[MUSIC]
Double Elvis. [MUSIC]
“Discrace land is a production of double Elvis.”
[MUSIC] [MUSIC]
This is a story about danger, about how danger
never really goes away. Even after you've escaped the most dangerous place you've ever known. And this is also a story about a band that survived. One of the most violent, lawless music scenes on Earth, only to discover that the farther they traveled from it,
the nearer danger drew them in. This is about riots and near death experiences. About criminals hiding out in mining camps. It's about crossing over, about paying a price and about controversy.
It's a story about how even the bands that make it out alive don't always make it out unscathed.
This is the story of how in excess became one of the biggest rock and roll bands on the planet. So of course, it's a story about great music. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melatonin called Yanna MK1.
I played that loop because I can't afford the rights to my sharona by the knack.
“And why would I play you that specific slice of Kurt Cobain inspiring cheese could I afford it?”
Because that was the number one song in America on September 19th, 1979. And that was the day that Australia's music scene literally went up in flames.
In six guys from down under, forged in the Whitehout fire, first set their sights on global superstar.
On this, a special part too episode. While places lawless scenes, criminals mining camps controversy and in excess. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is the screen side. It was a land of opportunity and dust, a place for men who weren't welcomed back home. Men blown west by the wind and hardened by the sun.
Criminals running from their past and running from the law. It was a land without laws. Out here there were only promises. Promises of wealth, of fame, and of a new life, of vast life. One that seemed as endless as the horizon.
But those promises in that life were hard earned, and they came in a price. And so this was also a land of violence, and it was a land where you backed up your best shot with bare knuckles. A land where blood was spilled, and where justice came at the sharp end of a knife blade or the jagged edge of a broken bottle.
This land was not the Wild West of America in the late 1800s. This was the Wild West of Australia in the 1970s. Or should I say, the Wild West of the Australian music scene in the 1970s. Of course New York had the Ramones in suicide and Patty Smith and London had the clash in the pistols, but by 1977, Australia had something even more untamed unchecked.
The Australian rock and roll circuit was lawless. From Sydney to Melbourne, to far-flung mining and fishing towns like Calglorley, Port Headland, and Bunbury. Australian audiences were desperate to rage, as Midnight Oil's Peter Garrett once put it.
And whether it was Midnight Oil, or the Saints, or a radio bird man, or cold chisel,
“or even the boys next door, that's what Nick Cave and the birthday party called themselves”
at first. Australian audiences were radicalized, mobilized, and energized by the music. They wanted to be part of the show, and I mean physically. Street tough sun-hardened subcultures like the Sharpies who roll up, their crop cuts tight and their t-shirts tight, their jeans tight to all of it tight, all of it sharp as fuck.
They'd wait for a hippie or a mod or a rocker, anyone who wasn't a Sharpie really to do the wrong thing, to look at them the wrong way, to say the wrong word, and it was on. And that night's entertainment would then sound track the raw primordial violence at ear-splitting
Volume.
Meanwhile, a couple of truck drivers, six pint steep, would begin to beat each other's
“faces, and while some half-baked township at the Barrel weaponized beer bottle, in order”
to express his displeasure at the fact that he couldn't hear the football game on the shitty television set that hung above the cash register. The one venue's bar in particular served as a buffer between the audience and the band. At the Star Hotel in Newcastle, New South Wales, the band played behind the bar, while the 200 or so patrons packed inside had a stand on the bar if they wanted to really connect
with the music on that untamed physical level. But the physical state of the Star Hotel was just about as dodgy as it's rough around the edges clientele, and so on September 19, 1979, the venerable live music venue hosted its final shows before shutting down for good. Bands began playing at noon that day, and they went until 10pm that night, which
per-a-local ordinance was curfew. The club was at capacity inside, but outside, thousands more gathered to give the beloved Star Hotel the send-off it deserved.
“The cops walked into the Star at 10pm on the dock, one of the local bands, Heroes, were”
wrapping up their final song. The thin walls were shaking, and the stench of sweat, beer, and cigarettes was as strong as Heroes were allowed, but the cops aimed to be louder, just by being present. They forced the music to stop before that final song was technically over, but not before Heroes' lead singer leaned into the mic with a parting saw.
"The pigs say we gotta go!" The place erupted. All that untamed energy that had been put into the music into this codependence symbiotic relationship now had nowhere else to go, but to refocus itself on the ones who had denied them their joy and communion and rage.
As the cops put the Heroes' Defiant singer in handcuffs, the crowd emptied onto the street, and out there in the warm spring air, a riot broke up.
“Chance of piss off pigs, while the locals wrestled with police.”
As one bystander was led into a waiting ambulance with blood running down his face, another managed to steal a cop's service revolver.
A group of men rocked the police car back and forth, finally tipping it over, and as it
came to rest on its hood, fuel began to leak from the gas tank and spill onto the pavement. Some random source of ignition was then tossed onto the liquid, a stray cigarette perhaps. And within seconds, the cruiser erupted in a fireball. The flames quickly spread to a nearby patty wagon which burned alongside the cruiser.
While the memories of all the shows inside the tiny star hotel drifted off into the night, with the smoke that was now billing from the wreckage. Only a few weeks before the now infamous Star Hotel riots, the Sydney by way of Perth band, the Ferris Brothers, had just played their first gig under the catchier new name, in excess.
Just like Heroes in cold chisel and midnight oil in all the rest, in excess and the brothers Ferris, that's Andrew John and Tim, along with Gary Bears, Kirk Pengillian leads singer Michael Hutchins, had come up in the lawless years of the Australian pub rock circuit. They were forged by the white hot danger of the scene.
Even if your perception of an excess has always been the pretty boys of the 1980s and early
1990s era of rock and roll, the pretty boy thing was just attention getting. The pretty boy thing sold records, millions of records, but I'm getting ahead of myself. By matter of fact, an excess were a product of an exceedingly hostile environment. This environment wasn't necessarily the Star Hotel on the evening of September 1979. Instead, theirs was a mining camp and gold's worthy.
A two-day drive from Sydney, where they were offered a thousand dollars to entertain the workers for a week. Unlike some of the crowd at the star, many of these mining workers lived one step ahead of the law. They came the gold's worthy to hide from judges and lawyers and women.
Out here in the dust, in the dirt, all their pent-up aggression, all their violence, it ripped into the ground beneath them with their shovels, with their picks that they held in their cows' hands. This area of Australia was unforgiving, a dystopian mad max vision were chaos and disorder lingered in the silences, where the miners made it through another day, only because they
knew that a bunch of bust-in horrors were waiting for them in the decrepit chacks on site. This was the land where, as an excesses tour van rocketed west and then north, John Ferris looked out the window only to see a pilot dead kangaroos on the side of the road.
It was a land where you didn't know whether the audience was going to applaud...
their chair and strangle you to the life was squeezed from your body.
“There was a land where there was fear even in the communal bathroom, which was crawling”
with spiders as big as one of those working man's countless tanks. But a thousand bucks was a thousand bucks and so John Ferris and Michael Hutchinson in excess did what any other band in Australia circa the late 1970s would do. They took the gig. Besides, some steady money meant that Kirk no longer had a cell weed out of his guitar
case to make ends meet, and in making the drive and taking the gig surrounded by dead kangaroos and giant spiders and hardened criminals and all, in excess learned how to survive. But survival wasn't enough. John Kirk Michael in the guys aspired to things bigger than the vastness of the brutal Australian scene.
They wanted the world. They wanted to cross over to the world, which was something that some of even the most
popular Australian bands like the Great Cold Chisel were never able to achieve.
In excess also did an exactly fit in with the Australian thing, and what I mean by that is that they weren't banned for the raging crowd. They didn't inspire the sharpies and their rivals to bang heads. They were banned that made you shake your ass instead. And so they used that to their advantage to pull themselves up to that next wrong of success.
But it took more than ash-shaped and thunk more than talent and drive to realize crossover worldwide success. It required an ever-present danger as your companion. Because once in excess left Australia to take on the world, danger followed them, it rode with them in tandem until eventually threatened their lives.
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Hey everyone, I'm Joshua Adner, and I am so excited to tell you about how we made your mother a rewatch podcast looking back at how I met your mother. And I'm here with Craig Thomas, who co-created the show along with Carter Bay's I Craig. Hey, Josh. Somehow, it has been 20 years since the show premiered, that's seen I'm going to check
the math on that 10 years since it went off the air, and we thought that made this a perfect time to look back.
“See, what the hell we did, and why the show still seems to resonate with fans around the”
world today. And listen to how we made your mother wherever you get your podcasts.
It took a little over three years from their first official gig as an excess for Michael
Gary Kirk and the Ferris Brothers to break into America. Three years in which they kept their collective nose to the grindstone, recording, touring, and honing their sound, which continued to be a little more sleek and a lot more funky than most of their contemporaries back home. Three years in which they went into autopilot, put in the reps, kept hammering at the dream
just like those lawless miners kept hammering at the ground with their shovels. And when at last they hit the golden shores of America and March of 1983. They did so on the back of their first album to be released stateside, Shabu Shabah, which was actually their third album in Australia. The album's lead single, the one thing, had even gone all the way to number 30 on the
Billboard Hot 100. But waiting for them at the club in San Diego where they were to begin a tour opening for Adam in the Ants, was not a crowd anywhere near the size of the crowd that had rioted outside the Star Hotel on its final night. It was even smaller than a typical audience of redneck manual laborers back in Goldsbury.
24 people, that's who was waiting for in excess in America. 24 people. Clearly, there was more work to do. Clearly, they had to push themselves even harder in order to set themselves apart, which meant they had to "funk" even harder.
There was only one man in America who could take them to the promised land of funk with a touch-so-deft and a sound so smooth that it could not be denied. And they found that man where all walks of funk and rock melted down into one undeniable
Groove.
New York City.
Michael Hutchins took it all in.
“The pine paneled walls, the 35-foot high ceilings, the state-of-the-art knife mixing console.”
The hell's kitchen recording studio known as the Power Station came as advertised. This was where real band's made records. And it was where in excess was now beginning to make the swing, their 4th LP. But even better than the legendary location was the company. Sitting next to Michael in front of the need, knocking out those trademark rhythmic chunks
on a Stratocaster was now Rogers. The Nile Rogers, as in "sheek" as in "off freak out" as in the guy who had just held mega hits by sister sledge in Diana Ross. And only one year prior, had produced David Bowies album "Let's Dance" in this very same space.
Nile cleared his calendar after seeing in excess open in Toronto for a minute work, another Australian band who are having their own moment in North America with their huge hit down under.
“Now here was in excess, at the Power Station, laying down Michael and Andrew's new song,”
Original Sin, with Nile Rogers adding his unmistakable rhythm guitar to the track. It was just the thing. It was American groove, meets Australian grit, it was minimal, it was tight. It had style for days. Music may be the universal language, but style was the currency, and now Rogers knew this.
As did Nile's friend Darrell Hall of Hall and Oats, who sat in on a session as a favor in saying backing vocals. But style also required substance, something Nile also knew, just like rock and roll needed that little bit of danger. So now pulled Michael aside when they were recording the lead vocal track, and he made
a suggestion. Instead of singing "Dream on White Boy Dream on White Girl" in the chorus, Nile said, "How about making it "Dream on Black Boy Dream on White Girl?" Now came from an interracial family, so the note was personal form, but also this was rock and roll.
It was supposed to be provocative, it was supposed to cross barriers, by blending black and white and the lyrics, and excess could cleverly mirror how their music was now blending black her and be with white new wave. Not only did it sound good and make a big statement, it also seemed like the perfect recipe to really cross over into America.
The crossing over into America in this way would come with a price. Just like those hard-earned promises out in the Wild West to the Australian music scene once came with a cost.
Original sin may have been the band's first number one hit back in their native country,
but in the states, it's moderate success was tingeed with controversy. It seems crazy now in 2026, but in 1984 a song about an interracial romance could be a dangerous prospect, depending on who was listening and where. Darrahal's manager was listening, and he was pissed, and when he heard the final mix he wasted no time calling up now Rodgers and giving him a piece of his mind, who the fuck
did he think he was changing that line without first getting permission. Dream on black boy was he fucking crazy?
“Did he understand how problematic that was, how problematic that was for his client?”
It was downright scandalous as what it was, and Darrahal didn't do scandal. Now Rodgers didn't let the criticism bother. The rest of the country, not so much. American radio stations banned the song from rotation, thus preventing it from charting any higher than number 58, were it stalled out on the Billboard Hot 100.
One radio station in Illinois even received a bomb threat from a caller who demanded the song be taken out the air immediately. In excess escape from a controversy relatively unscathed. After all, they've been shaped and molded by far worse back in the down under scene. If anything, all the attention, both positive and negative strengthened their resolve.
You know, you touch a nerve, you're doing it right, and all that. Andrew and Michael continue to contribute us to the band's songwriting, crafting a number of killer tracks for their next record 1985s, listen like thieves. The album was made with English producer Chris Thomas, who had worked previously with the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Roxy Music and the Sex Pistols.
Thomas held on to the funky swagger that now Rodgers have brought to the table, but he folded it into an album that sounded like an in-excess show felt big, sweaty, sexy.
The album was their first global smash, and the last song they recorded for, the most
excellently single what you need, finally cracked the top 10 in America, where the album quickly went gold. This was all happening as Australia's cultural cachet in the states was set to sore, with
The blockbuster movie Crocodile Dundee, and those ubiquitous fosters beer com...
right around the corner.
“It was also happening with the promotional arm of MTV, which put the music video for what”
you need into heavy rotation.
All this new found fame and success allowed in excess to settle into the welcoming arms of rock and roll excess, where they could make psychotic rock and roll choices, like fly from America to Australia overnight, down and back just so they could shoot their next music video for their song "Kiss the Dirt" on a salt lake with horizon for days. It was a crazy idea, and that said, the flight there and the shoot itself, all that went
just fine. But the trouble started on the flight back to the states, when Tim Ferris woke up from his rock and roll slumber, 30,000 feet up in the air, only to find the pilot passed out. Okay, so we've established that when downright rock and roll is a dangerous game. The rock and roll is also a young man's game, and you can only pull off the kinds of stunts
in excess were pulling off in the 1980s, if you were young.
“Mid to late 20s, top switch, happened at the age of all the members of the band at the”
time. And incidentally, as old as you possibly can't be to hop a private plane in the states land in Australia 15 hours later, shoot a music video on the moon planes north of Adelaide, and the so-called "opel capital" of the world, a town called Cooper Petis, get back on the plane just a few hours later, ragged, but right right at high pressure
system back to the good old US of A, and bobs your uncle. Michael Hutchins was neither Bob nor was he your uncle, but he was known to the rest of the guys as the candyman. On account of all the mind-altering goodies he carried in his candy bag or candy satchel or or whatever he called a receptacle on which he hid away a stash of illicit drugs.
Right now, however, the candyman was fast asleep, slumped in his seat aboard the band's private plane.
“High above the deep dark abyss of the Pacific, on route back to the land of the free in”
home of the brave. After hours earlier, the candyman had bravely stood atop the windshield planes of Cooper Petis, the son beating down in the sand, flying in his face, black t-shirt, jeans, big belt buckle, moves like Jagger, lives sinking while looking like anyone's platonic ideal of a frontman.
While a director shot footage for the music video for inaccessive latest single "Kiss the Durk" falling down the mountain. Now was the aftermath of that shoot, and most everyone was asleep on the plane, perhaps courtesy of some of the goodies in the candyman's bag, but at some point, Tim Ferriss was shaken awake by a little burst of turbulence.
He wiped his eyes, stood up, and carefully made his way from the back of the plane to the front. Curious to see whether the pilot knew they were heading into more nasty weather ahead. As he approached the cockpit, the plane shifted again. Tim grabbed one of the overhead compartments to stabilize himself, and rubbed his eyes once more, and this time because it wasn't believing what he was seeing.
His brother, Andrew, was sitting in the pilot's seat, frozen in fear, white knuckling the yoke in his hands. Tim's eyes and went from one shocking sight to the next, turning his head slightly to witness the plane's pilot snoring in the seat next to Andrew way off in Dreamland with a drool running down his chin.
Tim darted forward as Andrew struggled to keep the plane level. The fuck is going on, Andrew. Andrew couldn't take his eyes off the sky in front of him. I don't know. He said to his brother, "The pilot asked if I wanted to steer in the next thing I know.
He's out. As Tim shook the pilot awake, he couldn't help but wonder, what if he hadn't woken up when he did? What if the pilot hadn't woken up? All the what is, began to bounce around in his mind, along with this one.
What if we just cheated death?" That's an intoxicating thought, especially for young men playing a dangerous game. That feeling of invincibility, of being able to do anything, including flying a plane, and that's sort of how I carried over into the sessions for in excesses next album.
Their follow-up to their big breakthrough listen like thieves.
Once again they worked with producer Chris Thomas. This time recording not only at a studio in Sydney, but also at a studio in Paris, where
They found the recording console dusted with cocaine left behind from a recen...
Stone session, or so the French speaking studio assistant assured them.
Such was rock and roll, a world of myths that is billed brick by brick by the observers hanging out on the sidelines. As the sessions for album number six wound down, Chris Thomas feared they had a problem similar to when they'd had with the last album. They didn't have a strong lead single.
“What you need to be in the last song recorded through listen like thieves, written explicitly”
to be a hit, and it did manage to become one of an excesses biggest singles. So Thomas told Andrew and Michael that they had two weeks, two weeks to write the album's
best song in lead single, and the pressure was intense, even for a couple of guys who felt
invincible and had faced more treacherous predicaments in their past, but the necessity is the mother of invention. So Andrew found himself leaving his apartment, and getting into the back of a taxi waiting outside his place so that he could go to the airport and fly to Hong Kong, where he and Michael would hold up with his brother John's apartment and squeeze out a hit song.
As soon as he closed the door, and the cabin began to pull away from the curb, Andrew heard it in his head. Andrew struggled to keep the riff in his head, done, done, done, done, done, done, done, done, done.
“Clearly annoyed, but not to annoy it, honestly, because the meter was running in, well, time was”
money. Yes, Andrew thought, time was money, and with those 40 minutes of time upstairs, he was able to lay down that razor-sharp rhythm guitar riff that had come to him like divine intervention, along with a complimentary bass part and a drum machine beat. Thus laying down the groundwork for the most money he and the guys would ever make in their
lives. And when he got to Hong Kong, he played the track from Michael, who ran with him, and in far less than there were a lot of two weeks they had their hit.
Need you tonight, became in excesses first and only number one song in America.
The full album, "Kick" was a certifiable sensation, a new sensation, a ubiquitous slab of funk rock that took over the world.
“Even to tractors like the dean of American rock critics Robert Criscault called them”
silly middle-brow hacks, which is what he wrote at the time. The printed word couldn't hurt in excess, not in 1987, when they were on top of the world. North American had hurt them back in 1977, when they were beset on all sides, by criminals and wild west opportunists. But a few years after the smashed success of Need You Tonight, as in excess continued
to solidify their status as one of the greatest modern rock and roll bands, then envelope arrived at the hotel room of Michael Hutchins, and envelope containing not the printed word as one would expect, but something far more sinister, because his fame, notoriety, success, as all those things increase, so too, disdainter, but not in direct proportion. The danger increases, tenfold.
Hey guys, back in our part one episode, on Inexcess, I briefly mentioned how the Gallagher brothers of Oasis used their speech at an award show to throw shade at Michael Hutchins and in excess, and how that affected Michael, how really messed them up in a lot of ways. Well, we didn't have time to get into the aftermath of that dis, and how Michael eventually got his own revenge, eternal, infinite revenge, actually.
It's a pretty entertaining and surprising story, and you can hear all about it in this week's disgraced land mini episode. To do that, you got to be a member of disgraced land all access, sign up through Patreon or Apple Podcasts, go to disgracedanpod.com to do just that. All right, back to our part two episode on Inexcess right now.
In 1993, rock and roll was in crisis. Bans had a dominated MTV in the airways for years, Bans like Guns and Roses, Death Leopard,
Metallica, even in excess.
Bans it still managed to represent a threat to the moral order of things, suddenly, in
“the cold light of day, in the light now ushered in by the so-called Grunge movement.”
These older bands began to feel less authentic, or even worse, uncool. By the time Nirvana released Inudero in September of that year, the very idea of the Rockstar had become suspect. Kurt Cobain was the biggest rockstar on the planet, but then, no he wasn't. Kurt was the anti-rockstar.
He was the flip side of what Michael Hutchins so easily and effectively embodied. The guy preining and prowling on stage with a shirt on buttoned in Rock and Roll, as we knew it was being reframed as nothing but myths and light of Kurt and Grunge's realies. Of course, it was all a pose, whether you were in a hair band or in a Seattle band, or
whether or not your band still had a saxophone player as in Excessed.
My point here is that as early as 1993, the writing was on the wall. By the end of the decade, at the turn of the century, Rock and Roll as we knew it would be dead. Don't get me wrong here, we still had rock bands and we still do some very good ones
“at that, but Rock and Roll as a cultural force as a menace to society, that was long gone”
by 2000. All it was left was for Rock to become institutional and nostalgic and corporatized, while hip-hop rushed in to fill the cultural void. But again, in '93, Rock wasn't quite dead yet, it was simply in crisis. It would be another four years before Michael Hutchins found himself in crisis in a Sydney hotel room,
attempting to navigate the impossible that Dark Knight of the Soul.
Tonight it was a different hotel room, somewhere in Germany, where in Excess were performing
as part of their get out of the house tour. After 9th and latest album, Full Moon, dirty hearts was already suffering from the grunge effect. It didn't even break the top 50 in America. A far cry from the commercial triumph of kick in its follow-up, X, no matter.
This tour was all about going back, back to basics, back to small clubs, and even smaller audiences. Back to the way things were before it had access became worldwide superstars, but there was no going back. These guys were superstars.
They'd been the subjects of Agilation coveted and obsessed over and despised all the same time. They were the recipients of shrieks and screams of love sick confessions and restrained correspondences and one of those correspondences sent to Michael Hutchins at his hotel almost went down like this.
Michael turned the envelope over in his hands. It was heavier than it seemed. In an oddly shaped, he was unsure if the letter had been mailed to the hotel or simply dropped off. His German was rusty and the front lobby could only help so much.
But there was no return address and again it was so oddly shaped, so lumpy, so strange this envelope. He wondered what could be inside. Fans said all sorts of creepy and wonderful things, depended on the day, and the fan. Michael grabbed hold to the end of the envelope with his fingers and as he tore it open,
he saw the flash before he heard the explosion then. Fortunately, for Michael, this didn't actually happen. Although he was, in fact, sent a letter bomb at his German hotel. A man who had worked for an excess for a decade after years as a police officer intercepted the envelope and identified it as an explosive device long before Michael got his hands
on it. It was a poorly, cheaply mailed letter bomb, but a bomb nevertheless. One that could have done significant damage to Michael had he opened it. Could have even killed him.
“Michael and his bodyguard kept this nearly fatal incident a secret for years.”
The Michael took it to his grave, and the bodyguard only revealed what had happened seven years after Michael's death in 2014. He recalled that Michael was pretty even killed when he was initially informed about the letter bomb. He understood that no one was ever really safe in this world, and that someone in his position
was perhaps more susceptible to danger than most. But at the end of the day, he was an entertainer. He was a rock star, as were the other members of his band. And so it was on to the next show, and then the next town, the next country, and so on. It turns out, for Michael Hutchinson at least, the real danger was hidden not in an envelope,
or in a spider-infested mining camp out in the wild boonies of Australia. But inside himself, and when Michael died, the danger died with him, and that is a disgrace.
Jake Brennan in this is the disgrace on it.
Hey guys, thanks for checking out this episode of Discree Sand on in excess.
“Listen, we're asking the question this week, which artists have had the most cultural impact”
that were not from the United States or England.
So basically, which international artists has made the biggest cultural impact?
Obviously, we're talking about this because it's an excess being from Australia. But it can be a band or an artist from any country. Let me know 617-906-6638 voicemail in text at Discree Sand Pod on the socials. Listen, if you're a Discree Sand fan, you can leave a review to support the show over on Apple Podcasts or Spotify.
“You might win some free merch, and if you want to further support the show, you can do”
so at Patreon by becoming an all-access member for his little as a dollar a month, you're
going to unlock access to the entire Discree Sand community exclusive and add free content. Alright, here comes some credits. Discree Sand was created by yours truly and has produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at DiscreeSlamPod.com. If you're listening as a Discree Sand, all-access member, thank you for supporting the show.
We really appreciate it.
“And if not, you can become a member right now by going to DiscreeSlamPod.com/membership.”
Members can listen to every episode of Discree Sand ad free.
Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook @DiscreeSlamPod. And on YouTube at youtube.com/@DiscreeSlamPod. Rockerola. But what I want to do is not to get a lot of students. The masterwriter has left her bookshelf, "Soft Handy Internet".
She's so funny. I'm so sorry. You can say that she's a jerk. You're a masterwriter, right? But you don't understand.
Exactly. The masterwriter is a masterwriter. She's a masterwriter. She's a masterwriter. And if she's a masterwriter, she's a masterwriter.
That's right. She's a masterwriter. She's a masterwriter. She's a masterwriter. cost-nose-ous-for-been.
(upbeat music)
