something attributed to Phillips Brooks which said that when America names its man, it names Lincoln. As a lover of America and its roll call of great men – not only Lincoln but the diverse talents and character of the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Dick Winters, Ed Murrow and Tom Petty – I find it passingly sad that, twice in the last eight years, America has named Donald J. Trump its man, for want of any better. Bruce Springsteen seems to be struggling to process this more than myself, if his bowed head on stage or his fierce and frustrated guitar solo on ‘Rainmaker’ are any indication. And yet, because Springsteen has posed the question, it leads one to remember that he himself campaigned most recently for Joe Biden and then Kamala Harris to be America’s advocate. Without getting into a political debate over the merits and demerits of that duo, most would surely concede that they are not American politicians of the first rank.
The night of music having been prised open by a political crowbar, more thoughts come pouring through the gap. If Springsteen makes himself the lightning rod for this topic, one must ask the question of what he hopes to achieve. It would not take much work to show President Trump as vain, gluttonous and bullying in his office, but for all his trespasses I find myself nervous at how the words ‘dictator’ or ‘fascist’ are thrown around so readily (though note that Springsteen himself does not use the latter term in his speeches tonight). Partly this is because, having read extensively about the horrors committed by actual fascism in history, I need a higher bar to make that charge. But it is also because – unlike many, it seems – I remember the assassin’s bullet last year. For an artist on stage, branding your political opponent a dictator has the effect of making you appear an icon, a rebel, a folk hero, but to some of the crazies out there it has them crouching on a roof in Butler, Pennsylvania, with a clear line of sight and millimetres away from starting a civil war.
One also wonders if Manchester is the best stage for this principled stance. We have our own fine history of political dissent, of course, but one wonders if Springsteen’s comments would not have been more impactful, and more courageous, if first voiced in an American city. While no doubt heartfelt, in Europe the speech has a sense of tilting at windmills, as though a bunch of soused Mancs on a Saturday could be inspired to march on Washington.
On a stage in England, one wonders if Bruce could have found other worthy concerns to lend his voice to, tailored to the moment, rather than issuing an open-ended call to arms against the latest anomaly in the American experiment. One wonders if he would speak against, or is even aware of, the circumstances of the very venue he plays tonight? The Co-Op Live arena is built on the Etihad campus and part-owned by the City Football Group, an umbrella company that has been accused of sports-washing and financial doping, and which remains an unrepentant actor in a trend that has taken a truly working-class sport and made success largely dependent on which emirate owns your community.
Or Bruce could have used his platform in England to show solidarity with the likes of Elton John and Paul McCartney, two peers who at this moment have placed their names (among many others) in opposition to the British government’s attempt to perpetrate a mass theft of copyrighted art. The disgraceful Data (Use and Access) Bill is being pushed through Parliament as we speak, and would involve asset-stripping the creative industries in order to feed corporate A.I. machine-learning which will, in turn, replace those artists. To use Bruce’s own phrase from one of tonight’s speeches, this is happening now. And what is more, it is something specific that can be targeted for change, and where another cultural icon’s name to the ranks would add great weight and encouragement – and expose the issue to his fans.
Such are the criticisms which can emerge, even among your fans and allies, when you stand on a soapbox. But I find that the more I reason this out, this nexus of politics and art that is so important to Springsteen, the more I am able to recognise his power. Art and story has a unique way of cutting through the bullshit, and as a storyteller Bruce has thought and written deeply about his country, saying he has “tried to be an ambassador for America for fifty years”.
It means that what we witness tonight is the framework of a tragedy. In Trump, perhaps we see what happens when the stories America tells itself meet reality, when the shining city on the hill finds itself under a blanket of fog. In many ways, the Trump administration’s crude realpolitik is not unusual in American history; it would not look out of place amongst Teddy Roosevelt’s imperial attempts, or the various treaties drafted with Native American tribes, treaties signed with the left hand while the right hand taketh away. In such a context, the current President sees no reason not to covet Greenland, or rename the Gulf of Mexico, nor to back Ukraine against naked military aggression unless it surrenders to him its mineral wealth.
To be fair, Springsteen has never been an uncritical cheerleader for the Republic; if anyone takes ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ for a blithely patriotic anthem, it’s because they aren’t listening to the lyrics. But herein lies the two aspects of the current tragedy. On one hand, you have an electorate which wants to make America great again, to bask in the glow of the story of American exceptionalism even while behaving less than exceptionally. On the other hand, you have men like Springsteen who have long channelled a nuanced and exhilarating image of America through rock and roll – that great American invention – who now find themselves with a creased brow and an ache in their voice as they insist that the America they wrote about is real. “It is real,” Bruce says, with emphasis, to the Manchester crowd.
And one wonderful thing about such difficult moments is that they are when artists dig deep and find their power. A Bruce Springsteen set is known for being energetic, but tonight feels especially potent. Almost the entire set is one anthem after another, delivered seemingly without pause for breath, beginning with ‘Land of Hope and Dreams’ and ending hours later with Steven Van Zandt’s purple Rickenbacker ringing on ‘Chimes of Freedom’. The politically-sparked energy feeds into the other numbers; a fun and lively ‘Out in the Street’, a raucous ‘Ghosts’ and ‘Murder Incorporated’, to say nothing of that prime Clemons saxophone bursting through each and all of the greatest hits and making everyone here feel more than alive. Bruce often steps aside to allow the crowd to sing iconic lyrics, sometimes even entire verses. It’s a thrilling set delivered in overdrive by the E Street Band, and if the songwriting nuance is sometimes lost in the power, it’s a worthy riposte to outside events. The Boss makes a mockery of Trump’s remarks; this “dried out prune” has plenty of juice.
Even more remarkably, there are moments when the nuance is not lost in the fizzing energy of the Manchester thousands. ‘House of a Thousand Guitars’ is a rare quiet moment, delivered by Bruce alone on an acoustic guitar, and when he sings ‘Atlantic City’, the political context of the night seems to put extra feeling into the line “Maybe everything that dies someday comes back.” In the finest single moment of the night, Bruce draws goosebumps as he sings ‘Long Walk Home’:
My father said "Son, we're lucky in this town It's a beautiful place to be born It just wraps its arms around you Nobody crowds you, Nobody goes it alone. You know that flag flying over the courthouse Means certain things are set in stone Who we are, What we'll do, And what we won't."
In a pure moment like this one, an artist says more than my thousands of words of prose – more succinctly, and with a greater clarity. I’ve written on a number of occasions in my concert reviews of how I could not hope to communicate in words what these nights communicate in magical moments, often quoting Walter Pater’s line about how all art aspires to the condition of music. At the start of the night, the Boss had roared that “the mighty E Street Band is here tonight, to call upon the righteous power of art, of music, of rock and roll in dangerous times”. On many occasions tonight, he has shown how that power outmatches – it trumps, if you will – all other types of power, including the political.
Perhaps if all art aspires to the condition of music, all power aspires to it also. In Trump’s remarks there is something of envy. In the moment that Bruce Springsteen sings of that flag flying over the courthouse, nothing is more true or imperishable than the America he brings to mind.
Setlist:
(all songs written by Bruce Springsteen, unless noted)
Land of Hope and Dreams (from Wrecking Ball)
Death to My Hometown (from Wrecking Ball)
Lonesome Day (from The Rising)
Out in the Street (from The River)
Rainmaker (from Letter to You)
Atlantic City (from Nebraska)
The Promised Land (from Darkness on the Edge of Town)
Hungry Heart (from The River)
The River (from The River)
Youngstown (from The Ghost of Tom Joad)
Murder Incorporated (from Greatest Hits)
Long Walk Home (from Magic)
House of a Thousand Guitars (from Letter to You)
My City of Ruins (from The Rising)
Ghosts (from Letter to You)
Because the Night (Springsteen/Patti Smith) (from The Promise)
Human Touch (from Human Touch)
Wrecking Ball (from Wrecking Ball)
The Rising (from The Rising)
Badlands (from Darkness on the Edge of Town)
Thunder Road (from Born to Run)
Encore: Born in the U.S.A. (from Born in the U.S.A.)
Encore: Born to Run (from Born to Run)
Encore: Bobby Jean (from Born in the U.S.A.)
Encore: Dancing in the Dark (from Born in the U.S.A.)
Encore: Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out (from Born to Run)
Encore: Chimes of Freedom (Bob Dylan) (from Chimes of Freedom)
Note: An official stream of tonight’s show will be available on Nugs.net here.
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