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jethro tull songs from the wood vinyl flac

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Here’s the first of a foray into lossless FLAC conversion. Unlike previous 320 kbps conversions, nothing has been manipulated after the initial recording; no digital pop & click removal removal, no equalization, no nothing. If you’re lucky you might catch a spot where a piece of fuzz gets caught under the needle. It’s about as close to the actual vinyl as you’ll get.

Take a listen and make sure to post your comments. This album has a rich diversity of instruments, which should display FLAC’s increased musical capabilities. I hope you enjoy.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Let me bring you all things refined:

Galliards and lute songs served in chilling ale.

Greetings, well-met fellow, hail!

I am the wind to fill your sail.

I am the cross to take your nail:

A singer of these ageless times–

With kitchen prose, and gutter rhymes.

The Dismemberment Plan - Emergency & I

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*download below*

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What interesting things can I tell you about this tasty treat?

Well, for starters the name “Dismemberment Plan” comes from an exquisite movie. More specifically, it rolls from the mouth of one of moviedom’s greatest supporting comedic characters: Ned Ryerson.

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Additionally, this is the only album that Pitchfork Media hasn’t completely fucked up rating.

It received a 9.6 out of 10 when originally released. This vinyl re-release, with its 4 extra songs, received a 10 out of 10. The initial 1999 review was also a very tidy 21 words. I would have preferred an even 20, but I’ll let it slide.

If you consider yourself a fan of groundbreaking pop, go out and buy this album right now. Now. Get up. Go. – Pitchfork Media, 1999

I’d quote the re-issue review but it doesn’t have any pictures…which means I got bored before finding a meaty blurb and gave up.

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Pictures: The only source of engaging entertainment.

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Finally, I have a vague memory of seeing The Dismemberment Plan at the Southgate House during their farewell tour in 2003. It was the summer before I could legally drink. I was a bright and bouncing baby boy.

Unfortunately I obliterated most of my memory cells were during my 21st birthday party. Because it was so huge. Biggest 21st birthday party ever. Strippers from all over the Tri-State.

(It was actually quite a sad affair…lots of Super Bust-A-Move 2 and chasing Piano Little. Please don’t tell anyone.)

ANYWAY, Despite that bitchin mind-erasing party, one thing stuck with me from that show. No, it wasn’t the catchy snare-snapping beats. No, it wasn’t Mr. Morrison’s double-reed vocals. It was a short and sweet quote…just short enough to remember without the aid a two-dimensional graphic.

Morrison looked around at those dancing in the ballroom–up A-Frame and myself in the balcony–and said, “Where were all of you when our first album came out?”

Like if we’d all been there this wouldn’t have been their farewell show but a sold-out international extravaganza that cured AIDS, or at least gave it to Bono. And it wouldn’t have been a converted mansion in Newport, Kentucky they were playing but Carnegie Hall…with Matchbox 20 and Aaliyah as openers.

Do you really want to know where I was? Do you really want to know, Mr. Morrison? Ok, I’ll tell you.

It was 1995, I was 12 and riding in my Mom’s Chevy Celebrity Eurosport wagon, probably on my way to some Boy Scout jamboree at the Mormon Cincinnati South Stake. Perhaps I was utilizing the Celebrity’s rear jump seats.

And I was undoubtedly listening to this:

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Or maybe I was looking for pair of Airwalks at Tri-County Mall, and this was playing on the Muzak:

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But if I’d been Lakota Kool I probably would have been listening to this:

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In any case it was 1995. If you’d asked me what Indie was I would have told you he’s a guy with a brown hat and a whip who hates Nazis.

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Click here to download Emergency & I (with bonus tracks) from vinyl to MP3

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m83-hurry-up-dreaming

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At the end of O Brother, Where Art Thou? the beloved protagonists are faced with quite a dilemma: let the lawman get to hangin’ or take a quick bum rush for a hopefully painless suicide-by-cop. You never expect what’s coming.

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You’re goddamn right, a flood right out of nowhere! Not the kind that ruins cities and drowns old women but the kind that rescues a lovable group of good-natured convicts from certain death! It’s also the kind of flood that was built right here in America by God-fearing Americans. Yep, that’s right…this flood was brought to you by the electric hands of the Tennessee Valley Authority.

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Let me step back here for a minute. You see, back during the 30’s when this movie takes place we in America had this thing called a Depression. That means nobody had  good-paying job with which to raise a family. Many men, like Ulysses, Delmar, and Pete, turned to crime just to make ends meet. And then there were those who joined government-sponsored work programs like the Civilian Conservation Corps, Works Progress Administration, and Tennessee Valley Authority–or TVA for short.

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The role of the TVA was to develop the rural areas of Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, North Carolina, West Virginia, Mississippi, and Georgia. This was a good thing for most of men from this area, as they were either flat broke or skimming by on profits from a measly moonshine operation. Of course, this is a blatantly stereotypical generalization of a proud and diverse people. However, it is also true.

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Moonshine still in Knox County, Tennessee. Photographed by TVA in 1936 as part of its Fort Loudoun Dam surveys. See, I told you so.

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In any case, almost all of the hydroelectric dams that are still operating in the area were built or planned during the period of the late 30’s by the TVA. This construction program, which was government-funded, was a big reason that thousands Appalachian people didn’t starve during those trying times. It also still powers the Daytona 500 into the living rooms and outhouses of millions of hillbillies.

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Boy, oh boy, it's a boy.

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Today Americans are faced with a similar situation of those folks in the Great Depression. We have millions of able-bodied men and women who are receiving unemployment support from the federal and state governments. Without this help many would be forced out onto the streets, where they very well might end up like Ulysses, Delmar, and Pete–hunting for a hidden treasure that simply doesn’t exist.

But the big difference today is that these men and women on unemployment aren’t expected to offer anything in return. They don’t build dams, don’t blaze concrete trails through inhospitable lands, and last time I went camping I didn’t see anybody planting trees.

I’m all for helping people get on their feet during times of need. It’s an American responsibility to take care of other tax-paying, anthem singing ‘Mericans. But I also feel that the folks on unemployment should give something back to the community that’s paying their mortgage.

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So down what avenues of the public sector can we send these brave men and women. Let’s not set them to building environmentally harmful hydroelectric dams. It seems there are plenty of roads already built throughout this Great Nation, many of which I haven’t even driven on. And last time I went camping it seemed there were just about the amount of trees, give or take.

Here’s what I propose: enlist these fine people as a sort of police for modern social tact. We’ll call them the Silicone Valley Authority, simply because it works for the intents and purposes of this blog. Here’s a list of the SVA’s 10 most pressing duties.

Duty 1) Patrol vigilantly for people listening to standup comedy on their iPod. Arrest at sight.

Seriously, I hate the way you laugh.

Duty 2) Prevent everyone from posting cool videos on Facebook before I do.

At least give me a chance, jerk.

Duty 3) Discourage, violently, all German tourists from flaunting their good times on our weak American dollar.

Hey Hans, those glasses don’t look smart at all.

4) Commandeer and destroy any iPad that is operated by a user who is in motion under his or her own power.

If you don’t get off the sidewalk I will smack that thing right out of your hand.

5) Ban Twitter

I’m not going to lie, I still don’t get it.

6) Execute a successful viral marketing campaign to make old flip phones cool again.

My cell is so vintage.

7) End self-satisfying, rambling blog posts that have absolutely nothing to do with the post’s original subject matter.

Fine, be that way.

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Click here to download the 10-year anniversary clear vinyl-to-MP3

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Within potato cannon range of San Francisco lies a mysterious city called Oakland. I know very little about this sparsely inhabited wasteland. Mostly what I hear comes from the empty mouths of shrunken old women at BART stations. They tell stories I wouldn’t believe in dreams.

From their tales I’ve gathered a few key pieces of information. Supposedly the low-lying areas are inhabited by an athletic tribe of raiders that frequently demolishes the city in response to the cruel conditions within the fiefdom. This active rebellion generally blossoms at the Foot Locker, where frothing marauders flood the storefront until the collective appetite is whetted with fresh pairs of pillaged Jordans.

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The women tell me that when these maniacs aren’t stealing mad hops they generally snooze and laze the days away in a bubble of malevolent California heat. From time to time they escape this fever to San Francisco in canoes fashioned from discarded Street Sheet newspapers. While in the city they practice the traditional Oaklandish religious rite of taking frothy red shits at the top of the Embarcadero Station escalator.

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There are other stories of which I’ve only heard in passing:

That the premium pumps at Oakland gas stations dispense a blinding blend of bum wine for two pents a gallon.

That women were outlawed within the the city during the 1970’s. Any of the fairer sex who mistakenly stumble past the outer boundaries are quickly captured, bound with fine silk strands secreted from the Oaklandish male’s prostate, and fed live to chomping Oaklandish larvae.

And that the people of Oakland still use Myspace.

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Adorable.

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But there’s a part of me that thinks all of these stories are simply fabrications to keep us gullible San Frannies out of a hidden paradise. If Oakland is populated solely by a pillaging, all-male, insect-hybrid mob then how did such a phenomenal lady-birthed album emerge from its murky depths? Had those hollow-faced women lied to me all along? Who’s controlling these hyphens? Where are my car keys?!

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Could it be that just across the frigid bay lies a city filled with brilliant artistic promise? A city of unparalleled beauty and personal freedom? Where the sidewalks glow, not dissimilar to the fashion of Billy Jean? Where people don’t rock rollerblades, unicycles, and Segways while listening to Maroon 5 on stock iPod headphones like it’s no big deal…because believe me it’s a huge fucking deal?

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One of these days, when I’m feeling particularly brave, I will hop in my much neglected automobile and drive across the big gray bitch that is the Bay Bridge. I’ll shift into fifth, crest through the fog, and the powerfully angelic voice of Merrill Garbus will blast my soul like Moroni’s trumpet. Within the city limits I’ll be stopped by a gang of breathtaking eunuch crossing guards who’ll fetch my spirit’s fleshy temple from the drivers side and hoist its bobbing limbs sunward. The pleasure of knowing absolute sound–sound so pure you could drink it, piss it, and drink it again–will truly be mine. And I’ll all have a good cry.

Because that’s what you do when enjoying a really happy surprise.

You cry.

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Click here to peep perhaps the best album of the year. And then purchase a copy of your own because this is a keeper.

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It needs to be pointed out that some portion of this album was recorded in Dolores Park in San Francisco. Where this happened.

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