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mike tamburo
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pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
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Member Since6/18/2005
Band Websitehttp://www.miketamburo.com
Band Membersmike tamburo
Influencesmy rising kundalini, g.i. gurdjieff, father yod, wilhelm reich, yogi bhajan, ennio morricone, neil young, bola sete, charlemagne palestine, don caballero, robbie basho, my mom. my dogs, sun ra, steve reich, the sun, keenan lawler, anyone that looks at music and art as an adventure and is willing to explore all of the possibiliteies the imagination can create, monty python, the people i love, brion gysin, being alive, lamonte young, stan brakhage, beatles, gastr del sol, stars of the lid, brian ano, jonas mekas, tony conrad, john coltrane, harry smith, arnold dreyblatt, hermann hesse, 60's experimental film, john cage, velvet underground, all my peeps.

"I measure the merit of art by its consciousness. A work of objective art ought to be a book; the only difference being that the artist transmits his ideas not directly through words or signs, but through certain feelings which he excites consciously and in an orderly way, knowing what he is doing and why he does it." G.I. Gurdjieff

Sounds LikeOF MEISHA

By Mike Tamburo

I first began my guitar experiments sometime during the fall of 1995. I transferred to the Edinboro Branch and switched to part time work. I also started attending Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. It was there I first stumbled upon a number of books -- Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond, Conversations with Cage, Sensation on A Tone, Movie Journal, Cosmic Music, Pierre Boulez's Biography -- that changed my life. I had already lost interest in my classes, so I sat in my room for ten hours a day with a guitar I had borrowed from a friend and a four track, trying to understand all of the new concepts I was reading about in these books. My ears were open now to repetition, chance operations, overtones and prepared instruments.

One day while putting my equipment away after an exhausting day of recording, I set my guitar up against the wall. This was before I knew that you had to cut the ends off of strings after you put them on. One of the strings somehow went into a plug socket. The lights dimmed and I think I actually heard a spark. I turned around to see and hear all of the strings turning orange and detuning as they burned away. Fire spit from the pickups and dripped from the nut, setting the magazines and books I had on the floor into a mighty blaze. I just stood there, in a trance, mesmerized by what I was seeing. I had spent all day working on chance operations and now this. It was the most beautiful thing I could imagine. I am not sure if I went temporarily insane or was temporarily enlightened, but in the minute or so that I stood there listening and watching my friend's instrument and my room burn, I was completely changed. Somehow I knew anything was possible. Every sound I could come up with was valid. I snapped out of my trance and put the fire out and headed to the woods for some meditation. I dropped out of school and returned to New Kensington, immediately contacting my dear friend Ken Camden. We had always been close to each other and both shared a love for discovery that has guided each of us in our lives. The only problem I had was that I no longer had a guitar. It wasn't even mine and it was destroyed. Metal was burned onto the wood on the neck and the body, the nut and pickups were gone.

I took the guitar to a local music shop and instead of fixing it the man laughed at me, but he gave me a cheap heavy metal Cort guitar to use. I told him that it really needed fixed because it wasn't mine. He told me to see a man who lived in Moraine County.

Ken and I had started Meisha and everything was going great. Pete Spynda soon joined us and we all became obsessed with writing the most beautiful and alien music we could imagine. Though the day my guitar caught on fire continued to influence everything I did in my daily life. Its aftermath (the burnt guitar) was quickly forgotten about until the owner of the guitar asked about it. I knew I had to take a trip to Moraine.

When I finally arrived I had to walk up a mile long driveway (it was so rocky it would have been impossible for any car to drive up it), I was greeted by a very humble Middle Eastern man. I showed him the guitar and he gave me a stare that made my knees buckle.

"What kind of music are you playing, sir? This must be that high-energy rock music." He laughed to himself.

I told him it was very intricate and very overtone based.

"Overtones you say? What do you call your self?"

"Mike Tamburo."

"No, what do you call your project?"

"Meisha"

"Well, Mike Tamburo of Meisha, my name is Sayas Ser. I will fix this guitar for you if you bring some of this overtone music for me to hear."

I agreed. We were recording our first CD in a few weeks anyway. I returned for the guitar after almost a month had passed. I brought a cassette copy of what would soon become the first Meisha CD. He asked me to sit and listen to it with him. We sat completely silent for the entire 67 minutes. The music ended.

"Yes, that is good, but you are missing something. Your time is wrong."

I was a bit insulted. We had figured out rhythms in every odd time signature we could imagine.

"Every time I begin to feel lifted, you make some sort of shift and I am awoken again. You need to learn how to let time flow through your music. Here let me show you."

__________________________

FOR SAYAS

By Mike Tamburo

"The three of you are like a machine. You are a Meisha machine! If one of you is not working properly, the machine doesn't work properly. You have to put everything you can into your music. You have to use your entire soul to fuel your music. You all have your part. I want you to think about music. What is music?"

"The organization of intervals over time," Pete said.

"Yes, that is a part of it. But it is so much more. It is the universal language. It is the language of the cosmos. It is everything happening at once in perfect harmony. The three of you are in perfect harmony and balance together at this point in your lives. You are fortunate. This may never happen again. Be thankful that you have been this fortunate. So yes Pete, you were right, but let's make it very simple now, let's break it down further into what you can do with sound, into what makes up music at its most basic levels. First there is vibration. Everything vibrates. More importantly, everything that is vibrating affects everything else that is vibrating. Pythagoras called this the harmony of the spheres. So then, we now know the entire universe is vibrating and resonating. It is up to you to tune in and be in harmony with the universe."

"But if every sound is supposed to be in harmony, how do you explain dissonance and atonality?" I quipped.

"Dissonance and atonality are still in harmony with the universe. Think Michael think. Every sound in the entire universe, stars forming, nebulas shifting, babies crying they are all going together in a beautiful song. Now it is time for you to learn to play with that song. Even if you are playing against it, you are still playing with it in the flow of time. But if you play with it, you will learn its secrets. And when you know its secrets, you will truly understand what we all are."

______________________

THE SECRET OF PAUL GROPER

By Mike Tamburo

Sayas brought us to the woods for our meditations and studies. We sat alone together for so long that when Sayas finally spoke, it was like waking up from a dream. "You must be very careful with words," he said. The universe was created with one sound. Imagine then how powerful one word is. Look around you for a moment. I want you to really see. See without words and you will really see. Look at this tree, now allow yourself to forget that you call this a tree. Just see it and really look into it. See that it is different from this tree. See that it has a life all its own. When something has a name, it becomes less mysterious. We humans have tried to name everything, unfortunately it has made so much magic disappear. We don't really see anything for what it truly is. And a name often becomes the object, we no longer really see it, the mind automatically makes the connection that this is this a tree and this is the grass and we no longer really appreciate how every patch of grass is beautiful and unique. Now what if this was a tree and this was the grass. It wouldn't really matter what we called it because its essence is still the same. You have to look deeply to see past words and really see. Words are magic and hypnotizing." He walked over to Ken and put his hand on his shoulder. "You spend your whole life as Ken Camden. Everything you do, you identify with yourself as Ken Camden. If you want to continue your studies will me, there will be no Ken Camden. You must travel past Ken Camden now and become who you really are."

Ken was startled by his new orders. "What do I call myself then," Ken pleaded.

"What does it matter? Call yourself tree or call yourself chalk. I don't care. You have to stop being your name. Call yourself Paul Groper, it really doesn't matter."

Ken wasn't sure that he wanted to spend eternity being known as tree or even as chalk.

"I am Paul Groper."

And so he was.

____________________

DANCE ENIS DANCE

By Mike Tamburo

I am going deaf. I have had hearing problems my entire life and more and more each day the ringing gets louder while everything else gets quieter. It is one of those things that I have just had to accept. I have even through out the years quite often joked about it even going as far as naming a Meisha single The Deaf Will Still Feel Our Vibrations. But honestly, when it comes down to it, someday I will not hear and this scares me no matter how I try to console myself.

I often expressed these insecurities to my dear friend Sayas and he always had a story or an exercise that would bring me back to the present. These were often exercises that pushed the limits of both the senses and of concentration. Reality could be destroyed by a pin drop. We sat for hours with strings buzzing and lights flashing or sometimes completely dark. He one day told me a story of a brotherhood of deaf musicians. The story has since played out over and over again in my mentations and I feel that in it I will someday find my peace.

"I will now tell you about devotion and focus. I have told you of many of the brotherhoods I have come into contact with throughout my journey, men who have not forgotten and still practice. Around thirty years ago, my travels brought me to Turpan, one of the larger cities at that time in Turkistan. My father had told me of small villages outside of Turpan where there were still brotherhoods living in much the same way they had for centuries. After several weeks wandering around Turpan asking those who would possibly know of these mysteries, I was told of a brotherhood that sat deep in the mountains on the other side of Mt. Karawuquntag. It was a difficult journey from what I was told and could only be taken by foot. I asked what brotherhood I would find there. "It can not be said," is all I was told. I obtained a guide and began the three-day journey.

On the third day as we scaled down the mountain, I began to feel a change in air pressure, not just from the shift in altitude but something else. Something that felt like it was actually rattling my bones. I listened deeply and I eventually heard a roaring sound that became louder and louder as we scaled down the mountain. As we reached the bottom, my guide Turi told me that he would go no further and that I was to progress further into the valley.

As I followed the roaring, my ears were beginning to articulate and organize. I had never heard sounds like these in my lifetime. It was as if the entire valley was acting as a resonator for this sound. I pushed myself further as the sound took on a nearly physical form. With each step I became more and more lost. My entire body was resonating and I became ecstatic. Suddenly I felt myself falling and the next thing I knew someone was wiping the blood that was accumulating around a gash above my left eye. Even more alien than the injury I had just received was the fact that the sound had now stopped. My body felt like it was still beating from the vibrations. I soon passed out.

When I awoke, the music had started again. I made my way out of the dwelling to see something I could hardly believe. I had fallen into the source of the sound I had spent the last day following. I was about 30 feet below where I had been walking just hours before and right in front of my eyes looked to be an ark of some sort. I approached it to find that this ark was actually one giant instrument with at least 20 men inside performing it. The feeling of the sound being played was overwhelming. I could feel it in every part of my body and at some points I was almost overcome by the urge to vomit. I finally came to my senses and sat down at the foot of the ark and allowed the music to envelop me.

Hours passed in ecstasy and I fell into a deep trance until again the music stopped. I felt somewhat rejuvenated and still quite ecstatic. I approached the musicians, first speaking to them in Tajik and then Chagaty and even Uyghur but I got no response, Just a kind smile and a nod. I was grabbed by the hand and led back to where I had been sleeping off my injuries. My host gave me dried figs and apricots and smiled at me with the most beatific smile. I felt at ease.

After my stomach was full, I tried speaking in several ancient dialects but still got no response. My host got up to leave, turned back to me, smiled and motioned me to come along. I tried speaking again and my new friend pressed his hand against my neck feeling the vibration of my voice then touched his ears and shook his head. I was puzzled by this. This man had just been playing music and was now trying to tell me he could not hear.

Soon after this, the evening's music began. This time I listened from inside the instrument with the musicians. The sound penetrated deep into my soul. I examined my surroundings and I realized that we were all standing on a huge membrane of some sort that was acting as a reflector, whereas the body of the ark acted as the resonator. The musicians played an assortment of instruments including percussion, long strings and huge metal tongs that reminded me of a giant mbira. Somehow it was all connected to the ark and was essentially one giant instrument. These men were reacting and playing to pure vibration resonating into their bodies. They all moved like a frenzied machine in and out of different levels of awareness. Hours passed as I listened and watched. I began to hear and see what I can only consider to be an advanced form of communication. I had discovered a people completely immersed in a language of vibration. The entire group was one consciousness.

I stayed and listened, eventually joining in on the music, doing all in my power to communicate my thanks to be a part of this beautiful whole. I spent nearly a year there with those people. I did not speak and, to be honest with you, I felt more than I heard."

Some time after Sayas passed on, I was in a used record store. I came across an old LP by "The Korean Deaf Percussion Orchestra." When I saw it, a surge of energy rushed through my body. I had spent countless hours imagining how the deaf brotherhood might have sounded. I thought this recording might finally give me some idea. I had the clerk put the record on and what I heard was basically pop music played by a group of the world's best deaf Korean percussionists. It was honestly a little disappointing but it spawned the thought that I obsessed over for my next two months of traveling.

I began to write music for a deaf orchestra in July of 2006. I wanted to write something that could be performed based on vibration, rather than melody or harmony. I set about not only writing the music and fashioning an amplification device so that the vibrations would be felt in specific ways. I arrived in Portland, Oregon in late September. I had been corresponding about these ideas with my long time collaborator Matt McDowell. By some twist of fate, it turned out that there actually was a deaf orchestra in Portland. We decided that we had to complete this music.

McDowell contacted Andrew Howard who was the director of music programs at the Tucker-Maxon Oral School. At first he thought it was a joke and nearly ran McDowell out of the building. When I came back into town, we both went to talk to him. I told him the story that Sayas had told me and that I was going deaf and that I felt that this might be the answer that I was looking for so that I could continue to make music for the rest of my life. Andrew ran a series of hearing tests on me and concluded that I was actually going deaf. He began working with us shortly after that.

McDowell and I set out to write this music that could be felt just as well as it was heard. We worked constantly for the next month and came up with something we were both very proud of. We gave the music to Andrew who was to begin teaching his students immediately. We set a date for the performance a month later and went about creating the proper sound system. We planned to build a stage out of 20 speaker cabinets that we were going to place face up and cover with wood.

After many long days of working with the musicians, both individually and in the full orchestra, our performance date arrived. Honestly, I was a wreck. I had been up for days taking God knows what to stay awake. Unfortunately, McDowell and Andrew were in the same, if not worse, condition than I was. Andrew told me that he could not possibly face the parents in his condition and that he wanted to cancel the performance. Selfishly, I said that I did not come this far just to quit now. We decided that I would conduct the orchestra.

The musicians took the stage and the music and the disaster began. First of all the wood that we had used to cover the speakers was too weak to hold the 20 person orchestra. It split and three of the string players fell from their chairs. I kept conducting, even though many of the musicians had become more interested in their fallen comrades. I began to panic and started waving my hands faster, stamping the rhythm out with my foot. The orchestra could not keep up with me and the sound became a hideous distorted mess. Suddenly the electricity went out and there was silence. The principal had cut the power. My dream would not yet be fulfilled.

______________________

JADE IS THE COLOR OF MY TRUE LOVE"S FATE

By Mike Tamburo

Each day I put off my return to Sayas was filled more and more with pain, excess and despair. By the time I finally did bring myself to see him again, I was completely exhausted by three long years of self-destruction. I felt so unlike myself I thought Sayas might not even recognize me. I arrived at his home and found him bed ridden but still full of life.

"I knew I would see you soon. I started brewing a tea for you just the other day. Put it on the fire and come tell me of your adventures since we last spoke." I did as I was told. The tea was very strong and tasted like the worst color of green. It left a horrid aftertaste that made me want to spit back up all that I had just consumed. "Try to keep it down just a little longer if you can. You have a lot of poison to expunge. It's best if we can get it all at once. It's important to start off fresh. Now, hold this liquid in your mouth and do not swallow it. Just try to relax and let it take over. It will hurt much less if you just let everything go."

As he spoke, my body began to feel extreme sensations. There was no euphoria, I could feel death's chill moving down my spine. I felt waves of electricity passing through my body. The pulses became so strong that my body buckled and I began to have a small seizure. "You have taken in so much pain and sadness. Why have you tortured yourself so? You will nearly have to die so that we can bring you back. This would have been so much easier if you had listened to me the last time we spoke. You did not need to learn some of these lessons. These were things you should have already known. You did not need to suffer like this, but all children only hear what they want to, I guess. It's time to stop suffering. Let it all go."

I continued to shiver and toss on the floor. The acrid liquid burned my tongue. It started to seep out of the corners of my mouth and I could feel my lips beginning to chap. I could hardly hold it in.

"You should have taken the loss of your hearing as an omen. Think about it Michael, for you to lose something as precious as that should have made you realize some things. But no, you became so erratic and full of despair. I told you to stop and listen. I know you thought that was cruel, but it is the only act that could have prevented all of your suffering. You were so concerned with what you couldn't hear. You totally ignored what you should have been hearing. It was a chance for you to just hear yourself, to really listen. Well perhaps you will hear now. Extreme conditions bring extreme results. Sometimes we need to make our own paths. What is important is that you arrived at this point. You would have gotten here no matter how you traveled."

I began to think about all of the time I had wasted. I was extremely nauseous, even though most of the liquid had dripped out of my mouth.

Sayas took on a new form. "Don't Worry. What is time anyway? Some things take longer than others. Everyone experiences time differently. How long should it take to learn a lesson? Some lessons take only a moment. Some lessons take a lifetime. When will you stop learning? Even after your last breath, you will still be learning. In fact, after your last breath, it becomes what we call knowing. You are a song that continues to evolve and change. To know your song is to know yourself. You will write this song for the rest of your life, but right now it's time for you to rest. Things will become clear again after you rest." My body shook and convulsed. I felt a battle going on within myself as I rolled to my side and vomited.

________________________

A FINE LINE ON THE THRONE OF TIME

By Mike Tamburo

Sayas and I often spoke while sitting in front of the fishpond feeding the giant goldfish. I often call these moments "the teachings," but perhaps I should not. On one level, I see these conversations as one friend helping another. On a level above that, these conversations have guided much of my self-development.

I sometimes thought of Sayas as my guru. He often warned me about these thoughts, pulling me back into the real world. He would jokingly ask me if I thought this was a spiritual pissing contest we had going on together. The humor was always there. Behind everything he ever told me there was something to make me smile.

Over our last few weeks at the cabin, our conversations deepened. He began to shy away from reminiscing about his own life and guided the conversation to my life, all that I had gone through and all that I now knew. His friendship and advice helped restore my self-confidence.

One day, while sitting by the fishpond, we spoke while feeding the giant goldfish.

SAYAS: "I am glad that you have found your way back to me my dear friend, but I must apologize to you. Unfortunately, we have very little time together. This body has grown old and weak; it can barely contain my soul. I will hold on until I know you are ready. I know you will be ready soon. You have to know that you will be ready soon. At any instant, you must be ready to know this.

You can look past all that guilt you have in your eyes and begin again. You will figure this out for yourself, as you always have. Leave your indiscretions behind you. It is time to stop this pity. It's all a fine line on the throne of time. You already know this. I taught you how to control the instant, how to push a moment into infinity. Stretched or compressed, you know the way. It is under your control."

Sayas, smiling as the giant goldfish darts for the food, continued, "You have ridden this wave for a long time now. It is up to you to change the frequency. You are ready for the frequency to change. You can play whatever you want, it's just time to start playing again. The time has come.

____________________________

SCREWING SIX BOLTS INTO LAST TUESDAY

By Mike Tamburo

Today is a very sad day in my life and in the lives of many. My dear friend, mentor and colleague Sayas Ser was pronounced dead at 8:32 this morning in Pittsburgh, PA. He was 64 years old.

Sayas was born on February 3, 1941 in the Izmir Province of Turkey near the coast of the Aegean Sea. His father, Jalal Ser was also a musician, mystic and scholar and his mother Hastra Ser, made yogurt that she sold out of their humble home. Sayas and his family left Turkey in 1949 first traveling to Neuilly, France to meet and study with G.I. Gurdjieff. Gurdjieff passed away shortly after their arrival and the family sustained themselves during their stay in Paris by making and selling very elaborate rugs. In 1954, the Ser family decided to move to America, arriving in New York August 16, 1954. Shortly before this period Sayas began to take music lessons from his father who, in his time, had become a master Saz musician and also an incredible Koomoi singer. Sayas took to the Saz quite quickly and he soon began writing his own compositions. In the Saz, Sayas found a whole world of tuning possibilities, constantly moving and rearranging the frets. Unlike many traditional players, Sayas began to use his fingers to play rather than a plectrum.

Jalal often gave lectures on how to integrate Sufism into western culture and also began to teach classes in overtone singing. Once Sayas finished puberty, Jalal wished for Sayas to begin to concentrate more and more on his singing techniques and Sayas soon became quite the Koomoi singer himself.

Jalal became ill and passed away in 1959. Before he died, he gave Sayas his last lesson. It was time for Sayas to take the world as his teacher. "The whole world is holy", his father said, "look at it, love it and give to it". He passed away later that evening.

Sayas spent the next 22 years wandering through Europe, the Middle East and Asia. He respected and loved all cultures and learned wherever he went. He prayed at every church, mosque or synagogue he discovered along the way. He followed the holy days of every religion and made pilgrimages to every place of power he could discover.

In 1981, he returned to America and became a Luthier. He moved to a quiet farm in Moraine, PA in 1985 and lived there until he became ill a little less than a year ago. Sayas rarely talked about all the time he spent in Pennsylvania before we met. He would simply say he was at peace and that it gave him the strength to teach. He built a collection of handmade instruments from around the world and taught himself the Karkiraa technique of singing, which he called his greatest accomplishment in life.

It took Sayas 22 years from the time he moved to Pennsylvania to find his first student. Fortunately for me, I was that student. From 1997 until 2002, Sayas was my teacher. Many of my friends also became devoted students of Sayas. I will be writing more about this period in the future, but allow me to say that no other single person that I have encountered has left me with so much.

It is commonly known that Sayas and I had a falling out about two and a half years ago, but it is not commonly known that we recently reconciled our differences. I was visiting him in the hospital several times a week and his spirits were quite good right up until the end. Over the last three weeks he asked me to bring a tape recorder and some cassette tapes to the hospital so he could finish my teachings. Each time I saw him, he recorded our conversation. It was often difficult for him to speak and he would have to say things over and over again so that I would be sure to understand him. I told him that I thought it was such a shame that there were no recordings of any of his music, that the world would never know him. He said that no one would ever know him, but at least a few people came close. He then touched the side of my cheek and began to sing. He began with a very low tone and added two higher tones. I don't know how long this went on. It was beautiful and I was suspended in time. Unfortunately, the singing was abruptly ended by his violent coughs. He coughed and choked and gasped for air, clots of blood spewed from his throat like projectile vomit. I knew he did not have much time left. Tears swelled in my eyes as I wiped the blood from his lip and chin. He asked me to help him into his bed. He quickly fell asleep.

I wanted to make his last days peaceful and comfortable. He often complained there was no life in the hospital. He longed for something familiar, he wanted to go home. I knew he could not go home, but I could bring some of his home to him. I drove north well above the posted limit and arrived at his home in half an hour. Sayas had been in the hospital for nearly nine months; his home looked abandoned. I filled my car with some of his rugs and tapestries, his salvia divinorum plant, incense, sage, a few of the small hand made instruments that he hadn't sold yet to pay his hospital bills. I got back into my car and drove even faster than I had on the way up. I was worried I would be too late.

I arrived and found Sayas still sleeping. I quietly arranged his belongings around the room. Sayas' favorite nurse looked around in amazement when she came to check his vitals. She wiped a tear from her cheek, patted my shoulder and called me a good friend. She asked me to step into the hall and then told that Sayas would probably not live through the night. She said I could stay with him. I pulled a chair up close to his bed and sat down to meditate for awhile.

I awoke to the sound of crying and a kiss on my cheek. "Look what you did! This is fantastic."

His spirit had completely changed. We stayed up the rest of the night playing music, talking and laughing. It was nothing like being in a hospital. Several times I looked up to see a patient or hospital worker smiling, staring at us from the doorway. Morning came and went as it did the next day. It really thought he was getting better. He told me great secrets and how to be a better man. He was so open and caring, it made me regret even more our two years of estrangement. As if he was reading my mind, he whispered to me, "there are some things that you just have to learn on your own. Nothing can be taught to someone who is not ready to learn. Now let me tell you that the whole world is holy. Look at it, love it and give to it. Learn from everything you do."

He then closed his eyes and grew quiet. Several hours later, he opened his eyes and said that he was ready. He asked me to pick him some leaves from his salvia divinorum plant. I pick the leaves, arranged them in two groups of thirteen leaves and handed them to him. He asked me to burn some sage. I said, "This is a hospital, I don't think I can do that in here."

"I am a dying man and this is the last thing I wish of you," he said in a pleading voice. I burned the sage and watched Sayas as he ate the leaves, one at a time. He chewed silently for nearly fifty minutes and then exclaimed, "there She is!" The smile on his face was beatific and beautiful.

Sayas had made me a special tape to listen to after he passed. He asked me to share what he had taught me in whatever way I wished. He gave me the bulk of his property, which unfortunately will have to be sold to pay his hospital bills and debts. There is no single possession though that could possibly mean more to me than a single word from Sayas. I love him and I miss him greatly.

________________________

By Mike Tamburo

THEY NEVER COME OUT WHEN THE LIGHT IS ON

I see you echoing the loudest day

An advanced form of solitude

Dividing levels and planes

Seeing behind stories

and listening to words

That are not there.

Still an endless direction

Coming from inside my mind

My imagination

The beginning of all things

That I see and understand.

I am in no hurry for the future or tomorrow

Because I know it is not there.

It's just an endless day

With constant dreams and possibilities

With more than random moments

Of my time spent unaware.

The day comes and widens

Into familiar images from past memory

Constant images born and die

at intervals of every moment

Every second going on and on

All breathing the same knowledge

Of the eternal shelter

Developing around us

In the always present situation

The constant moment times infinity

Passed on through every different face and perception

Of the entirety of everything we once called holy

But have forgotten is still there.

We spend endless durations

Seeking a truth so apparent

That we don't see it

Always happening

Ever changing

Always there

We rather break up existence into

Separate structures and abbreviations

That we have forgotten to put together

Without the subjective force of our nature

To see that we are only a part of what is nature.

____________________

MAN OF THE CLOCK

By Mike Tamburo

____________________

As I mentioned earlier, after I acquired the Evol cassette tape, I was sent off for clarinet lessons with Great Uncle and Mr. Giacolli. I am to this day surprised that I still play the clarinet after the extremes my class was put through during our music lessons. In fact I feel a sick nostalgia each time I pick up the clarinet, memories of being broken down and turned into nothing. Perhaps there is something about growing up in a steel and aluminum town with no steel and aluminum factories left. There is little hope left in the people of New Kensington after all of the years of social and economic abuse by the forces of NEPHILUM UNION LOCAL 282 and that lack of hope is contagious. Misery loves company, or so they say.

I can still hear Giacolli, “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!” The anger behind his chant made my entire body tense up like a beaten dog. I never knew counting could be so horrifying.

I will never forget how Mr. Giacolli treated poor Abner Lechte. I don’t know what it was with the two of them, but it seemed like Giacolli had it out for Lechte. “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! COME ON DAMN IT!!! PLAY ON TIME!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!” COME ON LECHTE, WHAT’S THE MATTER CAN”T YOU COUNT? ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!”

He would pick up Lechte’s music stand and bang it on the floor in rhythm. One time he stood behind Lechte hitting the rhythm out on back of his head. “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!!”

Students often broke down during lessons. We were put through extreme exercises in breathing, volume and tuning, often playing the same note for the entire class. If tuning wavered, he stood in front of that student and mocked him, as if it were a silent movie, exaggerating every movement until the sight cut a piece out of every soul in the room.

Lechte hardly ever made it through a class without breaking down. Lechte was not a musician. It was not his fault. He was tone deaf and had no rhythm. I imagine it must have been frustrating trying to teach someone like that. Giacolli’s sanity had disappeared years before. There were always rumors about Mr. Giacolli going postal once at the New Kensington branch. He had been in charge of the AUDIO WARFARE DEPARTMENT testing extremes in sound on young “carriers” to see how sound could be used to harm people. He experimented with volume, pitch and duration, the brown note and other sub audio frequencies, often subjecting a “carrier” to days without food with the same frequency cluster droning on at upwards of 90 decibels. Giacolli’s involvement in the PO MEGA program cannot be denied. He co-opted many of the same experiments the Nazi’s had developed. He even worked out many of his sick fantasies testing The Feraliminal Lycanthropizer on young interns. The device triggers an animalization in the subjects, often resulting in a violent orgy.

It is just a simple box with a sub frequency speaker, a sine tone generator and four tape loops Two simple sounds - 3 Hz and 9 Hz – sine waves - beating against each other, both sounds below the threshold of human hearing; beating together to create and then further beat against an audible difference tone of 56 Hz. The tape loops are filled with sub-audible subliminal messages. These simple sounds together rewind the central nervous system to the vibratory level of what the harmony of the spheres were producing 10,000 years ago. It is a near instant evolutionary regression.

Before I go any further, please let me say that this is really dangerous stuff. I warn you. Do not try this at home. I may speak of some things with a certain amount of jest in my tone. I apologize for this. It is a coping mechanism of mine. Take my warning. It is not fun. It is dangerous. Okay thanks. I am sorry for the interruption, I will now get back to telling you the rumor I heard about Giacolli going postal.

Giacolli always remained in the room, just outside the machine’s four-yard range, during the testing. He wanted to be as close to the interns as possible, studying them in their environment. The machine was usually placed on a table in the employee lounge. The interns (both male and female) would be eating their lunches and socializing one minute, then would become ferocious, without warning or provocation, within seconds of the machine being activated. The total abandonment of fear was commonly followed by an orgy or violence. Other tests focused more on subliminal messages, often leaving the interns in a trance for hours.

Giacolli watched hundreds of orgies happen. He loved it - the reaction, the frenzy, the power it gave him. His fetish is ultimately what led to his going postal, as they called it.

Erotic strangulation was not uncommon during these sessions. The experiment began and several of the interns went on a sex/death trip. Giacolli saw that things were escalating out of control and entered the field of the machine to pull one intern off of another. Instantly, he was thrust into the orgy. A rush, like a dream, swept him from one world to the next. He completely let go and began performing all of the acts he had fantasized about hundreds of times while watching the experiments.

It goes without saying that Giacolli was a man of rage. And then rage became amplified by the power of the device. His rage took over and he began assaulting the interns, tearing the time clock from the wall and beating them, killing four of them. He was found just outside the machine’s range tapping a march out in time on the bloody time clock. “ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! ONE!!! TWO!!! THREE!!! FOUR!!! “

Giacolli took a permanent leave of absence from the Post Office Audio Warefare Department after the incident. He started teaching music at the local Post Office-funded elementary school shortly after. He was the first man to teach me about music.

____________________

THESE FREQUENCIES ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY

By Mike Tamburo

____________________

I can still vividly remember my first night after returning to the Edinboro Branch. It had been so long since I had handled such volatile substances. I tried to shake off the remnants of the earlier part of the day. I stretched out, settling down on the hammock, finally ready to examine the effects of my carelessness while I was preparing the extraction. I fell deep quickly into the space the plant affords, listening to the pulsating sounds coming from the swamp. A constant ever-changing drone that I became so aware of, that my body began resonating along with it. I listened so closely that I could hear my breathing making waves within the nocturnal hum. My vision entered into various phases of infrared as my body vibrated with the momentum of the sound. I closed my eyes and looked inward, my visions rolling with the rhythm of the pulse. Within every beat, I heard ten thousand more and I am sure that there were ten thousand more that my ears are just to weak to hear.

I began to perceive the sound as being so incredibly loud it held me suspended in time somewhere within the upper harmonic partials. “What kind of psycho-acoustics is this?” I asked out loud, my voice sounding like an LP slowed down. I felt puzzled and slipped into a thought trance, trying to figure out whose voice had just come out of my mouth when again I was forced to mustered up enough courage to speak out loud. This time addressing Lechte, as he stormed up the steps of the front porch. The sound of his voice ripped through the very fabric of my consciousness. I was not able to comprehend what he was saying and we entered into almost a slap stick routine

LECHTE: Mintajnahokomonareapy.

ME: WHAT???

LECHTE: Bougie Bougie Walenhofney.

ME: WHO???

LECHTE: These frequencies are making me thirsty

ME: Huh?

Finally I snapped back to Eastern Standard Time.

LECHTE: There you go with that New Era Shit again. I thought living with you was going to be different this time. How am I supposed to talk to you when you are hardly in your body?

ME: It’s just this one time. I promise. It was an accident. I am just taking it to the end. No sense in wasting a good time. I wish I could explain to you what you interrupted.

LECHTE: Anyway, I met this girl named Polly. She’s working in the human resources department at the branch. She said she used to take clarinet lessons with you. She said you guys dated. Would you be cool if I asked her out?

ME: Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? We went out in the 6th grade.

LECHTE: Just checking man. Don’t want to step on your toes or anything. I’ve got to get some sleep.

I am not sure of the exact sequence of events that followed. I slipped time again and found myself in Lechte’s room holding a strobe light set to 7.8 cycles per second right in front of Lechte’s face. What was I doing? My motivations are still unsure to me. I shivered with a nervous excitement as I tried to retrace my steps throughout the night. I still had not pulled the strobe light away from Lechte’s face. I knew this frequency so well that I entered into that state just by watching the light flash against Lechte’s face. This was not right. Even if somewhere deep in my psyche I believed Lechte needed to see this world, it was not right. He would have to get to know these frequencies of his own accord. I am not my GREAT UNCLE.

Shortly after this experience I built a simple dream machine using a 78rpm turntable, a 200 Watt light bulb, a large piece of cardboard, and a microphone stand. When Lechte came home that day, I told him there was something I wanted to show him. I punched a few different tuning ratios into the computer and the sound soon filled the room. We both sat in front of the dream machine and closed our eyes. I turned the machine on and light began to pour onto my closed eyelids. Mandalas and geometry absorbed me, colors pounded against my eyelids, complex designs of my inner structure laid down before me.

LECHTE: This is amazing! I love this. It seems so familiar to me. This headspace.

ME: I’m sure it does.

____________________

THE POSTAGE STAMP CONSPIRACY

By Mike Tamburo

____________________

Deep down, I had known for months that I would be leaving the New Kensington Branch. Before leaving, I wanted to cure myself of my addiction and I wanted to rescue my friend Anton Plank from the clutches of my GREAT UNCLE, the Post Office and Shine.

I started looking around the Post Office for a cure, something that would reverse the effects of Shine. During my investigations, I overheard GREAT UNCLE having a conversation with one of the Post Office lackeys. The Post Office had secretly begun mixing Shine into the glue on the bottom of Young Elvis postage stamps; Not much, mind you, but enough to put many unwitting civilians into a mechanical trance. Their goal was to put the Shine-glue onto all postage stamps. When completed, this ultimate weapon would spell certain doom for the American public.

LACKEY: Mr. Kensington, this is an unexpected pleasure. We're honored by your presence.

GREAT UNCLE: Enough with the pleasantries, Lackey. I'm here to put you back on schedule.

LACKEY: I assure you, Mr. Kensington, my men are working as fast as they can.

GREAT UNCLE: Perhaps I can find new ways to motivate them.

LACKEY: I promise you, all of the stamps will be mixed with Shine as planned.

GREAT UNCLE: The Post Master General does not share your optimistic attitude. You are two months behind schedule.

LACKEY: He is asking the impossible. I need more workers.

GREAT UNCLE: Then perhaps you can tell him when he arrives.

LACKEY: The Post Master General is coming here?

GREAT UNCLE: That is correct, lackey. And he is displeased with your lack of progress.

LACKEY: We shall work harder. The Elvis stamps have been circulating the mid-west for weeks now. We are just waiting to get the art back on the Betty Boop stamps before we send them out to get pressed.

GREAT UNCLE: I hope so Lackey, for your sake. The Post Master General is not as forgiving as I am.

That night I began devising a plan to stop the Post Office from dosing America. I told Lechte about what was going on and my plan.

LECHTE: Of course I'm worried. And you should be too, but that does not mean I can rip off the Post Office.

ME: If I told you half the things I've found out about this conspiracy, you'd probably go postal. Look, all you have to do is take the Elvis Stamps out of the machines and put in these decoys.

LECHTE: I'm terribly sorry. I'm afraid of what would happen if they found out it was us. I have a bad feeling about this.

ME: I'm sure that we can work out an arrangement that will be beneficial to you and enable us to avoid any unpleasant confrontation. I have $700 I can give you now and I promise that you will be taken care of later. You know how Italian I can be.

LECHTE: Okay let’s do it. We're doomed if we do and we’re doomed if we don’t. At least I will have a chance to find out what’s going on with my brain activity during the 6 minutes it is still active after my body dies.

ME: I heard it was still active for 37 hours.

LECHTE: Does time really matter at that point?

ME: HA HA HA!!! AH HA HA AH!!! You got me!!! HA HAHAHA!!!

____________________

GOD’S HORN

By Mike Tamburo

____________________

It took me almost three years to build the instrument I now call GOD’S HORN. I spent nine months hollowing out a deep cave in the mountain that would act as the resonator. It took three months to install all 718 tuning pegs and the 1306 bridges into the mountain. I designed each bridge (buzzing bridges like those used on the tamboura) out of bone. I devised a tuning using 96 notes in each octave and spent the rest of the time stringing and tuning all 846 strings over and over again until it was perfect and the instrument was able to hold the tuning. It was a difficult instrument to build and especially difficult to tune. 128 strings were conjoined to the other strings by forming a loop with one string and connecting it to others. All of the conjoined strings were connected to a special bridge system I constructed out of deer bone and the fender of a 1993 Buick Century. The strings to the bridge system are excited by a device I built out of an old fan and a slinky. Some strings have several movable bridges. The rest of the strings are played by hand with long mallets connected to a pair of gloves and a device I built using a stationary bicycle with 15” plectrums attached to each spoke.

The winter solstice arrived and I was set to begin my performance at 8:11 PM. I had sent invitations to my closest friends, but it was 7 PM and no one had arrived yet. I was nervously going over my tuning calculations when I heard voices behind me.

MR. GIACOLLI: It is quite a sight.

ME: What are you doing here?

GREAT UNCLE: Now what kind of tone is that? We’re family. Now be a peach and tell me, what on earth is this contraption?

ME: You know damn well what it is or you wouldn’t be here.

GREAT UNCLE: I raised a smart one didn’t I? Enough small talk.

MR. GIACOLLI – (strums the instrument) What do you think you are going to do with that tuning? You are walking in some dangerous territory with this one. Good thing we came to visit. I will tune this thing right up for you.

ME: Don’t touch it Giacolli. It is exactly what it is supposed to be.

GREAT UNCLE: You built this for us Tamburo. It is written. It was all for this son, don’t you see? Everything we put you through was in your best interest. All of the test tones, isolation, hallucinogens, sensory deprivation, sensory overloads and music lessons were all for this. You were special. Everyone knew it. I wanted great things for you.

ME: You tortured me!!!

GREAT UNCLE: Grow a spine Tamburo! I was conditioning you, preparing you and now here we are. Things worked out exactly as they were supposed to. It is a mighty fine instrument. I could hardly imagine it when I read the prophecy. Now, here I am; in front of it. It makes me proud to know it was constructed by one of my kinfolk. Let Giacolli finish the job for you. p> ME: Over my dead body. I am here to end this.

GREAT UNCLE: End what Tamburo? You have no idea what is going on here. What do you think you know? You are delusional, son. None of it is real. You were talking to yourself. You’re nuts. You’re stuck in a Shine hole. Your mind is rotted and you don’t know what you are doing. None of this is real Tamburo. None of it. I am here to help you. You can live a normal life again. Let me take you to the hospital.

ME: I am not going anywhere. I was born to building and playing God’s Horn. This is the whole reason for my existence. You can’t stop me, Uncle. Tonight the prophecy will be fulfilled.

I turned on the slinky fan, put on my mallet gloves and sat down on the bike.

GREAT UNCLE: STOP!!! YOU DON”T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING!!!

The slinky fan picked up speed and created a dense drone. I began to pedal. The sound was huge and echoed throughout the valley. I started tapping out rhythms with the mallet gloves. It was majestic, unlike anything I had ever imagined. Giacolli tried to pull me off of the bike, but was electrocuted when he touched me. The ground began vibrating beneath me. Rocks fell from the mountain. Suddenly the earth opened, swallowing GREAT UNCLE and the Post Office lackeys he had brought with him. I played the rest of the night. In the morning, I collapsed. The mileage meter on the stationary bike said I had pedaled 3016 miles that night. How far would I have to go before this was all over? I still had four more performances and I was sure the Post Master General and NEPHILUM UNION LOCAL 282 would do everything in their power to stop me from retuning the earth.

Record Labelmusic fellowship, nafh, barl fire
Type of LabelIndie


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   Upcoming Shows ( view all )
Nov 11 2009 7:00P
outpost (with ben reynolds, eric carbonara and concord ballet orchestra) boston, Massachusetts
Nov 12 2009 8:00P
the apohadion (with ben reynolds) portland, Maine
Nov 13 2009 8:00P
The Spotty Dog (with ben reynolds and alex turnquist) hudson, New York
Nov 14 2009 8:00P
muddy waters (with paper castles) burlington, Vermont
Nov 15 2009 8:00P
BAR (with ben reynolds) new haven, Connecticut
Nov 16 2009 8:00P
issue project room (with ben reynolds) brooklyn, New York
Nov 17 2009 8:00P
House Show 4500 kingsessing ave(with ben reynolds and eric carbonara) philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Nov 18 2009 8:00P
schlow memorial library (tour with ben reynolds) state college, Pennsylvania
Nov 19 2009 8:00P
morning glory coffeehouse (tour with ben reynolds) pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Nov 20 2009 8:00P
tba (with ben reynolds and nick schillace) detroit, Michigan
Nov 21 2009 8:00P
skylab (with ben reynolds and layne garrett) columbus, Ohio
Nov 22 2009 8:00P
tba (with ben reynolds and keenan lawler) lexington, Kentucky
Nov 23 2009 8:00P
little hamilton (with ben reynolds, keenan lawler, paper hats) nashville, Tennessee
Nov 24 2009 8:00P
swan dive (with ben reynolds, keenan lawler, nathan salsburg) louisville, Kentucky
Nov 25 2009 8:00P
heaven gallery (tour with ben reynolds) chicago, Illinois

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   About mike tamburo
Mike Tamburo is a 21st century Renaissance man who has forged his way into the consciousness of the American underground music community. For the past 13 years, Tamburo has been relentlessly releasing records (31 releases and counting) under different monikers and projects including Meisha, Arco Flute Foundation & various imprints under his own name. He has performed over 500 shows all over the United States, traveling to every nook and cranny, searching for some kind of an understanding of what America truly is. Though always considering himself a multi-instrumentalist, he gained fame and notoriety with his fingerstyle guitar playing and his idiosyncratic use of effects; only to swear himself off of the acoustic guitar, eventually setting it on fire and hurling it off of Pittsburgh's 40th Street Bridge. His effects soon followed. Tamburo is a man who continues to reinvent himself, recently finding his new musical passion in the hammered dulcimer; building upon his own unique compositional stylings, he has developed a voice for the instrument that is very much his own. He is greatly inspired by American folk and minimalist music traditions as well as Indian classical music, but often expands outward to include influences from avant-garde to noise to modern compositional music. A Tamburo performance is always a very transportive experience. Tamburo is also an artist, film maker, writer, instrument builder, curator of the Fantastic Voyagers Festivals, Kundalini Yoga and Pranayama devotee, and inner state researcher; exploring alpha and theta states, floatation tanks, ethnobotany, orgone energy, and ecstatic states of being. He also runs the New American Folk Hero label, which continues to release an eclectic roster of creative and experimental musics.

i have music available for download here. it is in the pay what you want format. please support my sounds!!!


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mike tamburo's Friends Comments
Displaying 25 of 936 comments  ( View All | Add Comment )
owl dreams

owl dreams



Nov 17 2009 5:20 PM

Hi Mike!
sorry about that! my friend was in a rush to get home and get some much needed sleep. Definitely keep me posted the next time you play please and I will make it down again. I loved your performance! I was telling someone afterwards, when trying to explain your style and process, that it is like your songs are a beautiful spiderweb being woven and getting delicately more and more intricate as time goes on. hope to see you again!
:hoot, hoot, hoot: *spins head around and drops a feather*
Danielle
Constellation Drive

Constellation Drive



Nov 10 2009 4:16 PM

hi mike thanks for the add! are you still going to come and play nz??
spooky conversationalist

spooky conversationalist



Nov 1 2009 6:39 PM

when you are back in town we should all have an adventure. all being whomever-but amber and ken for sure. im actually kind of excited to make my first snowpie. hope your tour is going well.
Psychedelic Central Online Music Magazine

Psychedelic Central Online Music Magazine



Nov 1 2009 6:38 PM

Hi, thank you for the friendship, it is my pleasure to welcome you! Have a great day!

Jan :)
Nick Schillace

Nick Schillace



Sep 22 2009 3:03 PM

i'm glad your touring, i'm glad thers's another box set coming and i'm glad we'll see each other soon . . . ns 
alexander turnquist

alexander turnquist



Sep 16 2009 7:33 PM

hey man i would love those copies
Gary Rouzer

Gary Rouzer



Sep 4 2009 2:02 PM

Hey Mike,
Thanks for a great set here in DC.
Gary
Portal of Transcendence

Portal of Transcendence



Aug 26 2009 11:51 PM

LOVE*
owlet

owlet



Aug 24 2009 4:09 PM

partially.
George Christian

George Christian



Aug 15 2009 3:45 AM

hello Mike Tamburo,

it's not too late to tell how much i sincerely admired your work, its purpose, its poetic challenges and dimensions, with refined sense of reaching listener through the spectrum of sound and melodic ressonances. thank you for accepting my invitation!

best regards,
GC
Dancing Electrons

Dancing Electrons



Aug 10 2009 8:29 PM

hey ,,. i posted a new song if you want to give it a listen when u get a chance
best wishes
Danielle
Phasmida

Phasmida



Jul 27 2009 3:07 PM

sorry i had to suddenly bail on sat. i was looking forward to your set. hope you had fun.
Banjo Kellie

Banjo Kellie



Jul 23 2009 9:00 PM

Congrats on getting a house! If you happen to tour through Minneapolis area in the next year, please drop me a line, its been forever since I've heard you play!
Banjo Kellie

Banjo Kellie



Jul 23 2009 4:45 AM

Hi Mike!  I'm heading to Red Wing, MN, for wind instrument repair school.  How have you been?!
Luminescence

Luminescence



Jul 20 2009 2:42 PM

Photobucket
Can't wait for your set!
minim

minim



Jul 16 2009 6:31 PM

Hello!
Horseback

Horseback



Jul 16 2009 4:29 AM

When do I see you again?
luscious lena

luscious lena



Jul 13 2009 1:22 PM

im sad you missed it. but its all broccoli cakes. we should try to hang out while im still in town. im here till teresa kicks me out. and with my uncontrolable wild behavior that might be sooner than later.
minim

minim



Jul 13 2009 9:57 PM

time and space-tience
owlet

owlet



Jun 28 2009 4:17 AM

Oh my god, I am!!
sarah

Sarah Bachman



Jun 18 2009 3:22 AM

I just got a hold of the live recordings of your show in with Lord Dog Bird and Micah Blue Smaldone--
I am bummed I had to leave before your set--
your music is very beautiful.
Portal of Transcendence

Portal of Transcendence



Jun 16 2009 1:58 AM

and make salsa*
Portal of Transcendence

Portal of Transcendence



Jun 15 2009 9:11 PM

I'll be in the garden lol
It Takes A Village To Make Records

It Takes A Village To Make Records



Jun 5 2009 2:04 PM

Hi Mike. Thought you might be interested: we've begun work on our next comp CD, "In The Orchard Of Osiris." There's blogs & bulletins being issued! Nick Schillace turned us on to your music a couple years ago and I've been really enjoying all I've heard (and lately, read). We'd love to have you aboard.

- Peter
Portal of Transcendence

Portal of Transcendence



Jun 14 2009 9:10 PM

kansas is so much closer though...
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