Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Monday
The first acts caught on
Hove’s opening day initially might make the most
open-minded music fan question what they travelled hundreds
of miles in the middle of the night for. Santogold was
supposed to be performing, but cancelled at the last
minute. DJ Tommy Tee and MC Ken Ring ***
not only have the stupidest names this side of The Ting
Tings, but in Mr Tee (sorry), they have the middle aged
Swedish equivalent of Blighty’s own Tim Westwood.
Over-use of sampled gun-shots, embarrassing white dad
dancing and, erm, embarrassing white dad looks, are
soon forgotten as our trusty MC proves to be highly
accomplished.
A distinctly early nineties gangsta feel
runs throughout a highly entertaining (if a bit ridiculous)
set leading to Brooklyn rapper Saigon’s
*** continuation of the gangsta vibe. Unfortunately
his lively lyrical rhythms and crowd-pleasing patter
is sabotaged as Mr Tee (sorry again) gets very carried
away with the gunshot samples and what could have been
a great set remains a good one.
On the festival’s allocated hip-hop
day, metal bands are few and far between. Savannah,
Georgia quartet Baroness **** more
than fill the void. An early contender for best heavy
act amongst the many playing at the festival, their
impressive mix of stoner rock hollering and southern
rock posturing instantly grabs a sizeable crowd by the
throat, refusing to let go til they submit. As a brilliant
opening gambit for metal, Baroness is hard to beat.
Speaking of posturing, Les Savy
Fav **** have a lot of hype behind them, though
it’s good to report that ultra-charismatic frontman
Tim Hartington’s striking performance pushes his
band to greatness live.
A jagged, arty indie noise with melodic
moments, Les Savy Fav, without their singer, could perhaps
be lost in the myriad similar-sounding bands. Coming
on stage in a leotard and cape, the overweight, bald,
beardo Hartington plays the crowd to perfection, persistently
parodies tonight’s headliner, Jay-Z, to hilarious
effect, dives into the crowd at a moment’s notice
and even climbs under the auditorium’s make-shift
flooring. The ideal festival band, ‘Go Forth’
is the highpoint in a set of highpoints.
A bit of time to chill out before the
Hova himself comes on stage and the excitement in the
crowd is palpable. By far the biggest turnout of the
week, this is a run-through for Jay-Z’s
**** historic Glastonbury gig a few days later
and doesn’t disappoint. Every single word is note-perfect,
with not one syllable out of place as Shawn Carter’s
equally over-achieving backing band lend an epic feeling
to proceedings. All the hits are served perfectly, including
the obvious ’99 Problems’ and ‘Girls,
Girls, Girls’, though less obvious choices such
as one track sampling Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab’
and a cover of Estelle and Kanye West’s ‘American
Boy’ emerge as big hitters. The blinging banter
and sexist foolishness between songs grates a little
toward the set’s end, but this minor irritation
doesn’t detract from a brilliant headline set,
based purely on quality music.
How to follow Jay-Z, you may ask? Well,
one band you definitely shouldn’t put on after
such a spellbinding show is the vastly overrated Black
Kids *. Their debut album sounds like quite
simplistic eighties nostalgia beefed up with clinical
production to sound like Tears For Fears or Echo and
the Bunnymen. Live, it sounds like a turd with the polish
worn away. Plodding, sloppy playing and bad song-writing
are exposed as the crowd seem to be collectively wishing
for more Jay-Z.
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Tuesday
A nice long lay-in (all the gigs at Hove
start mid-afternoon, for a pleasantly relaxed take on
the festival experience) and the day begins with Norwegian
grunge-rockers Audrey Horne **. Named
after Sherilyn Fenn’s character in cult classic
TV show Twin Peaks, you might expect something a little
odd about their sound. Well, you’d be wrong. Though
perfectly adequate, there’s very little here distinguishing
them from any other pub-rocking nineties wannabes. Hey,
at least they’re not Nickelback.
MGMT *** are being tipped
as the next big thing, and from the strength of this
set, they could be very big indeed, even if they don’t
quite deserve it. A nice-sounding Beatles pop sensibility
mixes with 70s glam and Mercury Rev psychedelia (their
debut album’s produced by MR bass player Dave
Fridmann) as vocalist Andrew VanWynGarden sounds more
than a little like the great Conor Oberst. All the ingredients
are there but the whole doesn’t quite add up to
anything more than the sum of its parts. Accomplished
as it is, there’s a pervading sense of disappointment
in this chilled-out afternoon crowd.
After the sleepy, spaced-out rock of MGMT,
Queens of the Stone Age approved Norwegian classic rockers
We *** act as an alarm call, jolting
you rudely out of your haze. Though pretty fun in an
almost power metal style of silliness, there’s
little marking them out from any other big haired guitar
grunts. Keeping up the ‘fun’ quotient, The
Pigeon Detectives *** are akin to the indie
version of We. Jingly-jangly guitars and a mop-haired,
energetic frontman (endearingly light-hearted, not to
mention clumsy as he falls onto photographers at the
very start of the set!) should ignite the crowd’s
passions more than today’s show actually does.
Admittedly, the Pigeon Detectives’ songs are pretty
standard, verging on the mediocre, though frontman Matt
Bowman has something of the Justin Hawkins about him,
throwing himself through the air relentlessly, like
a tireless puppy running after a ball. Unfortunately,
though a minor success, the Scandinavian crowd isn’t
as receptive to the Pigeon Detectives’ charms
as the UK and despite their best efforts you can’t
help but feel the show’s forgotten by many right
after its finale.
So, after the kids’ playtime, we
head back to the main stage for another space-rock influenced
band following MGMT’s earlier set. Montreal’s
Stars ***, who, though at times are stunningly
lush with intricately layered pop songs touching upon
Arcade Fire magnitude, fail to ignite an already sleepy
crowd. Amiable between song banter about ‘not
letting yourselves get beaten by the cool kids’
unfortunately rings true as Stars fall into insignificance
compared to the bigger names on the bill. That is, with
the exception of The Kooks **.
Luke Pritchard and co have their fair
share of both fans and detractors, and tonight’s
show clearly could work in favour of either argument.
Sure, all their big hits are present and correct, such
as ‘Naïve’ and ‘She Moves In
Her Own Way’. Though these songs provoke a decent
response from an undemanding crowd, the fact remains
that they’re standard singalongs showing little
invention and even less charisma. The tiny amount of
energy in the band’s back catalogue is even more
diminished as an incredibly lazy set saunters by innocuously.
Singer Luke comments on ‘all the beautiful women’
present, and he’s seen wrapped around a suspiciously
Scandinavian-looking lady about five minutes after the
show. After such a half-assed performance, you can’t
help but get the impression the gig itself was just
an obstacle on the way to ‘being’ a rock
star and meeting said ‘beautiful women’.
Not dissimilar to The Kooks in that they
play lowest common denominator pop-rock for the masses,
The Wombats *** are far more likeable
because of the potent ‘fun-factor’ The Pigeon
Detectives and We have in abundance.
Due perhaps to the band’s Anglo-Norwegian
heritage, The Wombats are insanely popular here, drawing
one of the biggest crowds of the weekend for the smaller
tent stage. Their soft as hell punk-inspired jaunts
may not be a) that interesting or b) that accomplished,
but what they lack in substance is made up for with
cheeky-chappy style. A tent full of hyperactive Norwegian
teens can’t be completely wrong (ok, they can,
but this time they’re not) as bouncy tales of
teenage foolishness hold an audience captive.
The big headliners of the day, Vegas’
Panic At The Disco * have a hardcore
fanbase screaming like emo harpies, and this similarity
to more obvious boy bands says it all. Most of their
songs stink in the first place with each sounding identical
to the next, but add to that an uninspired performance
meandering along like a tortoise with ADD and you have
a sub-standard headline act far inferior to bands further
down the bill. Vocalist Brendon Urie has about as much
charisma as Luke Kook (ie very little) and even the
odd foray into different genres fails horribly. The
band has recently taken the exclamation mark from the
‘Panic’ of their name. Presumably, this
is to highlight their crushing lack of anything of any
interest.
Stumbling away from one disco inferno
straight to another, the tipped for big things New York
dance-floor gang Hercules and Love Affair **
aren’t much better. Conjuring the image of late
seventies hedonism and hip disco clubs, they don’t
so much reference that era as rip off its worst excesses
with a pseudo-modern gloss designed to fool your average
sunglasses-at-night consumer. Forgettable grooves place
them way below the dance titans MSTRKRFT in the clubbing
big leagues, but we’ll get onto them later.
After quite enough of Hercules and Love
Affair, it’s over to preppy fellow New Yorkers
Vampire Weekend ***. On record, their
debut album sounds great in a Paul Simon, white boy
appropriating world music kind of way. Live, it sounds
like that vibrant collection of songs has been slowed
down to a crawl. Admittedly, the crawl sounds nicely
textured and soothing after some of the unpleasantness
of earlier. Still, the set could do with more stormers
like the brilliant ‘I Stand Corrected’ to
finish their night with a bang instead of a yawn. However
unspectacularly Vampire Weekend finish their slot, it
couldn’t be as bad as The Ting Tings’
** (or the Ting Things, as the stage schedule
reads) night. OCD sound-checking and an unstable platform
initially cause big delays and a hostile, impatient
crowd. When the band eventually manages to get on stage,
the sound is somehow still messed up, with singer Katie’s
voice drowned out in the mix. After a few songs, an
understandably nervous Katie starts to really get into
things, and then…. it’s all over. The weakened
floorboards of earlier have now become like a trampoline
and safety people usher a disappointed crowd into the
night. A set showing some promise is frustratingly hampered
and a day of frustration ends on an appropriately grim
note.
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Wednesday
After last night’s downer, the perfect
way to start the third day is surprisingly similar to
Hove’s East Sussex namesake: strolling down to
the beach for a bit of sun. A wander around some of
the festival’s many art installations beckons
next, including a striking bunker full of surreal paintings
by talented Glaswegian Nils Martin. Familiar, yet entirely
otherworldly, Martin’s work clashes magnificently
with the stunning natural beauty all around. Just to
remind us of where we are, White Denim ***
bring us down to earth with an almighty ‘thunk’.
Hailing from Austin, Texas, they epitomise the southern
rock squall you’d expect to provide the soundtrack
to bar-room brawls, truck-stop diners and other stereotype
wild west scenarios. Big riffs and galloping macho sounds
are the order of the day, though where White Denim excel
is in introducing elements of drawn out prog to make
their set more interesting. All good, though little
apart from the epic-sounding ‘Let’s Talk
About It’ stands out above the crowd.
From none-more macho yank rock to the
lounge-room noir of Norway’s Charlotte
and the Co-Stars **, now. Sporadically amazing,
in a Nick Cave/Chris Isaac steel guitar twanging way,
the titular Charlotte lacks the stage presence of the
moody acts she clearly looks up to. ‘Waiting For
The Rain’ is an obvious highlight, oddly uplifting
for such a bleak song, though the band leave no other
lasting impression.
Long before emo was the much-maligned
genre it is nowadays, its forefathers, and bands like
Quicksand, Gorilla Biscuits, Civ and Youth of Today,
were given the much nicer tag of post-hardcore. They
seemed to fade into obscurity as the new breed of goons
that hang around shopping centres took the limelight
and Rival Schools ****, made up of
former members of the aforementioned bands, split up.
Their one studio album, United By Fate,
remains a great collaborative effort. This time round
(the band reformed earlier this year), the songs sound
just as invigorating, along with new additions, such
as the Nirvana-esque ‘Sophia Loren’ serving
as brilliant punctuation marks between the older material.
Of course, the all-round rock anthem ‘Used For
Glue’ blows the surprisingly small crowd away
as a potent reminder of just what we’ve been missing.
Oxford clever types Foals ***,
who recently relocated to Brighton, are usually nothing
short of spectacular live, so it’s a shame to
see them flounder during this big-stage performance.
At worst, though, their angular, technically
precise, yet accessible perspective on math-rock is
still rousing enough to quicken the pulse, as ‘Cassius’
and ‘Mathletics’ remain world-class intelligent
indie barnstormers. Fellow Brightonians Blood
Red Shoes **** have the reputation of their
city’s music scene resting on their shoulders
after Foals’ hurdle trip and The Kooks being,
well, The Kooks.
With just Laura-Mary Carter on guitar
and vocals and drummer Steven Ansell, they make a louder
racket than the five-man Foals and four-piece Kooks
combined in this largely overlooked grunge-pop extravaganza.
Not all of the pair’s material is up to the devastatingly
infectious standards of ‘It’s Getting Boring
By The Sea’ and ‘Say Something, Say Anything’
and the sound mix could be better, but this striking
set is never anything less than heart-poundingly alive.
Wailing Sonic Youth guitars and riot grrl vocals are
given a pop sensibility by up-tempo, deceptively simple
drumming and the tent stage is theirs.
And now for something completely different;
namely Ireland’s premier-league folk-punks Flogging
Molly ****. The surprise of the festival, their
often irritating karaoke Pogues simply doesn’t
work on CD, but live, it becomes a community-rallying
pub-singsong of the highest calibre. One of the most
popular sets of the week, the second stage is rammed
with revellers boogying, those sat around the bowl-shaped
area laughing heartily and every single type of music
fan at the festival united in the simple enjoyment of
old-fashioned song-writing celebrating life, love and
everything in between. This bizarre effect is, unfortunately,
reversed after Molly’s set, when Band
of Horses ** take the main stage. Their recorded
output is often brilliant, mixing good ol’ boy
rock with moments of mystical wandering. In the live
arena, Ben Bridwell’s boys are clearly aiming
for something ethereal but, like the slightly similar
MGMT remain earth-bound. Good solid, songs seem to plod
along after the raucous fun of the Irishmen’s
set on the other stage. Maybe this would have worked
better earlier in the day, but this ends up as a bit
of a downer when the party should only just be starting.
Bad Religion **, you
may be forgiven for thinking, would be the perfect antidote
to the slow-burning fatigue prompted by Band of Horses’
set. Their angry, fast-paced, politicised punk can,
on the right day, be a righteous injection of old-fashioned
fury. A packed out crowd clearly love tonight’s
set, but to this corner, they resemble veterans playing
one song over and over again. Next up, we have Beck
***’s much-anticipated headline set.
It all starts promisingly enough as the letters B.E.C
and K are spelt in big shiny balloons in the background
and his very young little girl clambers about on stage,
with cameras projecting her insanely cute presence to
an adoring mass. There’s a good-natured enthusiasm
building and every big hit of Beck’s career lights
the collective consciousness. Not one of the five or
six big boys is missed out, from ‘Loser’
to ‘Where It’s At’, but the trouble
is that every song in between sounds (like Bad Religion,
albeit much less ‘punk) identical, in a lo-fi
influenced if radio-friendly way. Between the massive
numbers from his nineties heyday, the crowd seems to
fall asleep, murmuring in bored indifference. Rumours
abound that Beck himself has come straight from his
sick-bed tonight, though his performance is fine; it
seems more like a bad choice of songs wholly inappropriate
for a festival headline act.
Over to the tent stage once again now,
as it’s apparent people want to dance after the
somewhat lacklustre Beck affair. Sweden’s Familjen
** are a strange proposition. A DJ spins Depeche
Mode style dark electro-pop sounds as a curious cross
between Bez and Mike Skinner leaps about the stage spouting
presumably tales of urban excess, though who knows,
as, naturally, all the lyrics are in Swedish. At first,
this is the oddest-sounding and strangely bewitching
fusion of Madchester MC’ing in a Swedish accent
with eighties/so retro it’s modern dance beats.
Once the initial novelty’s worn off, though, the
white-boy rapping starts to grate and, by the end of
the set you want something, anything other than this.
Dimmu Borgir ***** does that nicely.
It wouldn’t be
a Norwegian music festival without a bit of the country’s
top musical export, black metal. So, having probably
the world’s biggest and best exponent of that
type of music provides one of the week’s very
best shows. From early, inherently savage material with
uncompromised blast beats, screaming vocals and atmospheric
synthesised grand guignol through to the band’s
more recent, slightly softened (though still insanely
brutal) work, this is an incredible spectacle. Epic,
almost operatic, metal assaults on the senses combine
with a dark panto stage show to end all others. An incredibly
long set that passes in the blink of an eye captivates
everyone present, as audience members try to get to
the tent stage for dance duo MSTRKRFT, but, like Pacino,
are pulled back in. Eventually, this stunning display
finishes and the tent stage beckons. MSTRKRFT
**** are just a little different to Norway’s
finest metallers. Former members of Death From Above
1979, they provide sophisticated, alternative-sounding,
yet rooted in house and dirty electro, dance beats.
They never fail to provide the very best of clubbing
experiences and the festival tent is their natural habitat.
Tonight’s set is typical MSTRKRFT- repetition
built to the point of hypnosis, then hysteria, then
a whole new obsessive riff. An almost physical response
to deep basslines and crackly samples is felt all around
as the moustachioed club heroes claim victory.
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Thursday
The unlikely bed-fellows of Dimmu Borgir
and MSTRKRFT (not literally; that would be hideous)
mean a much needed lay-in and afternoon chillout. Lukestar
*** provide a decent backdrop on this sunny
afternoon. Fusing Cardigans-esque polished indie pop
with the odd moment of prog bombast akin to Danish masters
Mew, Norwegians Lukestar couldn’t sound more Scandinavian
if they tried (if we’re ignoring black metal,
which we are). Nothing that challenging is attempted
(or wanted) and they produce good, solid rock for all
concerned. Arizona death-metallers Job For A
Cowboy *** soon put a spanner in the works.
A sparse crowd miss out on a spiteful blast of nasty
metal, complete with old-school thrash moments of pure,
hellish grind and fozzy bear growling. Their pretty
old-fashioned Florida scene sound provides a nice alternative
to the watered down, histrionic version currently everywhere
in the metal galaxy. They may not add much to the genre
(or actually, nothing, really), but what they do, they
do very well indeed, wringing every droplet of bile
out of their guitars. You’ve got to admire the
scheduling at the Hove Festival. Mixing and matching
genres and bands mercilessly, it’s hilarious to
see Job For A Cowboy followed by the tender acoustica
of Norway’s own Silje Nes ****.
On the first of two days populated largely
by metal acts drawn from far and wide, this four-piece
live incarnation of multi-instrumentalist Silje’s
music practice quietly affecting folk. Richly textured
with strings, glockenspiel, gently skiffling drums and
Silje’s haunting, Vashti Bunyan-esque vocals (she’s
signed to Fat Cat Records, the same as Bunyan herself),
there’s an air of Efterklang subtle majesty to
this set. Folk soon becomes anti-folk as a deliberately
dirty, crackling is introduced and a new, noisy direction
is explored. This journey is completed as the set reaches
a crashing, unexpected crescendo bridging the gap between
folk and the hard rock characterising today’s
line-up.
Back to metal now, as popular Welshmen
Bullet For My Valentine ** take the
stage. Purveying exactly the same watered down thrash
discussed earlier, whingey, almost emo-style vocals
intrude on an otherwise competent heavy guitar set.
Though technically precise, with a crystal-clear sound,
this actually works against the band as the whole wretched
thing ends up sounding cold, calculated and clinical.
What could be a nicely chugging guitar jam sounds like
someone’s playing a CD, admittedly very loudly,
as a few hired goons mime along. Still, another massive
turnout for note-perfect renditions of their back catalogue
goes down a treat with many.
Some camps suggest New Yorkers Yeasayer
***** are terrible live. Complaints about them
veering too far from the original source material of
debut record All Hour Cymbals and sounding sloppy and
pretentious are kind of understandable. To the very
few devoted fans eagerly at the front for this gig,
Yeasayer can do no wrong. From start to finish, this
is an amazing journey through the musical influences
on the band. Big fans of world music and prog rock,
their debut takes a while to work its magic, but once
you’re hooked, you’re hooked. The live Yeasayer
experience is phenomenal. What is a great album feels
somehow expanded on the main stage. Echoing, transcendental
blurs of riffs reverberate across the island as their
psychedelic mission statement of ‘transporting
the listener to another world’ is achieved. Frontman
Chris is a little like Talking Heads man David Byrne
with his geek-chic spasms and creative take on everything
and this similarity between bands stands also for general
innovation and formidable live presence. A wonderful
festival foray for such an interesting band, if there’s
any justice, they should go all the way to those other
worlds.
After the exquisite Yeasayer, it’s
almost insulting to have to stand through US metalcore
bruisers Killswitch Engage **‘s
lumpen set. Once a formidable new force in the heavy
music scene, the trouble with Killswitch is that they
haven’t progressed at all since their promising
debut. The odd nod to their earlier work sates the thirst
for some decent metal, but too often, it’s just
a few heavyweight lunks lumbering with phallic guitars
and forgettable riffs. A terrible sound muffles any
impact their admittedly sometimes brilliant songs create
and the result is frustratingly repetitive. Muscle-bound
ire can be so affecting, and the thwarted promise of
another contender is depressing.
Once again, it’s easy to imagine
the Hove schedulers chuckling deviously to themselves
as they consider following Killswitch with the defiantly
androgynous screamo of Jaguar Love ****.
Featuring former members of Seattle noise-meisters The
Blood Brothers and Pretty Girls Make Graves, this new
outfit sounds simultaneously like both former bands
and something wholly new. Frontman Johnny Whitney is
an absolute revelation. Small in stature but with a
massive, almost unbelievably high-pitched voice, he
remains one of the most distinctive singers in music.
His voice was once accurately described as ‘the
sound of children being tortured’ and that goes
some of the way to describing the Jaguar Love live show.
Catchy pop stabs not entirely dissimilar to the great
New Pornographers are given a feral toxicity leaving
the ears ringing, it not bleeding, of everyone in attendance.
After a week of frustrations, with M.I.A
and Santogold cancelling their sets, Crystal Castles
cancelling their set twice and even The Ting Tings’
venue collapsing, the biggest name to cancel their appearance
happens to be Babyshambles. Of course, anyone with half
a brain wouldn’t be in the slightest bit surprised
by this. But it’s a shame, as a day of carefully
structured, organised rock and roll could have done
with a shot of the calamitous Doherty roadshow.
So, everything’s moved forward a
bit and The Raconteurs ** fill the
main arena with Jack White and Brendan Benson’s
ever-committed fans. Jack, bizarrely, is starting to
look something like Michael Jackson mixed with Elvis
(or perhaps the child of Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley?),
while Brendan just looks like Reeves and Mortimer’s
Charlie Chuck. Anyway, that doesn’t matter (although
that does make watching them more fun), so we’ll
talk about the music. Where The White Stripes play raw,
pared-down rock and roll, White’s latest band
feels faintly unnecessary. You have to ask why get a
full band when just you and a drummer can create such
an impressive sound, but it’d probably fall on
deaf ears.
There are obvious moments of greatness
in this buddy-buddy supergroup’s set (namely ‘Steady
As She Goes’ as an anthemic closer), but too often
there’s the feeling of a few friends just having
a jam session on stage. When this is Yeasayer messing
with the formula, it sounds incredible. When it’s
The Raconteurs, it sounds like accomplished musicians
pleasuring themselves (ahem) with no real aim other
than just that. Time drags by with fleeting moments
of drama, but mostly this feels like an anticlimax to
the night. Duffy ** does little to
salvage things on the second stage as her modern-day
Dusty Springfield act falls flat. Though the Welshwoman
(is that right? Or is it Welshlady? Anyway…)
has an undoubtedly strong voice and engages the crowd
with her affected ditsy banter, her songs, apart from
the obvious ‘Mercy’, simply aren’t
that good. Everything ends up sounding like the drab
album tracks on the best Motown albums, between the
major hits, and nothing really grabs the crowd’s
attention. There’s precious little substance to
this performance save the odd big chorus and it’s
an underwhelming end to the night.
A premature exit from the festival due
to having to return to the UK means the quality line-up
on Friday has to be left out of this review. Missing
out on powerhouse metal bands such as In Flames and
Satyricon (replacing the cancelled Opeth), folk chanteuse
Goldfrapp and the brilliant stoner rockers Black Mountain
is pretty crushing, though doesn’t detract from
an overwhelmingly impressive week. The innovative line-up,
genuinely blending genres (where other festivals just
pay lip-service to diversity), whilst being in such
a stunningly beautiful natural environment works well
to make Hove one of Europe’s premier new festivals.
A focus on bringing new Norwegian acts to an international
audience there to see their favourite bands from home
offers a nice alternative to the US/UK-centric larger
festivals that often hog the limelight. A great week
all round, and highly recommended to any music lover.
Nick Aldwinckle(Latest7)
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