WARNING! <\/strong>This biog is long; so I’m only expecting people who know me – or think<\/strong> they know me – to stay the course. Good luck…<\/em><\/p>\n
It’s the ‘why’ you really need to get together. There are far too many players out there who get all the facilities together and still don’t know why they’re doing it, what their role in the music is.<\/p>\n
Dave Hassell<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\nWell here I am, probably somewhere in the region of 6-7 years old. It’s nearly Christmas and I’m standing in my friend’s house, not yet knowing that he will be the catalyst to a future life of playing drums in bands. (Nice early ’70s Tartan slacks by the way…)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
By rights, I shouldn’t really be a drummer. You see, it all goes way back to about 1970 when I was a wee small chap with a subliminal ear tuned in onto the radio and whatever was crackling off the vinyl within my earshot. My mum was a huge Joni Mitchell fan and had a pretty cool record collection, typical of the era. Names like Elton John, Carole King, Hall & Oates would pop up on the record sleeves; this was indeed the excessive growth era for the singer\/songwriter and I was exposed to the cream of developing artists. As for my Mum’s sister, she had a slightly different take on music, but there was one particular record she had that I honed in on that I couldn’t find at home – ‘Motown Chartbusters Volume 1’ (1967). The track that stood out for me was ‘I Was Made To Love Her’ by Stevie Wonder.<\/p>\nMy earliest musical influences are contained on the vinyl within this sleeve. Bass lines and rhythmic awareness, delivered to me courtesy of the greatest contemporary musician who walked this planet, Mr James Jamerson.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
Now, it wasn’t the drums that got me hooked here, it was the Bass line. Unknowingly, I was gradually being rhythmically seduced by none other than genius Motown legend & Bass player, James Jamerson. (I refuse to engage in the Carol Kaye debate so please, don’t ask.)<\/em> Over and over again, I would ask my aunt to play this record for me, unaware that Mr Jamerson’s low end was burying itself deeper into my juvenile subconscious.<\/p>\nThe man who launched thousands of careers – including mine.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
Moving on a few years, by the time disco invasion hit the UK, I was further being corrupted by the outrageous and righteous, downright nasty funk grooves of the Chic organisation and their disciples. This was infectious stuff, the kind of Saturday night fever you never fully recover from. Once fixed in the system, there was no way any pasty-faced, white, European native music was going to cleanse my infected soul glands. That was until, I saw some monochrome footage of a certain quartet from a city not too far from me, featuring a grinning Mr Richard Starkey and a small set of drums with the tiny word ‘Ludwig’ on the Bass drum skin. My introduction to white Rock’n’Roll music and drums was sealed and things would never be the same again…Ironically, it would take many years for me to realise that The Beatles derived their early inspiration from Black American R&B music – the same music that gave birth to Motown, Soul, Funk, Disco and eventually, Rock as we know it today.<\/p>\n
“Mum, can I have a drum kit?”<\/h3>\n
It’s pretty much a universal fact that parents and drum kits don’t go together. Having said that, the parents of one my friends broke that rule when they bought a used toy drum set for an older sibling, complete with a pair of\u00a0 Ringo Starr signature drum sticks (during a time that signature drum sticks for the consumer market hadn’t been invented). By about the age of 10, I found myself easily replicating the drum parts of early Beatles songs on the toy kit, without any advice or formal instruction. It was simply a case of watching the footage and copying what Ringo did with his arms and legs. I found it a very natural thing to do and it wasn’t long before I was pestering the life out of my Mum for a drum set of my own.<\/p>\n
Back in the day, the Chinese musical instrument market didn’t exist and so called ‘starter’ kits were still big bucks. My ex-big band trumpet playing Grandfather must have seen the spark in me and took it upon himself to purchase for me, a used pair of KRUT Hi-Hat cymbals on a 1960’s Premier Olympic Hi-Hat stand, a pair or Premier ‘E’ model drum sticks and a drum instruction pamphlet: ‘Francis & Days Drum Tutor’ by Haydn Jackson. Despite my Grandfather’s patience, there was no way he was going to succeed in teaching his headstrong Grandson how to read music when The Jam were on kids TV belting out ‘All Around The World’. Naturally, my Mum thought this would be a passing phase, but humoured me in my interest by helping make drum set-ups out of sweet tins and pan lids. It even got to a point where one of her friends donated a battered toy Chad Valley drum set to me, having been the five minute wonder of another child. Armed with this and my trusty KRUT Hi-Hats, I was ready to take on the world.<\/p>\nMore durable than a toy Chad Valley drum kit, believe it or not…<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
In a house not too far away from me, another friend was having a similar parental experience with guitar. However, the guitar being a more ‘serious’ instrument was well within the scope of his parents aspirations, so he was rewarded with a nylon strung junior model on the condition he took lessons at school. Unbeknown to either of our benefactors, they had between them, unwittingly laid the foundations of our first band. This took shape in his attic where we cobbled together our resources, which included what was known as a ‘Hamster City’ – a series of joined-up circular pet rodent cages with plastic lids – which became surrogate drums – the Chad Valley ones having been destroyed. From what I remember, no living Hamsters were made homeless by our actions.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Let the fun begin<\/h3>\nThe Maxwin (By Pearl) ‘Funky’ drum kit – my first set of drums, except mine was in a silver wrap. Compared to the price and quality offered at the time, you kids have got it far too good today!<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
April 1981, it seemed that all my birthdays and Christmas’ had come at once when finally, my Mum agreed to buy my a drum set, now convinced that my obsession was more than a passing phase. In fact, it was on the condition that I didn’t ask for anything for my next birthday and Christmas that the drum set would be purchased. At that point, I would have agreed to forfeiting the next five years worth of present-receiving events if it meant obtaining the object of my desire. We took a bus ride to a little run-down town near the river Mersey called Seacombe, where of all the unlikely shops to exist there, was an ‘FB Percussion’ which sold nothing but drums. To me, this was the proverbial ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ of shops, but budget was going to be a problem. For the sum of \u00a3225.00, I picked a Maxwin (by Pearl!) ‘Funky’ drum kit straight out of Taiwan. An ugly concert-tom affair, with no bottom heads or a front skin on the Bass drum, its cheap plastic silver wrap appealed to me, as did the price to my Mum’s semi-reluctant purse. It should have been \u00a3250.00, but seeing as I didn’t need the Hi-Hat stand, \u00a325.00 was knocked off. As for cymbals, I’d managed to accumulate a few more battered KRUT efforts, but what the heck, I was on my way to my dream of becoming a Rock star…<\/p>\nPossibly, the most volatile, cheap, guitar effects pedal I ever had the misfortune to be within 6ft of…<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
Similarly, my guitar playing friend Rob, had also badgered his parents into buying him something a bit more Rock’n’Roll, seeing as he’d stuck out the Segovia lessons. \u00a3100 got him a used ‘Kay’ Strat copy and an early 60’s Marshall combo (with tremolo switch!) and a nasty ‘Little Big Muff’. The guitar would never stay in tune and as for the ‘Little Big Muff’, this struck the fear of God into my ears whenever a foot went near the silver switch that was sure to deliver a payload of tinnitus-inducing feedback. Never the less, we were tooled up for action and we meant serious business.<\/p>\n
Rob and myself went to different schools. Hilbre Secondary Modern School was a depository for those who’d failed to pass the entrance exam for the Grammar school, whereas Rob had managed to exceed the demarcation line and enter the local posh seat of learning. My school had boys who talked about being in bands, but never really had anything to show for it. On the other hand, the Calday Grange Grammar school oiks not only talked about it, but they actually did<\/em> it. I was to discover that within Rob’s school, there was a burgeoning band scene flourishing, complete with inter-band rivalry, back-stabbing, youth club gigs and best of all, talk of groupies from the local girls Grammar school. As luck would have it, they also had a shortage of decent drummers, so it wasn’t long before my services were called for.<\/p>\n
At best, you could describe the schoolboy band scene at the time as a mixture of 70’s Rock and Prog-Rock wannabes with a repertoire of self-penned sixth-form offerings, though the bands did at least choose to write rather than cover songs. By October 1981 I’d done my first gig and decided I actually liked the fear of performing in front of an audience, something I’ve never lost to this day. The next two years were turbulent ones for our little middle-class patch of the youth band scene. People fell out with other, ‘musical differences’ were rife among the ranks, plots were hatched, people were fired, splinter-group bands were formed in secret, but despite the dark-hat tactics, we all still had fun<\/em> and no one really got hurt. Sure, a few youthful egos took a bruising, but if you’re going to put your hands near the fire, then burnt fingers won’t be far away. By October 1983 pretty much everyone involved in the school band scene had departed for University places far away, leaving a decimated headcount of musicians. Luckily, my friend Rob and a few others had survived the cull and were to be stationed locally for at least the next three years. With enough of us around to carry on where everyone else had left off, it was time to step things up a gear. This time, we were going all the way to the top. \n<\/p>\n
Fun’s over – let’s get serious<\/h3>\n
1984 was a turning point for me and my introduction to the ‘business’ side of playing music. The band we had morphed into, ‘Splinter Group’, were very much in the vein of the U2\/Big Country\/Alarm anthemic-Celtic Rock and not the most original sounding band. None the less, we ploughed on in blind faith and youthful determination, certain we could be the next big thing. It was during this period that I found myself helping to massage the UK unemployment statistics on one of Thatcher’s Youth Training Scheme programmes, whilst still dreaming of Rock-stardom. The manager of the YTS centre I was based at in Liverpool was a man some 13 years my senior named Keith Swan, another musician who had an ear for production and plenty of stories to tell of his own about ‘the business’. Perhaps he took pity on me or saw something in me that reminded him of himself; but it was Keith who would gently reveal to me exactly how serious and cut-throat the music industry was; with sobering tales of bands who came so close – but no cigar.<\/p>\n
Eventually, ‘Splinter Group’ ran its course after being ignored by every record label in London and pretty much every audience they played to. Keith’s words were certainly a realistic prophecy of what was out there and we became yet another band that would reach the same ending as others in his stories, though without achieving nearly as much. Undeterred, I picked myself up and decided that my next move was to get in a band and use them as a catalyst to launch my dream career as a London session drummer. That was going to be the one;\u00a0 get in a happening band, make an album, move to London and become a session drumming supremo like my hero, Mark Brzezicki and earn \u00a31000 a day in the studio! There was one problem bugging me though, I was completely self-taught and couldn’t read music, having spent my formative years going it my own way and refusing the advice to take lessons. Between 1985-87, I spent some time under the tutelage of Red Carter (a well respected drum teacher on Merseyside), who taught me to read music, play a variety of rhythms well out of my comfort zone and reveal to me the mystery of rudiments. By 1986, I was armed with enough foolhardy bravado to go forth and make what would turn out to be over a decades worth of\u00a0 bad career decisions.<\/p>\nWestern Promise, circa 1988, taken in front of the Cable Street March mural, London. L-R: Dave King, Me, John McGlone, Martin Linford. The mysterious shadow in the bottom-right corner is of departed keyboard player, Tony Prescott, who had left the band before the shots went to print.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
The latter period of the 1980’s culminated in me finally being signed with a band (‘Western Promise’) to a London independent label and spending some time in the city recording my first album. In all honesty, I would have to say that I didn’t really like the bands music and selfishly saw them as a ticket to my goal as a London session musician. When things finally imploded for the ‘Western Promise’ lineup I found it hard to get a foot in the door on an already closed shop, though I did get one or two bites from major labels looking to put bands together which came to (unsurprisingly) nothing. Eventually, whilst still toughing it out on the Liverpool music scene playing music I didn’t really want to play, having no real earnings and stuck in a rut, I reluctantly threw the towel in for the world of the professional bread & butter musician. At least it seemed like a more realistic way of earning a living, but there was the price of\u00a0 ‘selling out’ to be paid. By the start of the new decade, my dreams of fame, fortune and success were scuppered by the lure of finally<\/em> being able to support myself as a professional musician. Like I say, there was a price to be paid for this route to self-sufficiency and it was going to be a bumpy ride…<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ten years to meltdown<\/h3>\nThere I am, doing my time in the Warner Holidays holiday camp at in Great Yarmouth, 1991. Yes, I know it’s a small photo and yes I am hiding!<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
Way back in 1990, as it is today, to be a ‘professional’ musician, you literally had to be prepared to play any<\/em> music for money. It doesn’t matter how demeaning, childish, abhorrent or so far removed from your artistic soul it may seem; if there’s cash involved, you do it. Looking back, I’d completely lost my direction in knowing exactly what<\/em> sort of music I wanted to play. Sure, it would be a dream to work for Sting or someone, but that was never going to happen in a million years, so I battened down the hatches and took on whatever came my way, starting with a holiday-camp season in Great Yarmouth during the summer of 1991.<\/p>\n
This undertaking came close to mentally destroying me (that prize went to playing the pub circuit of Merseyside later on) but looking back, I could have made it so<\/em> much easier for myself. I was paid handsomely for the job, had my own caravan on site, all day-time off every day, one night off a week, more disposable ‘me-time’ than I could seem to use up and the means to live like a king for 6 months! Yet I chose to wallow in a cloud of self-pity and sulked around the site for six months, much to the irritation of the other musicians who seemed to be enjoying their self-imposed term of luxury incarceration. If nothing else, my sight-reading improved dramatically and I had for the first time in my life, a bank balance ending in three zero’s. Unable to escape the situation due to breach of contract law, I reluctantly stuck it out and vowed never to return.<\/p>\n
Back home, I faced the bleak reality of needing to find more employment as a professional musician. I eventually hooked up with a band of decent musicians who played the local pub and club circuit. If the summer season seemed bad, this next venture was to turn out to be the nemesis that would push me to the edge of sanity. Night after night we would play a smarter-than-average set of songs to audiences who had no interest, other than drinking themselves into oblivion and falling over our PA speakers, or complaining aggressively that we should “play some Rock’n’Roll”<\/em> just to remind us that Liverpool’s taste in music hadn’t evolved since 1964. Some of the venues we played sustained a tense atmosphere, always on the point of explosion. Sometimes things turned violent out front; but for most of the time we got away without having to witness too many displays of low-IQ, testosterone-fuelled brutality. On many occasions,\u00a0 it became necessary for me to literally psych myself up to pack my van before going to work the hell-holes. Something was going to snap inside, so I got out before any more damage could be done.<\/p>\n
Sanity restored, I managed to hook up with other bands who didn’t frequent the local pub circuit to make money, preferring to ply their trade in the quieter, old fashioned working men’s clubs that were just about hanging on to an ever bleaker prospect of survival. This involved a downgrade in income and in some cases, the standard of musicians I was working with. However, it did give me a chance to reflect and reconnect with other musicians from my past and rekindle my need to play original music again – for the love of it this time. Unfortunately, the daily requirement to keep the wolf from my front door showed no signs of abaiting; along with the unresolved dilemma of how to earn a decent living without being forced to return to the rough-house pub circuit. However, the resurgence of interest in a defunct Swedish pop group from the 1970’s was about to change my fortunes as the tribute band scene was born.<\/p>\n
Between 1994-98 I managed to enjoy a fairly healthy run on the UK’s tribute band circuit, taking part in tribute acts to: ‘The Police’ (we were ‘Synchronicity’, the UK’s first official Police tribute band with a name promoters could never pronounce); the 1970’s Disco era and finally; the dreaded but ubiquitous ‘ABBA’ tribute. It was challenging dealing with the bizarre hazy line audiences would sometimes put between what they saw as fantasy and what they saw as the real thing. But the fact was, during this musical gold-rush, I experienced more money per-gig than I’d ever earned in the past (and since). There were gigs at venues where ‘proper’ bands performed on tour with riders that varied from sandwiches & hot drinks to ostentatious full-on banquets. Despite what appeared to be a level of ‘success’, I could never put to bed the feeling that it was all just a deceptive sham and ultimately, a sell out to musical integrity that only existed because the industry had degenerated into a champion of neanderthal, soul-less, have-it-large Brit-Pop. It got to the ridiculous point of tribute acts opening as support to so-called cutting edge bands of the day, to which, I found myself in such a situation at least once. Looking back, it would have been better for me to stop analysing the situation and treat it for what it was – a bit of FUN for a lot of people and nothing of any musical importance. \n<\/p>\n
My thumbs keep locking up – Help!<\/h3>\n
Just as things seemed to be going well, something worrying started happening to me during the early gigs of\u00a0 ‘The Police’ tribute band. Towards the end of our set, I would find that my thumbs would lock over into the palms of my hands, rendering them useless. This was in no uncertain terms, terrifying. There was no pain involved, just a random muscular spasm that would\u00a0 occur during a performance. Naturally I had to hit this one on the head pretty damn quickly as it affected my ability to make a living, ironically at a time when I’d never been paid so much per-gig! As for solutions, I tried them all – physiotherapists, vitamin supplements, warm-up routines, cod-liver oil, stretching exercises but nothing would fix it. Wondering whether or not I had a future as player, my last ditch attempt to cure the problem came by chance when a fellow drummer suggested I go and see drum teacher, Dave Hassell, infamous for being expensive and a hard task-master to boot. What had I got to lose at this point, apart from my career?<\/p>\nDave Hassell – The Master…<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
After (instantly)\u00a0 identifying the problem, tearing my head apart with his concepts to heal my hands, effectively making me learn how to play drums again from scratch, I can now attribute Dave Hassell for saving my future as a drummer. But perhaps, more importantly, he opened the door for me to start seeing my role in the scheme of things as a ‘musician’ rather than ‘drummer’. This was a massively<\/em> important turning point for me, almost a rebirth, reflected in the irony of seeing something life-changing come to fruition – as another faded away. Like all runs of luck, the tribute band phenomenon began to wane during\u00a0 1997. On the flip-side, I hadn’t been a slouch on the original band side of things. During my doppelganger days, there had been a healthy resurgence in my activities with local song writers. At one point I found myself in and out of the LIPA recording studios on an almost weekly basis, laying down tracks for various drummer-less projects. It was during this period that I hooked up with Hartlepool songwriter, Martin Malone, exiled in Liverpool and running his band project, ‘Eskimo Chains’.<\/p>\nEskimo chains, sometime in the 1990s, at ‘The Vic’pub in wildest Widnes.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
Although I didn’t realise it at the time, contributing to tracks on two of Martin’s albums and being a part of his live band, were some of the best works I’ve played on to date. The quality of the songwriting was up there with the best of them and it’s a crying shame that we didn’t go further. But some things just aren’t meant to be more than they are. Whilst working with the Hartlepool monkey, I also found myself drafted into another local band intent on having one last crack at making it big. Despite realising that I should know better at this stage in my life, but refusing to let go of the last threads of my dreams just<\/em> yet, I decided to go along for the ride.<\/p>\n
‘Shoar’ were a guitar based band who wrote traditional, emotive, simple three-minute pop songs with hook-lines and memorable chorus’. They certainly had more of a passion than I did for making it ‘big’, but I enjoyed their optimism and enthusiasm for the thrill of the chase. On a local level they were quite successful in creating a buzz; enough to make other local bands who had made the big time take notice, and enough to attract the attention of some London based management. For the first time in my life it seemed that I’d finally joined a truly ‘happening’ band. The culmination of our efforts took shape in the form of a showcase gig in London supporting an on-the-up group called ‘Snow Patrol’.\u00a0 Buzzing with excitement, my cohorts were convinced that this was going to be the gig to nail the bands future. Everything<\/em> would hang on this one nights performance, so it seemed. Despite the best efforts of the management and an inspired performance by the band, nobody in the industry took the bait. Perhaps they saw we were too old to invest in; perhaps they saw an act with only regional appeal – I don’t know. But one thing I do<\/em> know; after all the previous attempts I’d been through to crack the industry in the past, I made sure not<\/em> to set myself up for a big fall – unlike the other guys in the group who took the situation badly. Having failed at their assault on the industry’s home turf, the management lost heart to continue the game around the same time as they realised the band had run out of enthusiasm. My final crack at ‘the big time’ was officially over, though without any major disappointment.<\/p>\n
As the dust settled from the ‘Shoar’ fall-out, it was clear that it was becoming harder and harder to make a living as a professional musician; faced with the option of spending lots of time away from my home life or completely changing my career for something that would keep domesticity intact, I opted for the latter – without regret. After 15 years of struggling with the music industry and all the hopes, joys and ultimately, disappointments it had thrown at me, I would see the new millennium in as a ‘normal’ person. \n<\/p>\n
Less is more, it really is!<\/h3>\nToo uncomfortably close to reality – it was inevitable I’d never survive in the world of thousands of David Brent characters.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
Between 2000-2002 I ceased doing gigs and concentrated on my new career in the corporate IT world. This was very much a culture shock for me where I learned that the fictional David Brent’s of the world really did<\/em> exist out there. Ricky Gervais hadn’t made it up – this was for real. Despite having to fit in with a 9-5 regime (alien territory in the world of the working musician) I have to admit that my time spent away from playing music was fairly therapeutic. It gave me the chance to learn new skills and dabble in a (not very very well informed) new interest in vintage drum sets. However, once a musician, always a musician and the pangs for playing live again were soon irritating me like a repetitious itch needing a scratch. I managed to hook up with Martin Malone again and started rehearsing for a new Eskimo Chains album – which ultimately would never make it to the studio. Other than that, there were dallyings with some dodgy ghosts from the past and attempts at starting corporate-function money bands, but nothing that ever came to fruition. Fact was, I didn’t need the money, but the necessity to validate my existence via performance would not go away.<\/p>\nThese lads are errrrm…..serious?<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
By 2006 I’d started working with a group of decent musicians with a view to getting a band together to try and get better gigs\u00a0 than the usual alehouse fayre on offer. It is often warned that you should never try and relive earlier glories, or so the saying goes, “the past is a great teacher, but makes for a lousy master”<\/em>. Never the less, it was my intention to take this new band and make it as good as one of the better acts I was plying my trade with during the late 1990’s. Unfortunately, things had changed for the worse since those seemingly halcyon days and the market I was trying to get back into as a spring-board for better things was in swan-song. With nowhere else to go, it looked like the only option was back into the ugly pub-band market to play music I in all honesty, despised. Before deja vu could get a grip on me, a friend (still scraping a living together as a professional drummer) called and offered me the dep with a Soul band he’d been working with on and off for a while. He’ d had a better offer from a semi-pro outfit and it looked like the position would become mine in a matter of weeks if I wanted it. Although it was sad to say goodbye to the guys I’d spent the best part of a year putting a decent band together with, it was clear the only way they could go forward was down the pub route and with my past history, such a move could only be detrimental. So, with some reluctance, we parted ways.<\/p>\nAt last, I do my time in a Soul band!<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
‘The Band of Thieves’ although very good, were showing signs of playing the same show a few too many times. Change was needed somewhere, rapidly. As soon as I’d got a few months behind me the idea was mooted that we do another band together, this time, avoiding the same old tired, commercial assault on a market that was flooded with punter-led low-expectation bands. After a few months of rehearsals and some personnel movement, we decided on a Blues\\R&B\\Funk direction and by 2007, ‘Forty 4’ was born.<\/p>\nGreat band, great album, greatly ignored, despite the radio play….<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n
You really do<\/em> have to pay your dues if you want to play the blues – it’s true. So far, ‘Forty 4’ have been pretty much ignored on home turf, but had better luck outside their county boundary and continue the long, hard struggle to take their music as far as it can in the blues world. In this game, you’re in it for the duration. There’s no microwave success recipe and no time limit. It literally takes as long as it takes. For all the lack of monetary return, hours put in rehearsing,\u00a0 travelling and the general sheer bloody minded determination you have to develop in the face of being ignored; eventually, the green shoots of hope do start to appear. Being in a modern blues band in the 21st century is not a million miles away from being a teenager in a band trying to get a record deal. It really is a labour of love, though unlike in my youthful days, there’s no “if we don’t make it in six months we fold”<\/em> attitude on board. As for me personally, I don’t get to play as much as I used to; but the intrinsic rewards are far greater and it’s a heck<\/em> of a lot better than playing five nights a week and hating every gig. I guess these days, after many years spent playing drums because I had<\/em> to, it’s nice to be in that zone where I can play my drums because I want<\/em> to; a feeling lost to me since I first sat behind my Maxwin ‘Funky’ kit, all those years ago. In summary, despite the historically bad decisions made, the wrong turns, the selfish moves, I got exactly out of the music business what I deserved – nothing! Today, although the extrinsic rewards may be few, the fulfillment just seems to get better.<\/p>\n
Nick Lauro, 2010<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<\/a>
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