When I joined the Twittersphere, the first person I followed was Jancis Robinson. If Jancis posts a link, I follow it and I am both wiser and better informed for doing so. If I am – as so often – ignorant of a grape variety, a domaine or chateau, a region, or a vintage, it is to Ms Robinson that I and my computer turn. And if I take the opportunity to taste one of her recommendations, I am seldom disappointed. She is, in short, my first port of call when seeking information about wine and the wine trade.

Last week, searching randomly through my fiction bookshelves, I found, between the swathes of Simon Raven and Philip Roth, a pristine copy her 1997 autobiography, Confessions of a Wine Lover. It is a first edition. It must have been a gift that Christmas. But it was unread.

It is no longer. I read it over the weekend with delight and pleasure, regretting that I had not read it earlier and that it ends in 1997.  And regretting also that I did not discover wine when I was at university and trying to find something about which I could write sensibly, because Ms Robinson and I are almost direct contemporaries. We have both drank our way through the profound changes in wine since the 70s, in my case with significantly less discrimination than she. We have both swilled our way through four hour lunches. We have both shared tables with people of gargantuan appetites – for wine, for food, for life. And we both now spend not enough time in the Languedoc.

The difference is, she made wine her life and, in doing so, gave to others a life-time passion. She wouldn’t and doesn’t claim to transformed wine writing, although she did; nor to have taken on the pin-striped male world of the wine trade, although she did; nor to have approached each wine as a wine lover rather (as Parker terms himself) a wine critic, although she did.

In fact, the section about Parker and Parkerisation is one of the most interesting in the book. Although she is too polite – and she is always polite – to criticise Robert Parker for his influence on, especially, red Bordeaux, it is clear that she does not share his taste nor his tastes. She classifies one wine as ‘The Sort of Wine Parker Likes’. But she does acknowledge that, after visiting him in Maryland, he knows exactly “what wine is for: to convive with, to wallow in, sitting round a table in good company with good food”.

Which is very much my view, and why I enjoyed so much her stories of lunches and tastings and conversations with the great and the good, the raffish and the louche.  Why I have only the slightest envy for the fact that she has led a life fulfilled with all objectives achieved. Why I don’t begrudge her the sense of contentment and satisfaction which is apparent on (almost) every page.

She is, currently, and we are – embarrassingly – discussing this 17 years after the publication of the book, probably the most respected wine writer around. And deservedly so. Because she is a true lover of wine.

And she is not a bad writer, either. 

Here’s to you, Ms Robinson. May you long enjoy the fruits (and tannins) of your labours.

Today from the everysmith vaults: In my head, I am listening to American Spring, a lovely album from 1972 by Diane Rovell and Marylin Wilson, the latter briefly married to Brian Wilson who produced at least some of this album. I have it only on vinyl (which is in France while I am in the UK), and although it was once issued on CD, it is no longer available. If anyone has it, I’ll trade …

And finally:

It’s a boy! Another boy!

There has been a run of boy babies on Cassi’s side of the family recently. My mother’s last six great-grandchildren have all been male, so we’re two-thirds of the way towards the Red Sox team in the late 2030s. This one looks like the shortstop to me.

He entered the world with an understandable reluctance, giving his beautiful mother, father and medical staff quite a few anxious moments over many hours. But he’s here now. He’s gorgeous. And he is very, very welcome.

What we must do now to celebrate his arrival is ensure that his head is wetted appropriately. And this grandfather is, as before, in something of a quandary: I don’t do champagne.

Traditionally, I revert to the classics. First daughter Vic was toasted with a 1970 Margaux; Cass with a 1975 Gruaud-Larose. We also did well by the boys: a 2000 Larrivet-Haut-Brion (Maximilian) and an excellent Vieux Télégraphe from Chateauneuf (Asher). So what will we drink to wet the head of the as yet unnamed child of Cass and Michael?

I have narrowed it down to two, and neither have the classy status of those I drank to celebrate the birth of my daughters and my first grandsons. The one is a vin de pays Principauté d’Orange; the other a vin de France from the Rhône valley.

In other words, both are magnificent wines which have fallen foul of the French wine laws and those who would enforce them.

The first is from Chateauneuf, and a highly rated domaine – de la Janasse. It was drunk in serious quantities at the weddings of Owain and Tess and Vic and Andrew. The one in front of me is a 2008, it is drinking beautifully, and it is made with love and care by one of the great families of C-Du-P. But it is merely a vin du pays because – wonderfully and illegally – it combines Cabernet and Merlot with the obvious and traditional Syrah and Grenache.

The second is La Gramière which is made naturally in small quantities and tiny vineyards close to the Pont du Gard by two Americans, Amy Lillard and Matt Kling. 

The one I have in mind is the 2011, because after starting life a tad reluctantly (just like the baby in whose honour it will be drunk), it suddenly starting singing its heart out about six or seven months ago. Right now, it is as good a Rhône as I have ever tasted. And for those of you who participated in the vendange in 2011, to drink it now makes every back-breaking minute worthwhile.

The problem is, it is not the kind of Rhône which the custodians of the Côtes-du-Rhône appellation enjoy. Probably because it shows up much of the dross that is produced and sold by the vat-load with Côtes-du-Rhône on the label. 

But it's about time us wine-lovers started to exercise their rights rather than doing what they are told by the merchants and pundits.

As you might expect, I have a glass of each in front of me as I type. The C-du-P which isn’t C-du-P is lovely, and warm, with a deep robe and massive depth of texture. The C-du-R which isn’t C-Du-R is luscious but structured, with blueberries and brambles and velvet and chocolate.

And it is the latter which I will drink this evening in honour of my new grandson. Here’s to you Cass and Michael and your new child.

David Ortiz Linforth has a certain ring to it ....

Today from the everysmith vaults: By chance this morning I clicked on the eponymous album, Papa John Creach. This is good and worthy of your attention. I commend it to you.

Monday was Bastille Day in France. Well, strictly speaking, Monday was the Fête National in France, because that’s what the French call it officially. (Unofficially, it’s simply le quatorze Juillet.) But for me it was Bastille Day, because for the first time in a number of years, I celebrated the day in the UK rather than in France itself and, as I watched on TV the thrilling rain-soaked finish of Stage 10 of the Tour de France, I realised how much I was missing la vie Française.

It’s not the weather, which is currently better in the UK than in the south of France. Nor is it the stereotype of the food and wine – however much one embraces one’s local wines in France, it’s good to be able to drink from regions beyond the Rhône valley and the Duché d’Uzès. And nor is it the fact that Jill is still in France – she will be here next week.

It is … je ne sais quoi. And I really don’t.

I could put together a Peter Mayle-style concoction of anecdotes which would give you some small insight into what makes France in general and the south in particular so agréable à vivre but none of them would explain it to my satisfaction or yours. Mayle’s books, like those of his hundreds of imitators, are based on the sense of difference, on being an outsider looking in with a different set of values.

What is charming or amusing or quirky to an Englishman abroad is none of these things to the French. For them, this is their way of life. And I rather think that I have become French in this respect. Like them, I take it – whatever it is – for granted.

In our second or third summer in Uzès, I walked into our favourite bar à vin on market day and took a seat not in the sun, but in the shade. “Ah Max” said Bruno, the waiter, “you are no longer a tourist”.

Perhaps that was the turning point, the moment when I realised that the sun would probably be shining tomorrow and tomorrow; that Uzès had existed for hundreds of years in pretty much the same way; that the market may be bigger than it was in Racine’s day, but is fundamentally unchanged. He would recognise the produce on display and probably also the faces of the producteurs. He would know the groups gathering in particular cafés to râler against taxes and Parisiens, eking out a single café verre d’eau for an hour or so. And he would feel at home with the flâneurs strolling and lounging in the Place with no fixed purpose or objective.

What he wouldn’t recognise, of course, is people like me, and what Sylvette in the Bar du Marché calls la petite colonie Anglaise. Because despite Bruno’s compliment, and despite our determination to embrace the culture, we remain outsiders.

The French created la vie Française. And only they can live it to the full and properly appreciate it. I am just grateful that it exists and that, du temps en temps, I can share a little of it.

Today from the everysmith vault: With the release of the remastered recordings from Dead’s Spring 1990 tour, I’ve been listening to my own Aud tapes of those great shows. I don’t need the official set. Thanks, but no thanks, I’m very happy with what I’ve got.

The storm arrived in St Quentin la Poterie in the top of the seventh and settled over rue de la Révolution for the remainder of the game, producing thunderclaps which drowned out the commentary of Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy on NESN and sheet lightning of such frequency that reading lamps were unnecessary. Meanwhile, the Lares and Penates of baseball continued to look with disfavour on the hubris of last season, as they allowed the Sox to make up a 6-1 deficit only to dash our hopes again in the 12th.

Of course I didn’t actually witness this final débacle at Fenway.

Mindful of the recent experience of friends further to the west, whose wi-fi router had been blown by a distressingly accurate lightning strike, I had turned off router, TV and computer. Out of touch with the world beyond St Quentin, and marooned in our small village home which is, as it has for nearly a quarter of a century, resisting the force of the rains and other elements, we are free to focus on those things which really matter.

Food and wine, reading and writing, music and conversation.

We are indulging ourselves in each.

We have eaten rather well recently, notably at La Table d’Uzès where the ridiculously young and ridiculously talented Chef Oscar Garcia is cooking up a Michelin-starred storm and from the simpler but no less delicious menu at Café Fleurs in Isle-sur-la-Sorgues.

We are drinking a variety of excellent local wines as friends introduce us to the lesser-known growers of the Rhône valley, some of which are worthy of mention in the same sentence as our favourite La Gramière and all of which are extremely quaffable.

We are reading and re-reading voraciously, notably The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, a writer who is apparently famous but of whom I have unaccountably never heard before. She’s good. So too, it goes without saying, is Bill Bryson - and I am taking up the recommendation of a new friend (a Blue Jays fan!) who advised me to read One Summer as a matter of urgency.

We are working hard at our respective disciplines: I writing at my laptop, Jill painting at her easel.

And as ever, we are chattering away with each other and with friends, about books and sports, politics and anything that happens to come to mind as we order a second pichet of local rouge and sit back to listen to a ragtag band of busking musicians.

But there will be no al fresco dining, drinking and debating today. It is still raining and there is no wind to blow away this meteorological freak of nature. Even Rob Lowe and his family have had to be rescued by the sapeurs pompiers from their flooded mansion sécondaire in Grasse. 

But in St Quentin la Poterie, we are made of sterner stuff. I wonder if the Cuisine du Boucher is opening for lunch ...

Today from the everysmith vaults: It's been a singer-songwriter kind of morning with Jill listening to Jeff Buckley upstairs and Carol and I chilling to Sweet Baby James Taylor at the Fillmore East in 1971 and to the much-missed John Martyn.

Last year, in Leamington, I was one of a number of independent licensees and musicians planning a blues festival. It never came to pass, of course, Leamington being Leamington (or rather Warwick District Council being Warwick District Council), but it should have done. And had it happened, the headline acts would have been complemented by smaller, more intimate sessions in a dozen bars around the town.

The working title was the Leamington 12 Bar Blues Festival. 

On Saturday evening, in Uzès, I saw and heard how it might have been.

On Saturday, France celebrated la fête de la musique. Its motto is homophonic: On faites de la musique à la fête de la musique. (Note to over-excited UKIP voters: the penultimate consonant is different.) 

This year, it tombe Samedi and so the town and the bars were even more busy than normal. And Jill and I, in the company of a few thousand others, assiduously worked our way around the various venues. 

This is not as easy as it sounds, because each band has its adherents and each bar its regulars. Seats were at a premium. A table only by reservation. Nevertheless, it is of course de rigeur to take at least one glass in each venue which, in previous years, has resulted in a gueule de bois the following morning. But this year, I have become a true Frenchman. On these occasions, I favour the panaché over the vin rouge. Harder on the bladder but easier on the head.

With one or two exceptions, notably the jazz fiddle of Florence Fourcat, the quality is not wonderful. But what impresses is the sheer diversity of the musical offerings.

There was almost every genre of jazz. There was old-fashioned rock n roll and new-fangled techno hip-hop. There was bluegrass and blues. There was hard rock and dreadful soft rock. The Eagles were bad enough. Eagles imitators are to be avoided at all costs.

But it was all played, and listened to, in a spirit of joie de vivre and enjoyment.

Which is how things are done down here. Rather than create a barrier of red tape, the local council embrace, enjoy and promote the event.

When the marching-band-cum-samba-band which processed noisily and happily from one venue to another, charged at the double the diners in one restaurant, they were accompanied and encouraged by the local police muncipale. And the diners - families, young couples and elderly citoyens - welcomed them all with smiles and laughter and applause.

Which is pretty much how we felt throughout the evening. We had a great time. Merci, Uzès.

Today from the everysmith vault: Asked by a New York twitterer to name my favourite Grateful Dead show, I am working my way through the entire oeuvre in order to provide him with a considered judgement. After 24 hours, I am a week behind schedule!

“I love being a writer. It’s the paperwork I can’t stand.” Michael Frayn, I think.

I have joined the hundreds of other would-be writers who think that a few months in the south of France is the solution to writer’s block. Away from the distractions of the real world, that long-imagined novel will come to fruition. The Provencal lifestyle will provide the perfect environment in which to sit back and think through intricacies of plot and nuances of character. The 100,000 words (the length of the average novel, apparently)  will fly off the keyboard and arrive on the publisher’s desk to an enthusiastic welcome. Your summer in the south will be rewarded by both critical acclaim and best-seller status.

Yeh, right.

The truth is, writing in the south of France is as difficult as writing anywhere. Perhaps more so.

The range of displacement activities is vast. There are friends to catch up on. There are markets to visit. There are sights to see. There is lunch.

Kingsley Amis famously forced himself to write 500 words each morning and would not take a glass until he had done so. For him, this served as a useful discipline, and also an incentive. For me, it is an example.

It is coming up to midday and I have written a couple of hundred words of the novel, and come to a full stop. Literally. It’s not fully-fledged writer’s block, but my protagonist won’t do what the plot requires him to do.

I am loathe to give up on either. But something will have to give. But not right now.

Instead, I am now embarking on this blog. It’s a quicker way to the quota. And it keeps me writing which, without client-imposed deadlines, is something of an issue. In the south, they have several words for mañana, but none of them communicate the same sense of urgency.

I see that from Word that I have now written more than 300 words. Add that to the 200 of the novel earlier, and the quota is complete.

Plus it’s midday. Mañana.

Today from the everysmith vault: Hot Tuna from 1988, with guests Paul Kantner and – briefly – Grace Slick. Paul introduces Grace as “my ex-wife, the mother of my child and the devil incarnate” before they sing together on Wooden Ships. You can find the show on Wolfgang's Vault. JimiK, I commend it to you.

It is perhaps appropriate that the first blog from France this year should be concerned with food and restaurants. True, I was going to devote a few hundred words to the parallels between the Front National in France and UKIP in the UK, the two countries to and from which I have been travelling over the last week or so. But today I have heard about a new law which is to be introduced in France on Bastille Day (14th July) this year and, at this moment in time, it strikes me as being of some significance beyond France. It certainly is to me when I wear my restaurateur’s hat rather than my Red Sox cap.

The French care about their restaurants and understand the importance of the restaurant business. Even with the austerity-driven increase in TVA (VAT to us), restaurant meals are taxed only at the intermediate rate – 10% rather than 19.6%. Fast food chains such as MacDonald’s places are usually exiled to the outskirts - as happens in Uzès, where this unpalatable franchise sits uneasily in a space between the M. Bricolage DIY outlet and a builders’ merchants called Gedimat a few kilometres out of town. The Stradas and Prezzos and Carluccio’s are nowhere to be seen here, nor in Italy come to that.

This new law is concerned primarily with the quality of the food, distinguishing restaurants according to whether they re-heat, assemble, or cook the meals on offer.  It is designed to recognise those restaurants which actually cook the food they serve, rather than buying pre-cooked meals and warming them up.

It will allow only those restaurants which cook home-made dishes to display the state-sponsored Fait Maison logo alongside their menus. And three-star Michelin chef Alain Ducasse (he currently holds 21 Michelin stars!) believes that only about 25% will qualify, although nearly 60% of French hotels, restaurants and cafés will claim they are entitled to it, despite the fact that they are buying in pre-prepared meals for a couple of euros and selling them for ten times that.

Although the gastronomic heritage of France makes this fact particularly heinous, the situation is actually worse across the channel in the UK, where the ubiquity of Brakes and 3663 delivery vehicles outside our restaurants and gastro-pubs is distressing to those who care about food and those that cook it for us. What is particularly distressing is that a similar level of subterfuge is present in the UK market.  It is not uncommon, for example, for Brakes drivers to be asked to park ‘round the corner’ when making deliveries.

So how, if you care, can you tell exactly what you are getting?

There is one way which is applicable both in the UK and in France. It is the Les Routiers sign, granted only to those operations in both countries which offer un bon rapport qualité-prix,  la cuisine fait maison and la bonne humeur.

Of course, not every restaurant which offers these qualities is a member of this famous and old-established organisation. But Wilde’s is.

And if Wilde’s was to open a branch in France, as has been suggested by Nathalie Schyler of Chateau Kirwan, I believe it would be one of the first to receive the Fait Maison state logo. After all, as those who have eaten in Wilde’s or merely read the Declaration of Independence will know, Wilde’s serves inconvenience food.

Which is what should be on the menu wherever people meet for good food, good wine and good company.

Bon app!

Today from the everysmith vault: I’ve been listening to some real blues – precious recordings of people like Bukka White, Mose Allison, and Mance Lipscomb as well as the Mississippis Fred McDowell and John Hurt. Sometimes the blues is better in its raw state rather than – well, warmed through.

Oh yes, he's plausible. He positively oozes plausibility. And he’s no fool.

But that's precisely what makes Nigel Farage so dangerous. And not just if you're Romanian. Or black. Or gay.

He easily won the recent debates with Nick Clegg, which is not necessarily a great achievement, but it is something which Cameron and Brown failed to do before the last election. And it took a head-on interview by James O’Brien on LBC to reveal the contradictions in his attempts to be a rational man putting forward irrational arguments.

But the latest polls still have UKIP leading amongst those certain to vote and - in the ComRes poll - by some considerable margin.

And this is partly – perhaps principally - because of a new development in UKIP propaganda. These accusations of racism, Farage claims, are not from the majority of ordinary people, but emanate from “the politically correct elite”.

The existence of a political elite is not news. And one would expect that such an elite would be “politically correct”, especially when compared with a man who was recorded as far as back as 1999 as using the n-word routinely in the pub after UKIP committee meetings.

But the reference has struck a chord. What insiders refer to as the “Westminster village” is increasingly separate from those whose votes they solicit. The likes of Cameron, Clegg and Miliband are not part of us; their lives are different from ours; their concerns are not our concerns.

This is Farage’s point. And it has some truth in it. Actually, it has a great deal of truth in it.

Even I – united in class, colour and education with Cameron, Clegg and Miliband – find myself increasingly disconnected and discontented with the political elite, its activities and its rhetoric. This has not resulted in any nodding of my head as Farage makes his disingenuous points, but I can understand why others may do so. And I can understand also why there may be a situationist justification for a pro-UKIP vote.

Not for UKIP but against the establishment.

However tempting this is, it must be resisted.

All citizens and residents of the UK need to be aware and beware of Farage’s ability to communicate unpalatable and racist bigotry in a plausible manner.

We should vote not for the Conservative-Labour-LibDem establishment, but against UKIP.

Please.

Today from the everysmith vault: Listening to Bob's take on a Sinatra classic took me to the original. Jeez, Ol' Blue Eyes could sing. But so, as you can hear below, can Bob!

Most of my friends and – especially – my family regard me as a Dylan obsessive. I have every album in almost every re-mastered manifestation. I have thousands of  shows. I have complete sets of The Telegraph and The Bridge and Isis. I have signed firsts of Tarantula and Chronicles, the latter in both US and UK editions. I have shelves full of biographies and analysis. I have on my office walls signed photographs and original flybills dating back to 1961. I have attended concerts pretty much every year since 1965. Each morning I check the set lists from his last gig even before the Red Sox box score. And barely a day goes by without listening to the man, quoting him, discussing him, thinking about him.

But I’m an amateur.

In David Kinney’s new book, The Dylanologists: Adventures in the Land of Bob, I don’t figure at all. Because, compared with his subjects, I’m normal.

Kinney is a Pullitzer Prize winning journalist and his research is extensive and meticulous. It tells the stories not only the (in)famous AJ Weberman, the man who hunted through Dylan’s garbage, Mitch Blank, the “hypnotist collector” and Bill Pagel who owns Bob’s high chair, prom ticket, high school year books and even the house in Duluth where he lived his first years; but also of scores of apparently ordinary folk who have quietly devoted their lives to a study of Bob; more, who have lived their lives through Bob.

In Kinney’s words, they fell down “the rabbit hole”. And the further they went, the further they had to go. To visit Hibbing, to see every show, endlessly to analyse lyrics and performances.

The book’s epigraph has the following exchange:

Fan: “You don’t know who I am, but I know who you are.”

Bob Dylan: “Let’s keep it that way.”

Kinney doesn't. His book is, in many ways, as revealing of Bob as it is of his fans. Bob is a fan: of Woody Guthrie, Of Elvis, of John Lennon. So we learn about the hike across country to visit the dying Guthrie in hospital, of his kissing the floor of the studio where Presley recorded, of searching out Lennon’s house and Strawberry Fields in Liverpool. And one need not be an obsessive listener to recognise and appreciate the vastness of his listening and reading and the ways in which he incorporated it all into his songs and his art.

The Dylanologists is, however, primarily about Bob’s fans rather than Bob himself. Its subjects include those who lead disappointed lives because they are saddened by Bob’s failure to live up to their expectations and those who, like me, are content to follow where he leads, falling on each new album, each show, with renewed enthusiasm.

Bob is 73 this month. I am 65 in a couple of months. I cannot imagine my life without his. But I am not, in Kinney’s sense, a Dylanologist.

I am just a fan, who enjoys his adventures in the land of Bob, but occasionally visits other lands as well. We need the balance.

Today from the everysmith vaults: I have been listening to an extraordinary series of shows in Japan, in which Bob has found his voice. The singing is powerful and rich and full of nuance. How does he do it?!

It is, of course,  “a once-in-a-lifetime exhibition” – aren’t they all? – but it left us distinctly underwhelmed.

Jill and I had braved the tube strike to schlep to London. Our objective was the Tate Modern and the new show of Matisse’s cut-outs which he produced after his illness, sitting in his wheelchair and directing his young assistants as to placement and colour

There are 130 of them in the Level 2 gallery at the Tate Modern, and they have provoked extraordinary reviews and even more extraordinary praise. “For many people” said Nicholas Serota, “the Cut-Outs will be the most evocative and beautiful show that London has seen.”

Well, it isn’t. And, as my English teacher remonstrated with me, “evocative of what?”

Granted, the work is attractive and decorative. But that isn’t enough. I can get that anywhere at any time.

Granted, there is some interest in seeing the originals, discovering those little bits of paper that have been pasted over a mistake or on a whim. They add the texture that is missing from the reproductions.

And granted, the colours are vibrant and vivid and slightly vulgar in their flat obviousness. Significantly, there are no organic colours here; they are all synthetic, lacking in depth and naturalness.

But those familiar images are all here – the Dancers, Jazz, the Blue Nudes, Oceana and the chapel at Vence.

One can imagine their Provençal provenance: slight strips of colour and form hanging from a drawing pin axis on the wall and fluttering in the breezes from an open window. Matisse spoke of the way in which the easel became redundant and his work released from the constraints of a frame. He regarded them as a kind of wallpaper, even if he subsequently claimed that they constituted "my real self: free, liberated.”

Perhaps.

But in the exhibition they are framed and they are constrained. They have borders and edges. And as such they are merely conventional graphics; even - perhaps especially - those iconic images with which we are all so familiar, which one can buy as a poster and which hang in a million bed-sits. I mean the Blue Nudes, the abstracted Snail and Icarus (above).

So if the exhibition is intended as evidence that, in old age, “he did not merely create a new style, he created a new medium”, it fails.

More importantly, it fails to hold the attention. It’s more of the same from room to room. 

I think the issue – my issue – with these works is that they are … well, not paintings. What we saw was a great painter not painting. Not print-making either, although these work so much more immediately as reproductions.

I really wanted to be be impressed, to relish the sensual colours and shapes. But I wasn’t. I really wanted to love the artist that my wife loves above (almost) all others. But I couldn't. And I really wanted to learn about how complexity operates in simplicity. But I didn't.

All I can say is that they were, mostly, pleasing to the eye.

But not as pretty as a picture.

Today from the everysmith vaults: Free flowing jazz and rock improvisation from the Mahavishnu Orchestra. Santana and McLaughlin in a series of gigs from Concert Vault: each manifesting elegance and lyricism and weirdness. After Coltrane, this is where to go.