Having lived and worked in Frankfurt/Main, Heidelberg and Mannheim, nd_baumecker eventually moved to Berlin in 2004, leaving lasting traces at every of his stations. He started djing in 1991 in a bar called „Romantica“ in Frankfurt’s area around the main station. It was run by Hans Romanov who later operated other venues like the Intimbar, where ND played as well. That’s where Ata and Heiko M/S/O from Playhouse started noticing him. Soon after they hired him as a shop assistant for their record store Delirium and offered him a residency at their seminal WildPitchClub at the Club Nachtleben. After Baumecker played at every club in Frankfurt regularly (Box, XS, Music Hall, Dorian Grey...), he moved to Heidelberg, where he started promoting a club night at HD800 together with Dirk Mantei aka D-Man. After a short stop in Mannheim, regular guest DJ sets at the old OstGut Club and running his own label Freundinnen Audio, ND finally came to Berlin in 2004, where he not only picked up a residency at Panorama Bar but also started a job as in-house booker for the club.
Stylistically, ND never limits himself to only one sub genre. Instead, he constantly looks out for new ways of expressing himself. „A well known ballet choreographer once said: ‚Surprise is important.’ I think this approach describes my style best. I’m oscillating between Disco, House, Techno, Electro, Broken Beats and Pop. I’m always open to anything between the brute and the tender. The dance floor is a field for experiments. If you manage to get the crowd, you can almost do anything with them.“ Even more so, if it’s well presented, ND’s mixing is among the best you will ever hear in a club and brings together completely different tracks in a surprisingly conclusive way. „Anything that somehow manages to sound ‚new’ really gives me a kick. It’s really hard to describe. Dance music should have a good portion of Funk and for me it always needs to sound like Disco, whatever the style. I like vocals a lot. In my opinion they are the most important and significant bits you’re taking home after a good night out, because they’re simply very memorable. Since 2010 ND also produces with his new partner Sam Barker as Barker & Baumecker. They have released two 12“es and an album on Ostgut Ton, musically they touch upon everything from House, Techno and Trance creating their own unique sound. Apart from Barker & Baumecker live sets ND continues to concentrate on his DJ sets as nd_baumecker and his residency at Panorama Bar.
At a young and tender age Murray hit New York and started generating Ayler/Mingus infused jazz with incredible colleagues producing a spectacular set of album in the late 70's and early 80's of which Ming with his inimitable octet was a crowning achievement and blessing. Still sounding fresh as a midnight jam this is music that only jazz is known for even after 35 years.
DAVID MURRAY OCTET *Ming* (1980, Black Saint) A startling album when it appeared, recalling Mingus both in its complex layering and its sheer energy, but pushing further as it gave vent to some of the most singular musicians of the '80s -- most notably Henry Threadgill, George Lewis, and Murray himself. Cornettist Butch Morris went on to make a cottage industry out of conducted improvisations -- conductions, he called them. This is where he learned his craft.
Ming [Black Saint, 1981] Murray's dazzling technique hasn't yet won him a style, it's true. But he's only 26, and the committed eclecticism [ . . . ] it easy to achieve an instant voice. This record documents that sensibility superbly. Classic and cacophonous, it swings at its artiest, inspiring reassuringly down-to-earth performances from the likes of George Lewis and Anthony Davis as well as the superbly balanced stuff you expect from Henry Threadgill, Olu Dara, and Steve McCall. A
Bop, free, funk and world music hybrids are all under the command of tenor saxophonist/bass clarinetist David Murray, the rightful heir to Eric Dolphy's crown of thorns. Murray's first masterpiece gets off to a blazing start with “The Fast Life,” which glides and collides with a bravura, glissando panache, noisy and frenetic but with joyful purpose, like a game of Red Rover on roller skates. “The Hill” is cleaved in two: Wilbur Morris's bowed bass personifies the blues lament of the climb; then the five-horn gaggle let loose for a celebratory pile-on during the joyful spree down the back side. “Ming,” an homage to Murray's wife, is a gorgeous, sonorous ballad that faithfully sounds like an incredibly smart and complicated 25-year old guy using elements of Ellington's “Melancholia” to announce ecstatic surrender to the love of his life. “Jasvan” is a cantering waltz stacked with brisk but substantial solos from George Lewis (trombone), Murray (on bass clarinet here), Butch Morris (cornet), Henry Threadgill (alto sax), Olu Dara (trumpet), Anthony Davis (piano) and Wilbur Morris (bass), yet somehow it is the late, great drummer Steve McCall who steals the show. “Dewey's Circle” concludes the set with infectious mirth, a holy alliance of New Orleans and Kansas City-style sass and erudite blues toastmastery. All five songs are by Murray, who expertly synthesizes and satisfies the often contradictory demands of the cerebral cortex and the tapping toe.
how has your year been, what have been the highlights?
m: this year was something else. we played a lot more than ever before and had so much luck with people and places, the garden festival in croatia with the wolf boys, the nights at corsica studios, our live set at fabric, everything in the uk has been super fun. then the whole crazy north america trip. the retreat nights at loftus hall, a beautiful year it was.
i wonder why it took you so long to go from being a dj pairing to producing – close to ten years nearly…
m: well, we’ve been hanging out and spinning since we first met in ‘98. that’s when we both got into mixing. i’ve been producing a few years longer, so djing came after that. it was december 2006 when we were at my place and said “let’s make a beat together.” it was so fun that we made a second one right away and just continued from there.
and how have your sounds, influences and techniques change in that time if at all?
h: we have learned a few tricks and might be able to make a better sounding mix, but the technical side is not very important to us. with our ten 12”s and the lp, we have released quite a few tracks and that means a few things have been done and certainly do not need to be repeated. we are constantly discovering great music, which influences us when we sit down in the studio. so yes we need to keep evolving, but it’s still nice to hear when people tell us that something sounds like session victim
do you think all producers should take more time to learn their trade, learn the history, before they start putting music out there?
m: you only get good and versatile in what you do if you learn your trade. if you practice and try to improve your skillset, you ’ll be able to express yourself in a wider range, more multifaceted over time. that can’t be bad, can it? i’m sure there’s a few high profile djs out there who leave the “technical stuff” to the “studio geek”, pay him a visit every few days, check if the vibe is right and end up telling everyone how they just wrote an album.
as far as learning history – i don’t know. it ’s good if people come from different corners, i don’t think everyone has to listen to every kerri chandler, ron trent, moodymann whatever record to be real about it.
obviously your debut lp landed last year… how long was it in the making, when and why did you decide the time was right to start one?
h: we took a whole year to write the songs for the lp. when delusions of grandeur first approached us, we were not sure if we are ready to do this. we love challenges though, so when we realized that they are serious about it, we put everything down and focused just on this project.
From the mid-70's this Airto album features Gismonti and several of his compositions and during that time it resided on my turntable at Syracuse. Even today it has freshness and sincerity in sound that has not been equaled-except in Gismonti's high level ECM outings. Listening to it today as a promise of the future, I realize why I was such an optimist in my ragged youth.
Identity was produced by Herbie Hancock and benefits from the excellent work of Wayne Shorter on soprano sax and trombone great Raul De Souza. Best of all is Egberto Gismonti, who contributes several compositions and arrangements, as well as sterling work on guitar and piano.
Gismonti composed the opening track, Magicians — it alternates between the sublime and the ridiculous. Gismonti plays both piano and guitar on the track, both very percussively. His conception is unique. That’s the sublime part. The ridiculous is Airto singing absurd lyrics in heavily accented English. Perhaps Airto thought that if he sang in English, he might have some crossover success in the American market. With lyrics like “Let me give you all my love, then you will understand what I mean; when you give me all your love, then we can fly away in the sky; when you feel so lonely, just communicate; you are free to call me anytime,” Airto was clearly delusional. Whatever those guys were smoking, I want some of that.
The second great song on Identity is Encounter, also written by Gismonti and greatly benefitting from his idiosyncratic guitar and piano work. Thankfully, the lyrics are sung in Portuguese this time around.
The last winner on Identity is Wake Up Song, again written by Gismonti, which once again owes much of it’s success to Gismonti’s excellent guitar work. Once again, the lyrics are in Portuguese.
Are you sensing a theme here? I guess I wasn’t aware of how completely this release owes it’s success to the presence of Egberto Gismonti.
But don’t get me wrong. Airto is all over this record with his trademark percussion style.
Here’s the bad news: for me, the rest of the record is pretty much filler at best, embarassing at worst. Even so, there are compensations. For example, there is a wonderful trombone solo from Raul De Souza on Flora on My Mind. And, if you enjoy that sort of thing, there is the unintentional comedy of Airto singing lyrics like “To know you is to know the world, you make me feel like a child again; every time I think of you, I see that the world was made for you and me.”
You guys are both known to be hip-hop heads, so its not surprising to see you collaborate on this Tuxedo project for Stones Throw. Give us the story on how this whole thing came about.
Mayer: Jake and I met at a rap show in Seattle and exchanged mixtapes. I gave him a copy of this mixtape I did called Shoot The Duck and he gave me a copy of a mixtape he did called AR Music. We looked at the tracklists and they had some of the same songs on them. They were both heavily, early 80s, what we call “jheri curl funk.” And I just remember being blown away like “I can’t believe there is another person in the world that cares about these records.” At the time, this was around 2005 or 2006, I think. Literally nobody cared about these records, nobody was digging for that stuff.
It was like Jerry Knight, Bernard Wright and The Ritchie Family, stuff like that. Nobody was checking for that stuff at the time. Now those records are on the wall at Amoeba for like $30, $40, $50 or whatever, but at the time nobody cared about those records. So we just kind of kept in touch after that, and Jake ended up sending me some tracks that he made that were inspired by the music on those mixtapes. I remember he sent me over a few by email and I was just blown away by how authentic they sounded, because he was using all of the real, original analog synths. I wrote some songs to those tracks and sent my ideas back to him and he was like ‘Man, we might really have to do this for real.’ It kind of snowballed from there.
Jake: I don’t exactly remember the year, but I think I did the first mixtape in 2003. I was starting to do a lot of rap stuff, and it was going good, but I was just getting burnt out on it. I was just doing these mixtapes as something else to do, just for fun, of stuff I was listening to. Somehow we connected, I feel like [Detroit DJ] House Shoes told me about Mayer, and I ended up checking him out at a show in Seattle. We exchanged tapes and it was a lot of the same songs. It was just funny. It was really a hot thing at the time. Probably a year later, he did I party in L.A. and I played with him, and Dam-Funk, and YG. That was maybe 2005, probably. Ever since then we were homies. He wasn’t singing or none of that was going on at that time. Eventually I started trying to make beats in that vein of those songs for something different. I was learning how to play piano a little bit, so it was just kind of a way to test all of that out. I never really had the skill to come up with chords back then, I just didn’t really understand it.e put out “Just Ain’t Gonna Work Out,” he played me this song and I was like ‘Wow, I didn’t know you could sing,’ and I gave him one of the tracks I was working on and that’s how the whole thing came about.
So Tuxedo is directly influenced by these jheri curl funk / boogie records?
Mayer: Anytime I’m making music I want to make sure we aren’t just rehashing what’s already been done, because that’s no fun. It’s all about bringing it to 2017 or whatever and making it new. We were definitely heavily influenced by Chic and One Way and a lot of those old disco records, but we also brought a lot of Nate Dogg and west coast g-funk and of course our hip-hop backgrounds into it as well.
Jake: I would say a combination of Daz, Snoop, Nate Dogg, Death Row era, that stuff for sure. Battlecat. Leroy Burgess, who was a producer in the late 70s / early 80s who did a lot of amazing boogie stuff. Cameo. Con Funk Shun. A lot of these groups are the first groups as a kid I remember. A combination of those two things.
I think what makes it different from other guys that are doing funk or whatever is that Mayer, he just has his own thing, off the top. His voice is different, the way he writes is different.
Tell us a bit about your home town of Konotop, Ukraine. It’s a city in the Northern Ukraine where I grew up. It is my home where I feel safe, energised and where i can concentrate on work and not get distracted. I always come back here for inspiration, I feel like this is the land that carries spirit of the past which I am strongly connected to. Anyway, I also realise that it is Ipossible for me to continue living here only because my production does not depend on the outside conditions. Otherwise there is no space for artists or musicians in the city and I am certain that if I had to look for work here I would not find anything satisfying. My music is not known here either, but this is fine with me as this is my spiritual home which gives me energy and insights for the music I create. Promotion is not my task, so as long as I can live here and still be appreciated in other places I am happy enough!
What was the decision surrounding your move to Moscow? There was a point i my life when I realised that I am living my groundhog day. At that time it was not a conscious decision to go and start making music. No, it was rather a break-through in search for fresh air, and the only big vivid city that I had access to was Moscow. I believe it was the best decision at that time as it satisfied my thirst and help me set the priorities. Moscow is certainly my second home, because it was the city where I met people who inspired me and let me be a part of something big and meaningful.
It was there you worked at Propaganda Club, which is where you met Anton Zap, can you tell about your time there. It was the end of the 90’s and these were the best times of my life. The concept of Propaganda Club was very young and tempting. They had a very strict face (door) control and the first three times I went there they did not even let me in. But eventually I started coming to Propaganda every weekend, getting to know people, enjoying the music. It was a mystery happening and I really wanted to be a part of it. Propaganda was not a big place, it could host 800 people, but these were the people who really enjoyed those parties. Anton was the first person who gave me some records that he did not need so that I could practice. Eventually I spent 4 years in Propaganda as a resident. When I started djing it was a very special community of us, taste was a matter of great importance and there was not that much access towards music through charts and internet. At that time we would only order vinyls from a couple of websites such as Junkie XL Records or Satellite Records. Parties were very popular but still quite intimate. This is what I liked about the place. Of course, we would have some inside misunderstandings and troubles, but I guess, it is always a part of life and collaboration. Especially if it has to do with people who have their own visions and ambitions towards similar subjects. Anyway, being a part of something as great and dynamic as Propaganda is an integral part of my development as an artist and a person. The times have changed, Propaganda is not the same anymore either, but I think it is the way it should be as the club scene is developing fast, new tendencies appear and young blood comes into play.
At 20 he joined Benny Carter to work as a drummer. But Russell had learnt something about arranging from a fellow patient at a TB sanatorium, and one day, at a downtown theatre in Chicago, the band tried over one of his pieces. Subsequently he recalled, "Benny was very happy with it, and on top of that he paid me for it... I was launched on a writing career". Next, he did some arranging for Earl Hines, who was at the El Grotto club in Chicago. And then came Dizzy Gillespie's 1946 recording of "Round About Midnight". This latter had a great effect on him, and he knew he had to be at the centre of things, in New York.
Gillespie was putting a large band together, his second, and several arrangers were offering him material. Not feeling particularly confident, Russell brought out his Carter piece, and the trumpeter liked it as much as the alto saxophonist had. However, illness was again ready to play a crucial role in his life, the very next day putting him into hospital for 16 months. Later he said, "I knew I had to make use of this time to educate myself. From the scraps of advanced harmony I'd learnt, I knew that my answer didn't lie in traditional theory. I'd experimented a bit with polytonality, but on the piano in the hospital library I began a really intensive research into tonality" (1). That continued for 11 months, and towards the end of this time the Lydian mode (characterised by a sharpened fourth, and found in folk music in several parts of the world) began to emerge as a key factor.
On leaving hospital, Russell accepted an invitation to recuperate at Max Roach's Brooklyn apartment, where Gillespie, Lewis, Charlie Parker and Miles Davis were frequent guests. There, "Thanks to Max's piano and Mrs Roach's monumental patience, I continued to research for another nine months,” he remembered (1). Then he needed to find out if he could utilise his discoveries in composition. The result was that he conducted Gillespie's band in "Cubana Be/Cubana Bop" at Carnegie Hall in December 1947. In the same month, a record was made and the jazz community at large became aware of George Russell, though not immediately.
Published comment centred on the leader's trumpeting, even although this was set in an unprecedented context, and upon Chano Pozo's chanting and superb conga drumming. But the exultant, harshly incantatory ensemble passages, like those of "Thermopylae", Robert Graettinger's first score for Stan Kenton, recorded that same month, December 1947, for a while defied attempts at a coherent response. Russell's two movements are strikingly different from each other yet obviously related closely, their approach to the jazz orchestra's resources being disconcertingly independent of convention. This is most evident in the music's discontinuity, its juxtaposition of very different textures and types of motion, in its violently unpredictable rhythmic life. It is consistent but accords with laws then unfamiliar, and only years later did we grasp that "Cubana Be/Cubana Bop" was the most original piece ever recorded by a Gillespie big band.
Meanwhile, Russell had been noticed by other perceptive leaders and wrote arrangements for Claude Thornhill, Artie Shaw, and an interesting version of "Caravan" that was recorded by Charlie Ventura. His next ‘major’ score acquired, however, a legendary reputation all of its own. "The Bird In Igor's Yard" was long available only in the form of two acetates, one owned by Gerry Mulligan, the other by the New York disc-jockey Symphony Sid, who broadcast it frequently on his late night radio programme. Recorded by Buddy de Franco's large band in 1949, it was only issued commercially much later and shows that in the 18 months since “Cubana Be/Cubana Bop”, Russell had moved to a considerably more precise use of his discoveries. Essentially an advance on Eddie Sauter's intelligent vehicles for Goodman such as “Clarinet A La King”, with the leader's instrument deeply embedded in the ensemble and room for tenor and piano solos by Al Cohn and Gene di Novi, “The Bird In Igor's Yard” benefits from better performance and recording than the Gillespie piece. The problem for listeners is this music's diversity of gesture, for it presents a sequence of new yet unmistakably connected ideas, often more than one at a time. So tightly packed are these that the piece leaves an impression of size out of proportion to its brief length. The complexities, though, are of a strictly musical order, encouraging the musicians to play with fire and spontaneity.
Diane woke me one morning and said, “You have a record date today.” I hadn’t been playing. I hadn’t been doing anything. I said, “Are you kidding? Who with? And where? And what?” She told me that she and Les Koenig from Contemporary Records had got together. The only way they could do it, they figured, was to set it up and not tell me about it so I’d be forced into it. They knew that no matter how strung out I was I would take care of business if people were depending on me. Even at my worst I was always that way. She told me that Miles Davis was in town, and they had gotten his rhythm section and set it all up with them. They were going to record with me that day: Philly Joe Jones on drums, Paul Chambers on bass, and Red Garland on piano.
I wouldn’t speak to Diane at all. I told her, “Get out of my sight.” I got my horn out of the closet, got the case and put it on the bed and looked at it, and it looked like some stranger. It looked like something from another life. I took the horn out of the case. When you take the saxophone apart there’s the body piece, the neck, and the mouthpiece, and those three pieces are supposed to be wiped and wrapped up separately when they’re put in the case. Evidently, the last time I’d played I’d been loaded and I’d left the mouthpiece on the neck. I had to clean the horn because it was all dirty. I had to oil it and make sure it was operating correctly. On the end of the neck is a cork, and the mouthpiece slips over that. I had to put a little cork grease on it. I grabbed the mouthpiece and pulled. It was stuck at first and then all of a sudden it came off in my hand. The mouthpiece had been on the neck for so long that the cork had stuck inside it, and on the end of the neck was just bare metal. It takes a good repair man four or five hours to put a new cork on. It has to set. It has to dry. It has to be sanded down. I didn’t have time for that. I was going to have to play on a messed up horn.
And I was going to have to play with Miles Davis’s rhythm section. They played every single night, all night. I hadn’t touched my horn in six months. And being a musician is like being a professional basketball player. If you’ve been on the bench for six months you can’t all of a sudden just go into the game and play, you know. It’s almost impossible. And I realized that that’s what I had to do, the impossible. No one else could have done it. At all. Unless it was someone as steeped in the genius role as I was. As I am. Was and am. And will be. And will always be. And have always been. Born, bred, and raised, nothing but a total genius! Ha! Ahahaha!
There was no way to fix the neck so I put the mouthpiece back on it with the cork and fitted it where it was. If I wasn’t in tune, or if it started slipping or pulling loose or leaking, I was dead. I wrapped some tape around it. I took the reed off. It was stuck on the mouthpiece, all rotted and green. I got a new reed, found one I liked, and I blew into the horn for a little while. Then Diane came to the doorway. She was afraid to come in the room. She said, “It’s time for us to go.” I called her a few choice words: “You stinkin’ motherfucker, you! I’d like to kill you, you lousy bitch! You’ll get yours!” Then I went into the bathroom and fixed a huge amount.
I had no idea what I was going to play. Talk about being unprepared! The first albums I’d made, I’d always had something I’d written, a couple of tunes. We drove to Melrose Place, where the recording studio was, and there was Les at the door. He gave me a sheepish grin and said, “Well, how’re you doing?” I said, “Uh.” He said, “It’ll be alright. Everything’ll be alright.”
Les Koenig was someone I’d met in the early fifties. He’s been a movie producer at Paramount, a good producer with a lot of credits (He co-produced “Detective Story,” “The Heiress,” “Roman Holiday”). But right after the war they started a big campaign to rid the movie industry of communists; I think it was the McCarthy thing. I guess after Goebbels and Hitler they saw what a strong force propaganda was, and they were trying to clean up, rightly or wrongly, the people that started it. Probably they were thinking right, but like anything else that starts out like that it becomes a monster after a while and a lot of people suffer. So the people in the industry were asked to sign a paper saying that they didn’t believe this or believe that or had never been a communist or had never attended a meeting or would never attend one and all this nonsense. And the people were called before a committee and asked to name communists in the movie industry. Most of them signed the paper and named names. They just said, “Well, fuck it — this is my livelihood.” But there were a few that were such real people, such honest people, honest to themselves, that they would not cooperate. And Les Koenig was one of these. He wasn’t a communist actually, but he refused to go along with it because he felt that the committee infringed upon his rights. And so he was ostracized and kicked out of an industry where he’d become a producer.
After he left the movies he had to find something to do. Les was a person that liked good things. He liked art; he liked good writing; he loved music. And so he started Contemporary Records. Les was the first to record the legendary Ornette Coleman when no other company would touch him. He recorded many young, far-out people and gave them their first opportunities to be heard. And he recorded Sonny Rollins, Shelly Manne, Andre Previn, Hampton Hawes, Barney Kessel, and many more. I had made albums for different companies, but I’d never gotten the right shake on my royalties, things like that. (In fact, all the records I made prior to my association with Les are still being sold in this country or in Europe, in Japan, and I don’t get a penny in royalties from them to this day.) I just figured that was how the record business was. Then I was approached by Les. He offered me a contract, and his whole operation was very different. I saw that her was an honest man, and I felt very safe with him, and so I signed, and I’ve never had any regrets. We developed a beautiful friendship over the years. When I was really troubled, I could talk to him. He helped me a lot.
So here he is at the door, and I walk in, and I’m afraid to meet these guys because they’ve been playing with Miles and they’re at the pinnacle of success in the jazz world. They’re masters. Practicing masters. But here I am and here they are, and I have to act like everything’s cool — “Hi” and “What’s doin’?” “Hi, Red, what’s goin’ on?”
When the amenities are over and Les gets everything up, the balance on the horn and all the microphones, then it’s time to start making the album. Red Garland is looking at me, and my mind is a total blank. That’s always been one of my faults — memory. I have a poor memory, and I can’t think of anything to play. Red says, “Well, I know a nice tune. Do you know this?” He starts playing a tune I’ve heard before. I say, “What’s the name of it?” He says, “You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To.” “What key?” “D minor.”
It came out beautiful. My sound was great. The rhythm was great. And I remember in the reviews, by people like Leonard Feather, Martin Williams, they said, “The way Art plays the melody is wonderful. He’s so creative. He makes it sound even better than the actual tune.” Well, what I’m doing, I don’t know the melody so I’m playing as close to it as I can get, and that’s the creativity part. It does sound good because I play it with a jazz feeling, and it’s like a jazz solo, but I’m really trying to play what I recollect of the song.
Les suggested we try a ballad for the next side, so Paul Chambers said, “You know what would be a nice tune for alto and the way you play? ‘Imagination.’ Do you know that?” I said, “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Bah dah dah dahhhh dah…” Red said, “That’s A flat.” I said, “Well, I was just goofing around.” We ran through the melody and the bridge and then I said, “What should we do at the ending?” Red said, “Just do a little tag kind of thing. Just make it a free kind of thing.” I played the melody and then I blew; Red played; Paul played; I came in and just followed along, a little series of chords; and then they stopped and I played a little ad lib kind of thing and we went into the ending. It was just fantastic. “Imagination” on Art Pepper Meets the Rhythm Section. It sounded as if we’d been rehearsing for months. That’s the way the whole thing went. We played a lot of things I’d liked but never done. And I really moved them, you know. And that’s something. They’d been playing with Miles! And me being white! They were all real friendly and said it was beautiful, and they dug the way I played. Diane looked at me, like “Would I forgive her?” and “Wasn’t I happy?” And I was so relieved it was over I told her, “Everything’s cool.” So that was the session, and when it came out the people really liked it.