Suspicious to the Core (three / 2)

Hack the Abstraction—and Again

Arendt situates the polemic within the etymological framework noting the first mention of the word revolution on July 14, 1789. Allegedly, when Louis XVI commenting on the occupation of the Bastille called it revolt, it was suggested to him by Liancourt that a more accurate term would be revolution (On Revolution 38). According to Arendt’s commentaries, up to that moment, the meaning of the word revolution was known solely from the realm of astronomy. Particularly, it denoted cyclical movements of heavenly bodies. The symbolic of orbits that Liancourt could have implied in his remark might concern the historical fact disclosing the corruption of revolutionary freshness after the first phase characterized by unprecedented social shifts. In the aftermath of those tectonic reconfigurations, what is nowadays known as revolution started its downfall toward the climax of a distorted version of the initial vision. In other words, the trope might highlight that the events were revolving around the axis of revolt only to end up at the stage at which the state of affairs was not very different from what it was like at the very starting point, i.e., that the upheaval had gone full circle (only, the ruling elites—oppressive at that— were now composed of the subjects who once had fought against inhumanely brutal social conditions in the monarchy).

Yet, one can’t help but wonder how Liancourt could foresee the dynamics in question. Hence, one suspects that he might have had a different meaning in mind when he suggested a more accurate term for the turmoil. If so, what could it be? What does Liancourt talk about when he talks about revolution? One would like to know. From a contemporary point of view, what happened in France in 1789 hardly fits into the definition of revolution as the struggle for power on behalf of the proletariat. The notion of a working classes demographic in France in 1789 is highly questionable. So is it with regard to the situation in America prior to that. But then, how capitalist was the Tsarist Russia in 1917, let alone in 1905? One would like to know. 

When was revolution? According to some interpretations of historical records, it has happened more than once at different points in history at various locations. Yet, what those interpretations fail to see is a difference between the actual bloodsheds and what revolution is and should/can be. Scrutinizing Machiavelli’s strategy, Arendt demystifies erratic equations between certain violence inclined and/or violence soaked historical phenomena on the one hand and, on the other, revolution:”his insistence on the role of violence in politics was due not so much to his so-called realistic insight into human nature as to his futile hope that he could find some quality in certain men to match the qualities we associate with the divine” (On Revolution 29). Clearly, Arendt is in uncompromising disagreement with delusional demigodliness:

We shall see later that this latter part of the task of revolution, to find a new absolute to replace the absolute of divine power, is insoluble because power under condition of human plurality can never amount to omnipotence, and laws residing on human power can never be absolute. (On Revolution 29)

Just as she is critical of violence pertinent to conduct based on a deceitful idea of human omnipotence, so does Arendt object to senselessness characterizing radical approaches to  dedication to a cause--destructiveness partly sacrificial, partly directed toward the other. There are two major pillars of Arendt’s thought that safeguard her stance against such mindless strategies and tactics. First and foremost, it is the idea that investment in freedom, inherent in revolution, is also the main generator of revolutionary energies. The fervor engendered by virtue of such affinity is incompatible with (self)-destructiveness. Choosing death can by no means be part of wholesome sociopolitical reasoning, save in a symbolic sense such as in the idea of death to self. This maneuver, essentially anchored in humbleness, ensures vital responses in the individual and the communal realms. It is in a reciprocally supportive relationship with the predilection to create, rather than to destroy:”the revolutionary spirit, that is the eagerness to liberate and to build a new house where freedom can dwell, is unprecedented and unequalled in all prior history” (On Revolution 25).  Destruction and aggression are in a mutually fueling relationship with dominance driven socioscape. A devotee to unorthodox understanding of power relations, Arendt states the futility of the attempts to revolutionize otherwise:

In the contest that divides the world today and in which so much is at stake, those will probably win who understand revolution, while those who still put their faith in power politics in the traditional sense of the term and, therefore, in war as the last resort of all foreign policy may well discover in a not too distant future that they have become masters in a rather useless and obsolete trade. (On Revolution 8)

It seems that the word revolution entered the socio-historical dialogue in a slightly capricious fashion. It continued in a no less tainted manner. Thus, to hack it back to the realm where one reckons it belongs will require undoing at least twofold bastardization in discourse and the extralinguistic alike.

Like turntablist poetics, the remix : reemergence of the human face from blurry amalgamation--out of cacophony, and through subtonic hi-fi solidarity in peaceful/peaceable resistance.

Eathix off politix, a.k.a., happiness

Scrutinizing the pathways of revolutionary unfolding, Arendt is concerned with hindsight as a vehicle of reading into historical records paradigms that color words and apprehension with a shade of mystique. Specifically, nowadays, it is impossible to think the concept of revolution disregarding marxian context. Arendt points to the weird occasion of the intersection between economy / economics and politics in Marx’s political economy. “Political economy” of the period ensuing his time has seen civilization deeply entrenched in a nomadic haze of dislocated categories crippling the socioscape to the point of an image distorted beyond (self)recognition.

She detects the slippery slope, basically, featured in materialist dialectics heavily relying on hegelian legacy. More precisely, it is the emphasis on poverty as the cause of violence, instead of vice versa, that has enabled the development of the sociopolitical irrevocably fixated on materialist aspects. Thus, in retrospect, the French Revolution was mainly carried out on the bodily level. Put differently, in her opinion, Robespierre saw the number of participants gathered together around the common cause as the force leading toward the changes aspired by the revolutionaries: because of poverty, they were oppressed; hence they rebelled against it.

What in such a scenario becomes crudely severed to the point of invisibility is the ideological realm. The very fact that it is so magically marginalized becomes invisible, as well. Having undergone both discursive and extralinguistic manipulation, the social, essentially, appears as the economic under the disguise of the political. In the context of the French Revolution, Arendt observes:”Meanwhile, the revolution has changed its direction; it aimed no longer at freedom, the goal of the revolution had become the happiness of the people” (On Revolution 51). Likewise, within the framework of the October Revolution, she demarcates:”Not freedom but abundance became now the aim of revolution” (On Revolution 54).

A marxist perspective, negotiating between hegelian chemistry of reversibility and the positivist  (nonpopperian) paradigm, resulted in a somewhat deterministic vocabulary that as much as it aimed to empower, so did it limit possibilities for the dispossessed. One can’t help but suspect that insistence on the economic focus of socio-political dynamics may be a highly oppressive mechanism of control. Once the regime against which the uprising was directed is overthrown and new “political” elites rise to power, the “revolutionaries”-turned-rulers find economic vocabulary to be an extremely efficient manipulative—potentially sacrificial/scapegoating--means. Once people become deprived of the awareness of the significance and role of ideology, blind spots are created and room for a contestation of critical thinking is ensured through apparatuses of conventional power politics, to borrow Arendt’s wording.

She identifies the detail that, to her mind, distinguishes the American Revolution from the French Revolution in terms of the perception of individuality and power. Namely, while the French Revolution centered the fuelling motivation, that Arendt defines in terms of passion of compassion, around the inflated image of revolutionary leaders, the revolutionary predecessors anchored their liberation in God, not men. Yet, one can’t help but wonder if such a focus may exclude passion of compassion for fellow humans. One would like to know.

The logic of peaceful/peaceable resistance in the service of the remix creates a platform for dialogue between and among distinct, yet coexisting and possibly compatible, spheres. The response against social ills as described in and inferred from Arendt’s theory, from a contemporary point of view resonates with Baudrillard’s remark from The Vital Illusion (2000):

Through the media, it is the masses who manipulate those in power (or those who believe themselves to be). It is when the political powers think they have the masses where they want them that the masses impose their clandestine strategy of neutralization, of destabilization of a power that has become paraplegic. (53)

All the hindsight aiming to destabilize historical records certainly does not diminish the significance of Marx’s teaching based on profound investment in revolution. Nor does it prevent one from enduring in peaceful/peaceable resistance: persevering in disambiguating kaleidoscopically reversed image of socio-political categories and realities. Neither elitist nor populist is revolutionary endurance in cultivating the capacity to discern and sustain the distinction between individualism and individuality, between uniformity and unity.

Suspicious to the Core (three / 1)

 Three : “Revolution” : Revolutionize

Like Revolution

Revolution wants to be revolutionized. And yet, it is hardly detectable when within the historical trajectory carrying civilization down the progress paths it began being other than simply—revolution. However, were an historical maze indeed that simple, it might start leaning toward clearly undesirable oversimplification. One cannot, nevertheless, help but wonder why Hannah Arendt and thinkers of her ilk insist on mutually conditioned bastardization between the word revolution and revolutionary practices. All through history.

Perhaps it is not unreasonable to believe that it is because revolution is anchored in paradox. More precisely, the revolution debate brings to awareness ideas related to the question of beginning, as Arendt claims in On Revolution (1977) that there is “the element of novelty inherent in all revolutions” (17).[1] Some of them suggest that: (a) revolution by definition demarcates a new beginning, and (b) all revolutions are of Christian descent. It follows that : (1) indeed, revolution generates new socioscape, as Christianity historically demonstrated, and (2) the very fact subverts the former proposition, as Christian doctrine contends that a belief in radical newness is untenable, or, better still, a self-dissolving one; simultaneously, it confirms perpetual reintegration of the world. Like refacement.

Consequently, that’s the reason why history of revolutions is a series of futile attempts at overthrowing a regime and establishing a new governance with a rise to power of the revolutionary forces. Such historical occasions are certainly not nonviolent. Needless to say, they are everything but a revolutionary dream come true. They do not bring a beginning of a new society,  since hunger for power—as James Joyce puts it so succinctly, albeit not in entirely same context, in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1991),[2] like “the old sow that eats her farrow” (208) -- dilutes revolutionary impetus robbing from it authentic  energies, impulse, and demands.

Or, is it so? One wonders. If, presumably, authentic urge to revolutionize is aimed at initiating a radically new order, then, indeed, its goals reveal its falseness. However, one should not be misled to conclude that flawed revolutions are inevitable. Nor should one be persuaded to believe that historical records are justification of aggression lest it taint the perception of the potential of revolution. All through history.

Unamerican vs. (no) Revolution

Arendt seems to be highly suspicious of both common wisdom and, in her opinion, flawed attempts to confront some views frequently regarded as historical facts. In that context, she considers the idea of all revolutions being “Christian in origin” (On Revolution 17) and the critique that denies the American Revolution the revolutionary character. The latter is, apparently, based on the belief that, since it is struggle against poverty, and for power that constitutes the major part of revolutionary impetus, in America – the land welcoming the lowest social strata – the problem of radical poverty was nonexistent prior to the historic event (On Revolution 16). In addition, the new continent in which equality reigned provided conditions for generating a society where the problem of divides was taken care of before what is commonly known as the American Revolution took place. One of the most prominent indicators was the possibility of communication between the rich and the poor on an equal footing. Hence, social reconfiguring that history knows as the American Revolution is a series of changes that for centuries have been going under, essentially, a misnomer. The understanding that all revolutions are Christian in origin is denounced by the fact that it is secularization that enabled prevalence of materialist minded culture.

The crux of the polemic could be the critique of the historical occurrence that ensured an intersection between the economic and the political. This initially tangential phenomenon brought about the fusion of the two realms ending up in amalgamation within which the political has been eradicated and continued as a misnomer: essentially, economy under the disguise of politics. This can be tracked to the questions Arendt raises in The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951), where she points out the rise of liberalism and individualism interwoven with an increase in inclinations toward materialist wealth and disregard of fellow humans except as potential competition and object of exploitation. Such a greed infested climate first enabled sprouting a plague of politicians-turned-businessmen, then caused a perception of the world through the prism of hostility and nihilo-cannibalist mentality.

In a world that recognizes uprising only as a means of obtaining materialist gain, that knows no power beyond sheer force, a viable way to redescribe social vocabulary is in the vein of Arendt’s remark about Christian perception of secular history:

Secular history in the Christian view remained bound within the cycles of antiquity –empires would rise and fall as in the past—except that Christians, in the possession of an everlasting life, could break through this cycle of everlasting change and must look with indifference upon the spectacles it offered. (On Revolution 17)

In a secular parlance, it spells out the way to revolutionize both the perception and practice of revolution. Namely, the way in question would be “secularization” of the social realm, i.e., recuperating it by undoing ill-synthesized spheres. Put differently, a possible way for revolution to be revolutionized is its being firmly anchored in the vibrancy of peaceful/peaceable resistance. Like refacement.

Like majestic travesty of storytelling from darkness: tales from the edges of the grotesque, bizarre, abhorring, scornful, subverting the very tone featured on the surface level of the narrative. Tales hiding in obscure depths defiant potential of resistance to the slime and mud caking the crust, to a monstrous narrative device—a seductive, creepily appealing, potentially misleading bait that threatens to hinder communication between the reader and the realms emanating different sound.

Like refacement.

Like a Saturn wandering through the streets of L.A. smeared in humidity vaporized from the slits zoning from beneath baggy eyelids, buzzing with detachment.  Urban archipelago whose islands are scattered across an ungraspable ocean. Islands detached from one another like corrosive skepticism carrying the tales of spies shifting from unreliable fiction to suspicious world that surrounds it. Birds of prey staging a history of civilization in a hazy reverie of desert dwellers of an imaginary Leith. Tales of solace barely detectable in the midst of swarmed, chimera infested world. The world whose mirror image is digitized waves playing with pixel plankton on colossal screens projecting pictures captured with a mighty glamcam. Adopted idiom of binary code galaxies. Adventures in boredom. Billboard screens abound. They peek from the skin, speak from wounds, from everywhere. Ethereal ocean’s dream conjured up in a monster tranquilizer induced sleep, watched by a scribble freed from 3D printing enchantment…“down by the jetty.” Like Stephen Dedalus’s unshakable “No.” Out of cacophony: reconstituting wholesome energies and galvanizing the capacity to learn. Like the remix.

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[1] Arendt, Hannah. 1963. On Revolution. New York: Penguin Books, 1977. Print.

[2] Joyce, James. 1916. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. London: Everyman’s Library, 1991. Print.

Suspicious to the Core (2)

The Right to De-light

99 & ½?

Night sky populated by myriad sparkling dots. Each titillation forms a tiny ripple. Waves spread across the vastness of the cosmic ocean. Night sky leaks into the center of the whirlpool in the viewfinder. Constellations vibrate in the dark space of the room. The observer of the night sky is still searching for Saturn—once detected, now unidentifiable—invisible planet brooding in darkness filled with memory of the celestial rhapsody.

Is it the dark room into which one withdraws having failed to reach the much sought entity on stellar maps? Is the darkness a reflection of the haunting office space one successfully abandoned? Is it the unease of all futile attempts to spot one’s guardian star in that uninterested, solemn inky empire? Is it an echo of dislocations such as broken families? Is it an epitome of the hollowness plaguing pubs and bars on Friday evenings, once the offices close and cohorts of eager socialization seekers swamp nearby joints holding a drink in one hand, cell phone in the other, and look…well, somewhere that appears as elusive as the space of the room, once the lens of the telescope admits its limits and all recordings exhaust their audio-visual capacity to tell stories about the past, to devise a perception of the present?

Or, is it where one reconnects with oneself having realized that Laura is a concept from Petrarch’s sonnets--not a girl on the pier, at a strip bar, or some such facility, that uncle Rey’s tales are testimony to his moral drama in the aftermath of an adulterous familial debacle--not one’s former wife’s confessions about an affair with a coworker that ended the marriage, that brother Cal’s concern about uncle Rey’s will is his--not the whole world’s--dislocation, that stargazing is part of observing the sky—not constitutive of a blurry chasm of boring editing job in an office saturated with energy so hostile that it feels like void?

Or, is it where one discovers the music of Dr. Feelgood --“down by the jetty” (“All through the City” 6)[1] -- as Jon Michaels, the protagonist of Lee Rourke’s novel Vulgar Things (2014), seems to be oscillating between partly bewildering, partly reintegrating explorations of the enchanting estuary abundant in both cultural and familial legacy he found in Canvey Island?

His search may be a possibility to re-discover the intersections of the time axes redeeming the past, reimagining the future, and resurrecting the present. His search may be a possibility to find in the face of a stranger familiarity that renders wandering something else, something sensible:”It’s the sort of face that looks like it’s lived many lives. A friendly face – wrinkled, weathered, trustworthy, the lines on his face like a map of territory I already know” (Vulgar Things 86).

Is it solely in the darkness remaining when all gadgets fail to provide comforting imagery where one re-enacts encounters such as Jon’s with Mr. Buchanan? Is it solely darkening spaces that sometimes act like a mirror? One would like to know.

/

Rourke’s novel exudes the color imbued in each instance of its plot, infiltrating every single component constitutive of the characterization, conquering the setting regardless of its versatility. It is the black river flowing into the sea (Vulgar Things 106). It is the darkness of inky vacuum wilderness hosting indifferent orbits mirrored in wanderings of the characters zoning through unlikely atmospheres of the modern day enslavement of politically inferior denizens by a demimonde in the country of a political sovereign. It is the darkness looming over the boardwalk even on the brightest of days, over amusement arcades filled with noise of exhilarated thrill chasers. It inhabits Jon’s encounters with a proliferated chimera that he calls Laura. It speaks from the pages of uncle Rey’s book entitled Vulgar Things from which Jon learns who his Laura was, and who his father is. It is the sound of the recordings testifying to uncle Rey’s years of wrestling with a moral goliath haunting him from the depths of the nightmarish past, sneering at him with a whiff of forbidden fruit eaten with his brother’s wife. It is the sound of the message from the Dr. Feelgood T-shirt reading Oil City Confidential – “down by the jetty.”

It pours on the earth with slants of rain. It dries it with gusts of wind. It soaks the roots with dripping tar. It lathers windows with the patina of time. It smears the viewfinder with a blurry image it cannot capture. Sometimes, it acts like an anchor, as Jon asserts:”thankful to the force of gravity for keeping me from drifting off into space” (Vulgar Things 93). It appears to be the very force that urges Jon to rescue his Laura from captivity:”to save her from any darkness, to bring her back from the depths of night, back up into the light of day” (Vulgar Things 109) – down by the jetty.

Darkness is a sensation of being webbed into a deceitful totality of experiences revamped by emotional turmoil (Vulgar Things 114). It is like the void on the stellar maps where once Saturn was. It is like dazzling sparks buzzing through constellations unable to solve the astronomical mystery of its disappearance. It invades one with the vibrancy of “silent geometry, something poetic and unfathomable” (Vulgar Things 143). It lurks from behind delusional anxiety of Saturn’s absence. It is when one realizes that “[g]ravity isn’t enough” (Vulgar Things 143). It is also when repurposing rhizomorphic web seems either like a viable response to a transformation of roots into aerials or an enactment of it. When everything feels anchored in the very remapping, as Saturn shyly resurfaces, bringing smile back to the gloom of the universe. Such are the colors of Lee Rourke’s novel Vulgar Things. Such is the sound of storytelling from darkness.

/

Every morning, in that history drenched caravan, Jon wakes up to a new day of search, new day of discovery, finding in his uncle’s book, in his recordings, corrosive noise of moral dilemmas and self-haunting consciousness. Like an impenetrable jungle of unruly emotions, the caravan is suffocating under piles of random objects, random memories hanging cumbersomely throughout the dusty air contained within that acerbic cagy empire. Every morning, the handle of the tap treats him with a contingent of cold water, as if the pulley-lever on the roof remains indefinitely open welcoming incessant outpour of cold tears from indifferent interstellar abyss. Jon rejoices in the freshness of water—each droplet washes away hangover induced fuzz brooding through each atom of his body. Like floating heaviness across the celestial subzero chasm, his search is coded in the color of night swimming in the lake. The lady bathed in moonlight absorbed the glow of the constellations. He recognized in that weird scene a sense of detachment so familiar that the very collision of the sensations ensured generative potential guiding him through a labyrinth of reenactments of variants of strangeness crowned by unpompous courage to abandon it:

My understanding of its separateness must have been born within me the very first time I stepped onto the island. I’m sure of that. I’ve always understood, deep down, beneath the laughter, why the locals refer to it as the  island, deep down it’s always made perfect sense to me: to feel dislocated, to feel lost and forgotten. (Vulgar Things 17)

Canvey Island seems to be more a sensation than a geographical location. In the repetitiveness of conversation at the Lobster Smack, he may have sensed the vacuum devouring roaring surface effervescence and exuberation, as strip bars were being filled by salivating gazes on urban Friday binge entertainment. As if it always were Friday. As if unambitious reconfigurations of hierarchy amid that estuary apathy reflected something that corporate culture cultivates with a much more testosterone loaded feel:”you can see the younger generation of drinkers growing in the shade of the towering men at the bar, readying themselves for the next old-timer to fall, eager to pick up their stool and take their place” (Vulgar Things 22). The clubs such as the Sunset Bar and the Cornucopia, while grooving to a different muscular impulse, shortcircuited with hostility and aggression, give away the same stink of staleness that like spleen spreads over long nondescript days bridging the gap between equally insipid nights:”It’s strange, I’ve never hung around with other men in packs, and the thought of drinking with a large group of men in a strip club turns my stomach” (Vulgar Things 155).  Distastefulness sublimated in vivid imagery. Unlike constellations.

/

Mr. Buchanan reminds Jon that a lease on the caravan expires soon. It needs to be vacated within a week. Uncle Rey’s stuff needs to be cleaned, sorted out, packed, and unnecessary bits disposed. Jon is nowhere near finishing the task. His days on Canvey Island meander like an estuary unlikely to rejoin the main flow, let alone reach the confluence. His days on Canvey Island are a series of dislocations: from cold morning showers, via hearty breakfasts, wandering in pursuit of Laura, boozy, heavy dinners in the company of Robbie, a.k.a., Mr. Buchanan, researching uncle Rey’s messy archive, and yes, stargazing.

It doesn’t take him long to re-focus. Uncle Rey’s stuff is being cleaned quite efficiently. The book Jon takes with him, alongside the recordings. Dr. Feelgood music is being transpositioned from vinyl into Jon’s world that he only starts discovering. It is no longer merely a slogan on a T-shirt. It is no longer solely background noise of a family drama. It is the rhythm of observing an endless dark ocean populated by bathing constellations.

He separated trash from the stuff he keeps, stuff of relevance. The caravan is like a mundane version of the void peeping through the pulley-lever, Jon like an organic telescope. He unexpectedly discovered in himself an admirer of inky wilderness, unknown interest in Saturn’s presence, unquenchable thirst for ungraspable vastness, susceptibility to enchantment by mesmerizing darkness. He wasn’t rich before he came to Canvey Island. Now he is. He inherited a fortune from the elder. The check evidences uncle Rey’s generosity, care, guilty consciousness, humanness…who knows. Jon found in that quirky legacy the reclusive bard left behind the incomparable treasure : the sound shimmering with the groove resistant to the climate of dying pub culture—the scene from which it emerged--the sound radiating myriad sparks absorbed from the leakage through the whirlpool of the viewfinder.

Jon becomes a node in the rhizomorphic omniwebbing:”I look up at the sky, at the grey clouds, knowing that Saturn is somewhere up there, with me, hanging above me, keeping me rooted” (Vulgar Things 188). It is a sense of groping unshakably in the midst of oscillating uncertainties. Jon has learned that, or, perhaps re-discovered it somewhere deep inside, deep down where a starry shadow recognizes a dedicated acolyte--loyal worshipper--where it reconfirms the comfort it offers in infinitely challenging capricious appearances and inexplicable gaps between them:”Saturn is somewhere up there, hanging in the same blackness, silent, waiting. I can feel its presence. A small jewel in the night, a yellow brown marble, the rings hovering around it, a protective shield” (Vulgar Things 202).

He stares at it till his eyes and the telescope are no longer enough to capture it all. He records the site with his cell phone camera. He does so in order to prevent himself from falling into that creepy chasm, from being sucked into a dizzy whirlpool of Saturn’s spinning rings, from being pulled into and getting lost & forgotten in a dark labyrinth. Later, he can watch it. Later, he can watch a digitized version of the mysterious giant’s empire. If he needs to. But, he doesn’t have to. He watches it on his way back to London. But, he doesn’t have to. He watches it on his way to London where he goes only to leave it. He has made a decision to sell his apartment, go to find mother, to recuperate fruits of distrust, tales of shame…thereby perhaps relieving his search from uncle Rey’s haunting past, lift the burden of troublesome residues of futile jobs, echoes of flawed relationships, communication…who knows.

Each pixel a dot – an anchor – on the map of that obscure, colossal, incomprehensible space. Each binary coded signal an aerial in the rhizomorphic web indefatigably conveying the communication flow despite the interlocutors’ limited capacity to decipher it in its entirety. Or, perhaps by virtue of such constraint. One thing, however, is quite likely to be certain: the sound he found “down by the jetty” soaks his whole being with sparks : nodes mirroring each other in the etherized ocean, mirroring territory they know.

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[1] Dr. Feelgood, “All through the City.” Down by the Jetty. 1975. CD and LP.