Cry, Baby
I HAVE NO frame of reference for this. It’s like a scene from a Raymond Chandler novel: a body found in a Los Angeles hotel room. Seeing it this way helps to remove it one step from being real. I have no doubt that it’s real, but it helps, and I can accept the paradox.
Janis is lying in an awkward position, her head and shoulder wedged against the bed and the bedside table. In her hand, there are four dollar bills and two quarters. On the side table, there’s a pack of Marlboros.
The story is obvious to an interested observer: She got change for a five, bought cigarettes for fifty cents from the machine in the lobby, came back to the room, sat down, and keeled over before she could light one. She was sitting on the bed and pitched over sideways. There’s dried blood on her face where her head struck the corner of the bedside table.
Janis has added a few touches to personalize the place—scarves draped over the lamps to soften the light. Nothing is in disarray, nothing out of the ordinary. The bed is made.
There’s no reason to think this is a crime scene, but that isn’t my call. I know the rules. Don’t disturb anything. Using the sides of my fingers against the edge of the drawer pull, I open the top drawer of the bureau. Right there, in the first place I think to look, in plain view, there’s a hypodermic needle and a spoon. Her works. I close the drawer. Nothing in the other drawers but clothes.
I stand still for a few moments, aware of my breathing, aware of the sound of cars passing on Franklin Avenue, of the silence in the room, the emptiness. In this moment, I am the only one who knows. I don’t want to carry this weight alone. I feel an urgency that I need to resist. It’s up to me to put the knowledge out into the world, but this is something I have to do very carefully.
I leave the room, lock the door behind me. I keep the key. I go down to the garage by the back stairs so I won’t pass through the lobby. I get in the Volvo and start the engine. Without saying a word, I park in the same place where the car was parked when Vince and Phil and Dave and I came down to the garage. Before I knew. The boys think this is strange, and it is. I turn off the engine and I tell them Janis is dead.
I want someone else to see her and the room exactly as I have seen them, so I ask Vince Mitchell to come upstairs with me. Dave Barry asks if he can come too. He’s writing freelance articles these days, and this is private. I don’t want Dave the writer to see Janis as she is now. I don’t want him to write about her like this. Sorry, I say.
Vince and I go into the room. He looks around, takes it all in. Maybe I was hoping it would be different, the room normal, Janis gone, or there to welcome us. With Vince, I confirm the reality. We leave, and again I make sure the door is locked.
I tell Vince and Phil and Dave that I have to plan as best I can how to tell the people who were important to Janis so they will hear it from me, before the news gets out. For a short time it will be possible to control it, but only for a very short time. We’ll have to notify the police, and the coroner. Once the authorities know, there will be no stopping it.
We go to my room and I call Bob Gordon first. He’s home from work at the Beverly Hills law firm where he is a partner. He’s in the shower, his wife, Gail, says. She’ll have him call me back. I can’t sit by the phone and wait for it to ring. I have other calls to make. I tell Gail I have to speak with Bob now. She doesn’t pick up the fraught undercurrents in my voice and finally I have to say it’s a matter of life and death. Just death, really, but the clichéd phrase comes more naturally. Bob comes on the phone—I picture him dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist, because he’s not the kind of person who would come to the phone naked. I tell him, and I feel just a little better. Sharing the awful knowledge helps, minutely. I wait while he struggles to recover his composure.
Bob shifts into lawyer mode. He says he’ll notify the police. He’ll come to the hotel and call them from here, so he’ll be here when they arrive. That gives us a little time.
I phone Albert next, in Bearsville. “Oh, no,” he says, and all the breath goes out of him. Janis’s parents are next on the list I’m making in my head. It’s past seven in L.A., after nine P.M. in Texas. Will Albert call her parents? He’s uncertain, fearful, rattled to the core. I’ve never heard him so—disrupted. Would you mind doing it? he asks. What can I say? No? I say I will. But I can’t put off telling Paul and the boys in the band for long, and I can’t give them this news over the phone. When Bob Gordon gets to the hotel, I’ll go to the studio, but I’ll call Janis’s parents before I leave. Albert agrees to the order of events I’m making up as I talk. I get the feeling he’ll agree to anything I say right now. He’s not going to help me plan how to do this. For now, Albert is incapable of handling anything beyond his grief.
Bob Gordon makes record time from Brentwood to the Landmark in his Porsche. I take him to Janis’s room. We look, I show him the works, we leave. Together, we tell Jack Hagy, the manager. Bob has called his brother-in-law, a doctor, who arrives minutes after Bob. I give Janis’s room key to Bob and leave them to deal with the police.
From this point forward, the news is going to get out and no one will be able to control it. My need to get to the studio, to be with Paul and the Full Tilt boys, is visceral, like hunger, but I promised Albert I would call Janis’s parents.
I would like to put off this call forever. I wake Janis’s father out of a sound sleep in Port Arthur and I give him a few moments to shake off the cobwebs. Then I say, “There is no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. Janis is dead.” Seth Joplin’s first reaction is the same as Albert’s. “Oh, no.” He makes the same sound Albert made as his breath leaves him, taking with it a measure of his life.
Bennett Glotzer has been in L.A. for the past couple of weeks. He and Janis were in touch often during the summer tour. He has spent time in the studio, had drinks and meals with Janis. I call his hotel. He’s not there. In these days, you leave messages with the hotel operator, so I leave a message that reveals nothing amiss, asking him to come to the Landmark.
Phil and Vince have kept close to me. We’re bonded in shock, staving off our own grief. They will come with me to the studio. Dave Barry knows he doesn’t belong in this coterie of Janis’s intimates, so he takes his leave. When he’s gone, I can’t remember if I cautioned him again about keeping the knowledge to himself. The only way I can hold myself together is to focus on one thing at a time. Right now, getting to the studio is the urgent necessity.
I park in the little lot behind Sunset Sound. Phil and Vince and I come in through the back door. When we enter the studio I see the smiles, the excitement in the eyes, the pride in the work they’re doing, and I don’t want to say the words that will wipe all that away, because I know the bright, clean, unscarred feelings Paul and the Full Tilt boys have at this moment about the album, and about Janis, will never return.
I take Paul into the hall and I tell him first. Janis is dead. Paul staggers and reaches out to steady himself against the wall. I tell him what little I know. When he recovers sufficiently, Paul asks Phil Macy, the engineer, to step out of the control room so I can tell the band in private. While the boys are absorbing the shock, Paul tells Macy we’re quitting work early.
We go in caravan to the Landmark—my Volvo, Paul’s Porsche, and the Boogie Wagon.
The police have arrived, and men from the county coroner’s office. They are considerate and discreet.
Seth Morgan has taken a cab from the airport. He looks stunned and lost.
Bennett Glotzer is here. I tell him I found Janis’s works and left them where they were. Should I have taken them? “Are you fucking crazy?” he says. “That’s a felony. You’re disturbing evidence.” Bennett was with Janis last night after work, he says. They had a couple of drinks at Barney’s Beanery. Janis had only two because she had to record the next day. He took note of her restraint.
By now the news is out, racing through the grapevine like a jolt of bad acid. The notion that I could contain it even for an hour or two was a fantasy. Everyone who knows finds the knowledge unbearable and has to share it.
The time remaining to reach Janis’s closest friends, and ours, before they hear it by radio or television or telephone is very short. Who have I forgotten? Everyone. I should have called the boys in Big Brother, Sam Andrew first of all, but my need to get to the studio postponed that thought. My phone rings and it’s Lyndall, Janis’s roommate. She’s alone in the house in Larkspur, crying, distraught, almost incoherent. I try to calm her and fail. I tell her I’ll send someone to be with her. I call Peter Berg in Berkeley. He knows Lyndall, and yes, he’ll drive across the Bay to keep her company.
From now on, it’s all damage control. I’m on the phone nonstop. People come in and out of the room. When it gets late enough, when the rest of the country is past midnight and the phone lines fall silent, we huddle together in one of the big suites, anesthetized by alcohol and sorrow. Somewhere before dawn there are a few hours of fitful sleep.
On Monday morning, the phone in my suite rings and rings. There is no call waiting, no voice mail; you get a busy signal or the phone rings and I answer. The people who get through have won an electronic roulette. John Phillips is one. I haven’t seen him since Big Brother and I saw Monterey Pop at John and Michelle’s mansion in Bel Air. John is genuinely wounded by the news and concerned for those who were close to Janis. He knows there is nothing he can do, but he offers all the same and his sincerity comforts me. My father calls. I haven’t thought to phone my parents, so they read the news in the New York Times. I phone my mother.
Today is my thirtieth birthday.
At some point I talk with Jack Hagy, the manager. He tells me that early Sunday morning, about one A.M., Janis said hello to the night clerk as she passed through the lobby on the way to her room. She returned a short time later to get change for the cigarette machine. This confirms the story the change and the cigarettes told me. Some things are just as they appear to be.
Albert is on the first plane from New York. I have never seen him so stricken. He is bereft. Lyndall flew down last night.
Kris Kristofferson was at the Big Sur Folk Festival, held in the fall this year. He got back to L.A. late yesterday, as the news was breaking. Today he’s at the Landmark.
The gathering this evening is a select group, the core of intimates who have known and worked with Janis. Kris, the band, Paul, Seth, Lyndall, Albert, Bennett, a few more. Linda Gravenites is here. She hasn’t seen Janis since she moved out of the house in Larkspur after Janis got back from Rio. The day before Janis died, Linda had a sudden impulse to come to L.A. She flew down, connected with a mutual friend of hers and Janis’s, and was making plans to come to the Landmark yesterday to see Janis when she heard that Janis had died.
I have brought my movie projector to L.A., and my editing setup, so I can work on my films while I’m here. I set up my projector and show the movies of Janis and Big Brother, Janis and Kozmic Blues. There she is, alive and well, giving it everything she’s got.
Later on, my new guitar is in play. Shared music offers solace.
In a quiet moment, Seth Morgan is riven with guilt. He knew Janis was using, even before we came to L.A. During the summer, she dabbled. After all, she had quit, hadn’t she? She was clean for months. Which proved she could do it. So why not give herself a little reward when she felt like it? The paradoxical circularity of an addict’s reasoning is self-fulfilling. A couple of weeks ago Janis called Seth and begged him to make her stop. I can’t do this for you, he said. She begged him to spend more time in L.A. If only, he says. . . .
This prompts my own hindsight. If only I had done more, been a better friend . . . Paul Rothchild puts a quick end to this line of self-indulgence. “We’re all guilty, John,” he says.
We console ourselves by clinging together and doing the things that have to be done, as friends continue to arrive.
Bob Neuwirth was in Nashville when he got the news, visiting Norman Blake, a flat-picker and multi-instrumentalist who is a member of the band on Johnny Cash’s network TV show. When Bob came into the Blakes’ kitchen on Monday morning, Norman’s wife, Nancy, was making biscuits. She said, “Bobby, I have some terrible news for you.” She heard it on the radio.
Bob arrives in L.A. on Tuesday.
I take a phone call from Dr. Thomas Noguchi, the Los Angeles County coroner. Noguchi became nationally known when he performed the autopsy on Bobby Kennedy two years ago. Noguchi is speaking with as many of Janis’s friends and associates as he can reach, assembling a “psychological profile.” I answer his questions and add to his list of essential names. He is a dispassionate investigator, looking for any indication that Janis might deliberately have taken her own life, and finds none. His verdict will be death by accidental overdose.
Janis’s family arrives from Texas. Mrs. Joplin’s sister lives in L.A. The family holds a service to which none of us is invited. Albert and Bennett Glotzer are permitted to attend, but no one else from the musical side of Janis’s life, the part that meant more to her than anything else. We are the people who killed their daughter. We represent San Francisco, where Janis’s nonconformist outlook made her welcome, where she was no longer the outcast, the misunderstood. Where her talent made her a local phenomenon, then a star. In the Joplins’ eyes, we are the world of rock and roll that destroyed her. This is the feeling I project on them, but I may be unfair. Later, Bennett tells me the Joplins blamed no one but themselves.
In any event, we will have a memorial of our own. Bob Gordon tells me that Janis left $2,500 in her will for her friends to have a wake. That’s the word she used, and she intended the liveliest kind of wake. She wanted her friends to have a party and drink to her memory. She signed the updated will on Friday.* Bob had also prepared the premarital agreement that would protect Janis’s copyrights and royalties. Janis took a copy with her for Seth to sign.
When and where the wake will be is up to us. It will be in the Bay Area, that much is sure. The organizing will fall to Bob Gordon and me, but right now we have a more pressing concern.
For two days we have been avoiding the crucial question—is there an album? Is there enough music on tape, in the can, to make a record? No one is sure, not even Paul Rothchild.
Paul makes a cut-and-paste assemblage of what’s on tape. He works for two days and a night. On Thursday, we sit down in the control room at Sunset Sound to listen to what there is. Albert is here, and Bennett, the Full Tilt boys, Lyndall, and Kris Kristofferson. Like Kris, Carl Gottlieb, of the Committee, and his wife, Allison, were at the Big Sur Folk Festival, heard the news Sunday night when they got home. They were part of the Monday evening group at the Landmark, and they are here now.
Tomorrow is John Lennon’s birthday. Some folks have been going around L.A. getting local and visiting musicians to record “Happy Birthday” for a tape that will be sent to Lennon. The first song Paul plays for us at Sunset Sound is Janis and Full Tilt’s contribution, which we recorded a couple of days before Janis died, all of us singing along behind Janis. It is raucous and joyful. We hold the final “happy birthday to youuuuuuu,” and Janis says, “Happy birthday from Janis and Full Tilt Boogie! Happy birthday, Johnny!” (Did anyone else ever call Lennon “Johnny”?) Janis breaks into her cackling laugh, and we think it’s over . . . but then Richard Bell plays the opening riff of the Roy Rogers–Dale Evans theme song, “Happy Trails.” His keyboard establishes the Western motif: “dum-da-dum-dum, dum-da-dum-dum,” and Janis sings, “Happy trails to you, until we meet again. . . .” in her high, pure soprano.
There are few dry eyes in the control room, but Janis’s good spirits are so audible, so irrepressible, that it’s healing too. By playing this first, Paul has managed to lighten the mood. It’s even possible to smile.
Paul thinks we have three quarters of an album. The vocal tracks are the critical element. Whatever exists on tape—that’s it. There are some final vocals and some work vocals. On Saturday, the band laid down the instrumental track for a song Nick Gravenites wrote for Janis, called “Buried Alive in the Blues.” Janis was to record the vocal for the first time on Sunday.
We hear songs that are complete, solid, ready to go. We hear Janis sing over instrumental scratch tracks. We hear polished instrumental tracks and scratch vocals.
When Janis’s version of “Me and Bobby McGee” comes over the speakers, Kris can bear only the first verse before he leaves the control room, the studio, and the building. I follow him into the parking lot, but he is inconsolable. He goes off into the Hollywood dusk and we don’t see him again.
Janis’s recording of “Bobby McGee” might have signaled the introduction of a new element in her music. The Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo album and Dylan’s Nashville Skyline have brought country music influences into latter-day rock. Would Janis have recorded more country songs after “Bobby McGee”? I remember her line in the Austin Holiday Inn, in response to the little guy in the bar who couldn’t sing “Bobby McGee”—“Wait until you hear me. I can do that song.” Can a Texas girl sing a country song? You bet she can. The thought of Janis expanding her fan base to include hard-core country music fans is enough to make me smile.
Today in the studio, when we have heard everything there is, we’re convinced there is enough to make a record. Even Albert is optimistic, but Paul doesn’t want our expectations, our need, to run away with us. For this to be the album, Janis’s last and best album, it will take a lot of work. It’s possible, Paul says, but it will take a lot of work.
Albert gives Paul free rein. Albert will deal with Clive Davis. And so the decision is made. We have to finish this album. We seize on this goal. Not doing it is unthinkable. Without this record, the world will never hear Janis with Full Tilt Boogie, never feel her joy and pride in this band and the new material she sang across the U.S. and Canada this summer. The spirit Janis reveals in the music is proof that she had recovered from the failure of the Kozmic Blues Band, that her best years lay ahead of her.
The work begins the next day, but it is not a return to the previous routine. It is a new routine, with the task at hand taking precedence over anything else. Our waking hours are in the studio. There is no late-night hanging out, no going to the Troubadour. We eat to sustain our bodies, have a drink or a beer or a glass of wine to sustain the spirit. We’re removed from normal space and time. In the windowless studio, hearing Janis’s voice from the speakers as the band builds a new track under a vocal brings her back to life. She is with us.
“Everybody continued to make that record with just a little bit more love than they did before, so the mood was one of—how can you name that mood? It was almost monastic zeal, and it became just that. It was like a little monastery.”
Paul Rothchild
Paul is the executor of Janis’s musical legacy. His focus is total. Every day he develops techniques for things he has never had to do before. On several of the songs, the vocal track that goes on the record, that sounds as if Janis were inside your stereo speakers and singing for you alone, is assembled phrase by phrase from as many as half a dozen work vocals.
“Cry, Baby,” one of three Jerry Ragovoy tunes Janis performed with Full Tilt, was one of the test songs they recorded at the July demo session in Columbia’s Hollywood studio. At the time, the band was inexperienced, unsure of themselves. At Sunset Sound, the boys have laid down a much stronger track—a great band track, in Paul’s view—but it’s in a different key and the tempos don’t match. Janis has done a work vocal to the new track, but her July vocal is better, no contest. So Paul and the boys make a new band track from scratch, in the original key. As the band plays to Janis’s July vocal, they hear in their headphones Clark Pierson’s drum track from that session, to set the tempo. When the rest of the instruments are recorded, Paul removes the old drum track and Clark records a new one.
Watching the process, it seems simple enough, until Paul explains that he has never done anything like this before. It’s not something you would ever need to do, so long as you have a living singer. What you normally do is overdub instruments and vocals to fill the holes, get rid of mistakes, improve the tracks, until the song is a seamless whole that embodies a definitive performance by the vocalist and the band. Here, Paul and Full Tilt achieve the same result by underdubbing. “Cry, Baby” is seamless.
“It was amazing to watch Paul operate. A total professional. He was really on top of it, and with his experience, pulled it all together with seeming ease. . . . As tough as it was for Paul, after Janis’s death the album took on extra special meaning to him, and he pursued it till [it was] complete and released.”
John Till
Finishing the album takes ten straight days of work. In the end, the overdubbing, the underdubbing, the cross-cutting from one fragment of usable track to another, the task that seemed all but impossible in the beginning, produce what this was meant to be from the beginning, Janis’s best album.*
There are eight songs. Two were finished before Janis died—final band tracks, final vocals. Paul and Phil Macy have assembled six vocals piece by piece, with newly recorded band tracks.
“Buried Alive in the Blues” will be on the album as an instrumental.
The tenth track is Janis’s a capella rendition of “Mercedes Benz,” a song Janis and Bob Neuwirth wrote together around the poet Michael McClure’s line, “Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz.” At Sunset Sound, Janis sang it one day on the spur of the moment, and it was captured by the safety tape, a quarter-inch tape left running during the sessions lest a good riff or a good idea be otherwise lost. Janis and Paul had planned to expand the song into something more elaborate, but the simple a capella recording seems perfect now, capped by Janis’s happy “That’s it,” at the end, followed by her cackling laugh.
The next day, Clark Pierson and I leave the Landmark in my white Volvo late in the afternoon. We get as far as Santa Barbara, where we spend the night with a bottle of mezcal and a friend of mine from the folk days in Berkeley. Nan O’Byrne is a Texan who has found a home in Santa Barbara. In the early sixties, in Berkeley, with her fellow Texan and hangout partner Suzy West, the two of them defined for me the archetype of Texas women at their best—smart, funny, independent, able to be friends with men, able to keep them in line without putting them down, able to encourage them, admire them, love them, without ever allowing a man to condescend to them in any way—a model that fit Janis perfectly.
—
EACH DAY AT the Landmark, before we all went to the studio to finish the record, I have been on the telephone organizing Janis’s wake. We have settled on the Lion’s Share, a music club in San Anselmo, Marin County. The only night we can book the club, which has a schedule laid out for weeks in advance, is on a Monday, when the Lion’s Share is usually dark.
On Monday, October 26, three weeks and a day after Janis died, the wake is attended by her old San Francisco friends, by new friends from the tours and the music world beyond the Bay, by all the members of Big Brother and Full Tilt Boogie and most of Kozmic Blues. We have invited Janis’s parents, but they choose to stay home. Janis’s sister, Laura Lee, flies out from Texas. Laura is twenty-one now and makes her own decisions. I am her road manager for the evening, but that doesn’t stop her from getting drunk enough to do Janis proud.
Albert is even quieter than usual. He assumes no role in the festivities. He doesn’t preside at a table or serve as a focus around which others gather, as he often does in other settings. Neither is he simply an observer. He needs to be here in this time and place. He is present.
Albert astonishes Linda Gravenites by asking her to dance. I have never seen Albert dance before. I have never imagined Albert dancing. Out on the floor, shuffling in time with the music, he looks pleased with himself, and it occurs to me that he wants to please Janis by dancing at her wake.
Big Brother plays, with Nick Gravenites at the mike and, for a song or two, with James Gurley’s son, Hongo, on drums, in his public debut. Hongo is about five, on his way to becoming a serious drummer.
David Cohen, Country Joe’s keyboard player, quiets the room when he plays “Janis,” a song Joe wrote about her, commemorating their time together.
The music continues into the night, members of Quicksilver and the Dead and Big Brother and other musicians forming onstage combinations that are unique to this time and place. Yet despite the music and the open bar that Janis has funded, and other intoxicants privately ingested, the party never achieves the energy level or the buoyant feeling of a ripping good time that Janis wanted it to be, for the simple reason that she isn’t here. Her absence creates a gap, a void that prevents this gathering of friends from achieving critical mass.
—
AFTER THE WAKE, I find ways to fill every moment, to keep doing so I don’t have to stop and simply be. In November I fly east and spend Thanksgiving at Albert’s house in Bearsville. He has taken in the Full Tilt boys, giving them a place to shelter from the world until they feel whole again. I am glad for them, and fail to recognize the same need in myself.
Finally, in mid-December, I drive down to Big Sur, where I went two years earlier to recover from the calamities of 1968, where we threw the I Ching in the interregnum between Johnson and Nixon, and as Janis turned from Big Brother to seek her independent path. A week, I say, maybe more. Peter and Marya Melchior take me in for as long as I need to stay.
On the isolated coast, the days are quiet. I have read somewhere that alternating hot and cold baths were once a prescribed remedy for schizophrenia. I’m not feeling clinically imbalanced, but I feel the need for a regimen to pacify my spirit, so I walk to the baths each day, and when I’ve soaked long enough in the hot sulfur waters I emerge from the tub and play a stream of cold water from a hose over my steaming body. I lean on the wooden railing and absorb the vast peace of the Pacific Ocean.
A book of Greek myths on Peter and Marya’s shelves offers to remove me by a couple of millennia from the memories of recent events. Instead, I find Janis in the archetype. A footnote suggests that “tragic flaw” is not the best interpretation of the Greek hamartia, which might be better translated as a mistake, a misstep, an error in judgment. The tragedies affect us because the protagonists of the myths—men and women of exceptional abilities and achievements—come to unjustified bad ends. Their downfall is a reversal of fortune. If the hero’s flaw were ordained by the gods, if his bad end were inevitable, if there were no more to the outcome than predestination, his fate would not engage our emotions effectively. And that is the purpose of the myths—so Aristotle wrote—to engage our emotions and to offer catharsis. In tragedy, the hero does not deserve his misfortune; his suffering is out of proportion to his offense. We feel the inequity.
The paradigm fits Janis as if it were drawn from her life alone. She perceived a longer-lasting future than she had formerly imagined, in which she could continue to exercise her exceptional abilities. Her musical potential was greater than ever. She showed that she could overcome her predilection for self-indulgence, and she experienced the exaltation of that achievement. She had learned a measure of self-discipline, but she hadn’t yet fully embraced caution and restraint among her hard-earned truths. She believed she could flirt with her addiction. At a time when her fortunes were on the rise, she made a misstep, and she fell. The outcome was out of proportion to the offense.*
Christmas comes and goes. I stay on the coast for a month. In the new year, I return to the world.
—
I DREAMED ABOUT Janis once, in the first year after she died. She came to say good-bye, and to seek, one last time, my blessing: In the dream, I am backstage at a concert in a large auditorium. I can see neither the stage nor the audience, but I can hear Janis at her best, singing her heart out, backed by Full Tilt Boogie. When the song ends, the audience gives her a roof-raising ovation. She comes tripping down a ramp to where I am waiting, and I see in her face the same little-girl uncertainty that I have seen so many times in life. Despite the sustained applause from the auditorium, there is real concern in her voice when she asks me, “Did I do okay?”
I take her in my arms and hug her with all my strength. “You did great.”
God bless, and Godspeed.