DISGRACELAND - Talking Heads: Punk Rock, New Wave, Blackouts, and Psycho Killers

Episode Date: July 9, 2024

From 1976 to 1977, unsuspecting young people in New York City were snuck up on in the darkness and shot in cold blood. Six dead, murdered by David Berkowitz, AKA the Son of Sam, a serial killer who held all five boroughs in the grip of fear for one year. A year in which punk rock and new wave took hold, the Yankees went on a tear, a garbage strike left trash rotting in the heat, a blackout plunged millions into terror and violence…and the singer of a new band called Talking Heads got to work channeling that detached psychotic feeling into song.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com.To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership.Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTERFollow Jake and DISGRACELAND:InstagramYouTubeX (formerly Twitter) Facebook Fan GroupTikTok To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is a story about the band Talking Heads, but it's also the story about a singer and a serial killer. It's a wild story. A story that involves six murders, unsuspecting young people snuck up on in the darkness

and shot in cold blood by a psycho. And it's a story about a singer trying to channel that detached psychotic feeling into song. A story about punk rock, the New Wave, the New York Yankees, the Mets, a garbage strike, and a blackout that brought terror and violence. All that aside, this is also a story about great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Fears of a Clown, MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to kiss and say goodbye by the Manhattans.

And why would I play you that particular slice of backseat, dark end of the street cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 29, 1976. And that was the day that David Berkowitz kicked off a murderous rampage that terrorized New Yorkers for over a year. A year during which Talking Heads recorded their landmark first album and their signature song, Psycho Killer. On this episode, a singer, a serial killer, the son of Sam, and Talking Heads. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Snare drum, hi-hat, bass line. It was a groove so loud and so low that you didn't

even hear it. You just felt it there in your chest. It's the kind of groove that animates bodies. Those kinds of records, they get the crowd on the dance floor, and then they keep them there. These were the kinds of records that Tony Amato spawned at the peach tree. Right now at 10.30 p.m., Tony was keeping the tempo at a moderate 95 beats per minute. By 1 a.m., he'd work it all the way up to 140 B.P.m. as thousands of kids in their late teens and early 20s bugied down. Then Tony gradually relaxed the pace and cooled them all out by closing time. It was in Studio 54, but in 1976, in the suburb of New Rochelle, New York,

the peach tree was as close as it got to that midtown feel. Besides, New York City was a cesspool. It was dangerous and it was dirty. The suburbs were safer. This gig was easier and, based on the pair of brunettes that just walked by, the peach tree was plenty good enough for Tony. Just then, a young guy in a wrinkled button-down shirt shuffled into the DJ booth holding a glass of water for Tony. Normally, the DJ booth was Tony's sacred space, no guess, and no requests. But he felt sorry for this quiet young guy with the intense black eyes and the wild.

hair. He always came to the club alone, and he never danced. He just hung at the edge of the DJ booth and watched Tony work. Eventually, Tony took pity on him and showed him the turntables and mixing board. Tonight the guy handed Tony to a glass of water and stared over his shoulder at the turntables. Tony tried to fill the awkward silence. He asked the guy if he liked disco. Nah. The guy said he preferred fill his soul. Tony changed his strategy. Do you like girls? And the guy's eyes flashed with anger.

He just stared at his shoes. Tony felt bad. It was clear that this guy wasn't a ladies' man, but Jesus, he was just trying to make conversation. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for another minute. And finally, the guy muttered goodbye and quickly turned and walked out of the booth. and as he turned the corner, Tony called out after him. Hey, David, catch you later. Meanwhile, 20 miles south,

another awkward young man clung to a doorframe in a tiny damp room. A putrid mix of smells filled his nostrils. Piss, cockroach spray, Chanel No. 5. A combination so thick it enveloped him. All the same, he couldn't leave. He knew what was waiting just on the other side of the door. He could hear the huge dog panting in the summer heat, nudging at the door with its nose,

scraping its claws across the wooden floor. He knew the dog wouldn't let up now that it had his attention. And soon, he would have to do its bidding. Finally, the young man pushed the door open, and the black dog trotted forward and stopped right in front of him. It looked up with those sad eyes, eyes that were almost human. For a moment, it seemed like the mutt was going to speak.

It paused, it circled, and then took a shit right there on the wooden floor. The dog forced its muzzle into his hands, leaving David Byrne with no choice but to scratch the ears of the big Saluki hound until it turned and ran back to a man standing at the bar. That man was hilly crystal. He ran CBGIV, this tiny dive on the Bowery, and his dog, Jonathan, was the club's unofficial mascot. By July 1976, not much remained of Hilly's original vision of what was once called country, bluegrass, and blues, hence CBGV. Instead, the club was the epicenter of a new wave of music powered by bands, including television, Blondie, the Ramones, and tonight's headliner, Talking Heads. David Byrne and his bandmates, bassist Tina Weymouth and drummer Chris France,

hardly looked like a band at the center of the emerging punksy, where the Ramones rocked black leather and shades. Talking heads wore polo shirts with little alligators on them. Clean cut, nerdy almost. They were, as rock critic Lester Bangs later put it, so uncool that they became cool. Tonight, however, they were well on their way to becoming cool. Only a year after their first gig as talking heads, they were gearing up for their second sold-out show of the night.

As the line grew outside the club, David Byrne felt tense, nervous. He couldn't relax, and the pressure was on. In addition to the huge crowd outside, Sire Records founder, Seymour Stein, was inside the building. He had been scouting the band for months. He saw one of their first shows a year prior, and now he was ready to check on the show. band's progress. The door is opened and the crowd rushed in. And when the band kicked off, Seymour Stein was pressed up against the front of the

stage. He watched David Byrne twitch and convulse like a man possessed. His singing voice was just as jittery, swinging wildly up and down in pitch. But there was something oddly compelling about it. He was intense. He was passionate. In the right hands, he could be a star. which is exactly why Seymour wanted the band for Sire Records.

The first song ended, and the crowd roared. David waited a moment before stepping to the microphone to announce their next one. The name of this band is Talking Heads. The next song is called Psycho Killer. While Talking Heads finished their late set, back in New Rochelle, Tony Amato watched that pair of brunettes walk out of the peach tree. Too bad. Tony recognized one of them.

What was her name? Debbie, Diane? No, Donna, that was it. He was hoping she might stick around to chat, but unfortunately that wasn't in the cards tonight. Donna and her friend Jody slipped out of the club and into the balmy night air. They hopped into Jody's Oldsmobile

and headed south to the Bronx, to Pellum Bay, where Donna lived with her parents. Jody double parked in front of the house. The girls didn't notice the guy who was following them. He pulled his yellow Ford Galaxy to the curve half a block away, replaying the scene from the disco in his mind. He let out a hard, angry laugh. Of course he liked girls.

But girls hardly noticed him, just like everyone else. And when they did, it was just to pity him. Even that DJ back at the peach tree. He was so patronizing. None of them truly saw him. Not really. He was going to fix that.

Starting tonight, soon, a whole city would notice him. He pulled a revolver from his pocket and massaged it in his hands. Somewhere, a dog was barking. He tried to block it from his mind and focus on what he was here to do. Make them notice. He opened the door of his Ford Galaxy and stepped out into the night. The Oldsmobile idled just up ahead. A few feet away now.

He crept up on the passenger side. Suddenly the passenger door swung open. It was Donna. She saw him there, waiting for her. His heart pounding. That snub-nosed piece in his hand shimmering under the moonlight. She screamed, Who the hell do you? The flash from the revolver was blinding.

The shots cut through the night air like thunder. Donna fell to the ground. He aimed at a job. Jody in the driver's seat. She looked like she was about to puke. He fired three more shots. The first one tore through her leg. She screamed in pain as blood spilled out into the driver's seat.

And then he turned and ran. On his parents bolted out of the house. They rushed down to the car, but it was too late. At just 18 years old, their daughter's life was over. For the rest of New York City, the nightmare. was just beginning. April, 1977, Manhattan, Sun Dragon Studios. Something was bothering David Byrne.

The music coming out of the control room speakers was not good, not good at all. David's bandmates, Tina Weymouth, Chris Franz, and their latest edition multi-instrumentalist Jerry Harrison, formerly of the modern lovers, they all agreed. Listening to this first playback of their song, Psycho Killer, They realized that something was off. The cold, detached persona that David created so easily on stage at CBGB was no match for the cold, detached atmosphere of the recording studio's isolated vocal booth. On tape, David's voice sounded timid, weak, uninspired.

The track should have been better than this. It was the band's oldest song. One they wrote in 1974, while they were all still art students at. Rhode Island School of Design. David came up with the concept after listening to Alice Cooper's shock rock masterpiece Billion Dollar Babies on repeat. Back then, he imagined it as a creepy rock ballad.

But Chris added a funky and propulsive beat that took the song in a totally different direction. Tina, who was dating Chris, listened as the guys tried to come up with a bridge. She offered to write something in French, seeing as she was fluent, and soon the song was done. Tina grew up taking music lessons,

but at the time she hadn't even picked up a bass yet. Even now in 1977, she had only been playing for a year and a half. That was another thing bothering, David. After finally signing with Sire Records in November, Talking Head's debut album was going to make her break. If it succeeded, it could launch him into a long career in music. If it flopped, you might not get another shot.

Was it really wise to trust their sound to such an inexperienced player? Maybe Tina was the problem. Or maybe the problem was Tony Bon Jovi. Yes, that's first cousin to Mr. Living on a Prayer, John Bon Jovi, who in 1977 was already a big-time producer. Jimmy Hendricks, Gloria Gaynor, and most importantly, Tony Bon Jovi produced two dynamic soaring albums for the Ramones. Seymour Stein thought that Tony Bonjiovi would be a perfect fit for the Talking Heads debut. From the start, however, it was not a perfect fit. It was a bad fit.

Tony didn't understand the band's sound. He was dismissive about Tina's playing. He hated David's singing, and he spent most of his time bragging about his new private jet. He read airplane magazines while the band recorded. And he left sessions to oversee the creation of the Power Station Studio. he was building in Hell's Kitchen. When he did pay attention, his attempts to drop knowledge often backfired.

Like right now, the studio was silent as the playback ended. Everyone in the room knew that the vocals were all wrong. Tony casually put down the airplane magazine, and he took off his shades and walked out of the room. When he returned from the studio's small kitchen, he was holding an eight-inch-long butcher knife. He walked up to David and placed the knife in his hand.

Look, Tony said, you're a psycho killer, right? It's time to get into character. It couldn't be more clear that Tony didn't understand the song at all. He wanted David to scream soulfully like Al Green, instead of delivering a cold monotone like Lou Reed. He wanted a novelty song. The song wasn't a joke. This was David's life.

If they didn't get it right, this go-round, there would not be another. David looked down at the knife in his hand, and the anger boiled up inside of him. He felt like a dog, an animal. He wanted to lunge at Tony, gouged the producer's eyes out, to plunge the knife into his fucking chest. Do it, the voice inside him screamed. Do it. No, he said to himself as much as he said to Tony, I don't think we're going to do that.

Then he handed back the knife and stormed out of the room. While David Byrne was trying to channel a psycho killer in Manhattan, residents of Queens and the Bronx were becoming aware of a psycho killer prowling their neighborhood for real. The shooting in the Bronx in July, 1976, that killed 18-year-old Donna Loria and wounded her 19-year-old friend Jody Valenti, was reported with a meager two-paragraph mentioned in the Long Island Press. Similar attacks in October and November garnered a few more articles, but nothing like the headlines that David Berkowitz expected. In a city with over 1,500 homicides a year, it was hard to break through, but David Berkowitz did break through. Specifically, at about 7.30 p.m. on March 8, 97, when he approached a 19-year-old Columbia student walking home in Queens. The books that Virginia Voscaricci and carried couldn't stop the slug from David Berkowitz's gun. She held the books up to try and shield the inevitable

but it was no use. David shot her point-blank in the mouth. Virginia's body collapsed at a heap on the sidewalk. David Berkowitz pulled a cap down over his face and took off running. He left behind $35 in Virginia's purse. This was the murder that compelled New York City Mayor, Abe Beam, to hold a press conference in which he alerted the public that the same weapon,

a 44 Bulldog revolver, have been used in at least two. of the recent shootings. A month later, opening day at Yankee Stadium, the tabloid headlines weren't talking about the early struggles of New Rightfielder Reggie Jackson. Instead, the New York Post and their chief rival The New York Daily News were focused on yet another brutal killing.

David Berkowitz was crouching in the shadows, watching a couple as they kissed in a parked car. He felt for the letter in his jacket pocket, the one he'd written earlier that day. It was addressed to NYPD Sergeant Joseph Borrelli, who was leading the investigation into the killings, killings in which David Berkowitz was the sole perpetrator, as well as the sole person to know this fact. He continued to watch the couple make out in their car like a man watching a dirty movie alone in a darkened theater, and then he pulled that big 44 caliber handgun from a bag.

It gave him purpose. The interior light in the car went out, and the couple's head. Heads were silhouetted by the residual glow of a nearby streetlight. They were so unaware, so happy. They should have been terrified. David made his approach, slowed his New York power walk to a crawl. He could hear them now. Their moans.

The sounds gave him confidence. No wild shots tonight. No misses. He dropped to his knee, braced his arm, and aimed. This happy couple. would feel his pain. He fired four bullets. Each one found its target.

His victims slumped in their seats. Dead or nearly so. He calmly pulled the letter from his pocket and dropped it in the car before turning to leave. The citizens of New York City didn't fear him. Not yet. They called him a killer, but they had no idea that he was so much more.

He was the son of evil. He was the son of the devil. he was the son of Sam, which is exactly what the letter said. The cops tried to keep the letter a secret from the press, but the Daily News managed to bribe someone. In the very next day, the paper ran the full text of the letter along with a massive bold-faced headline that read,

Killer to cops, I'll do it again. That headline caught the eye of many New Yorkers, including David Byrne, who spotted the paper as he stepped out of Sun Dragon Studios. As he read the article, he was struck by the letter's cold, detached tone. These weren't the words of a lunatic waving a knife around in public. They were the words of a man who blended in, who wouldn't be noticed until he struck.

When David Byrne returned to the studio, he ran into engineer Ed Stasia. He confessed to Ed that he was beyond uncomfortable singing in front of Tony. Ed suggested they wait for the producer to clear out for the day and then finish the vocals when he wasn't around, which is exactly what they did. They pieced together Psycho Killer behind their producers back. While Tony talks shit about Tina's playing, Ed, the engineer, reassured David in the rest of the band that her bass line absolutely made the song and that she was impossible to replace. Eventually, David Byrne found ways to relax, to bring the extent. of the band's live performances to the cold, isolated vocal booth.

Psycho Killer was taking shape. Eight or nine other songs were close behind, but now the band was going to have to push pause on the recording. In three days, they were boarding a plane to England. The band was going on tour with the Ramones. So, while David Byrne worked on building a buzz for his band's debut album abroad, David Berkowitz worked on a project that would land. him more headlines back home.

His letter to the cops was a success. It massively increased the news coverage of his killings. And now the son of Sam was working feverishly on a follow-up, something bigger, longer, more ornate. He took his time writing it. He worked carefully on the calligraphy, the layout. It was a killer press release, or should I say a press release for a killer. Which is why Berkowitz sent it to a reporter, Jimmy Breslin,

the lead columnist for the New York Daily News. And like any good press release, it promoted an event. Another killing. To come in July on the one-year anniversary of the son of Sam's first shooting. We'll be right back after this... We're, word, word. July, 1977. New York's brutal heat wave seemed to...

to be never-ending. Ditto for the rotting garbage piled in the streets, the result of a sanitation worker strike. If that didn't put you on edge, then knowing that Psycho Son of Sam was still out there did. Some days, it seemed like the only bright spot in the city was the New York Yankees, who were starting to rise to the top of the American League East standings just a few days before the all-star break. Yankee Stadium was dark tonight, though, with the Bronx bombers on the road. But across town in Queens, Shea Stadium was lit up with the Mets and the Chicago Cubs heading into the bottom of the sixth inning. You can almost see the stadium lights from the roof of the Long Island City loft

that David Byrne shared with Tina Weymouth and Chris France. David wasn't looking towards Shea Stadium, though. He was looking out across the East River at the buildings of Manhattan. The next day, in one of those buildings, he and his bandmates would head to Sundragon and put the final touches on their debut album. Despite the heat, everyone was at a celebratory mood. Hamburgers and chickens sizzled on a barbecue grill. Glasses clinked. Friends down cold beer and white wine as the group toasted the completion of their record. David Byrne, however, stood alone. His stomach was in knots. And the album was nearly done.

And that thought was pure agony. What if the record flopped? What if radio programmers refused to play it because they thought it was punk and not new wave as Seymour Stein was insisting? What if they never got to make another record? Suddenly, David watched from the roof as an entire city block went dark.

Like someone had flipped off a giant power switch, then another and another. Everyone at the party was pointing across the river as midtown and downtown also went dark. They watched as the entire city was plunged into darkness. New York finally snapped. The heat, the trash, the fear, and now no electricity. Enough was enough. From Brooklyn to the Bronx, people flooded the streets to vent their frustration.

They lit fires, smashed store windows. it was absolute pandemonium. The cops were already stretched to the breaking point with the son of Sam, manhunt. As the rioting spread, they were outnumbered and exhausted. They struggled to restore order as the sun came up the next morning. Thick smoke filled the air throughout Queens as police and looters engaged in a street battle. Talking heads were huddled around a small television, watching in horror as all this unfolded, knowing that there was a very real possibility

that their recording studio could be one of those buildings being looted. 25 hours passed. 25 long hours. Finally, the power came back on. The phone at the band's loft rang. It was Ed Stasium at the studio, and everything, thankfully, was fine. The tapes were safe.

As David Byrne and Talking Heads completed the final mix of their debut album, David Berkowitz was contemplating his own final plan as he clung to a doorframe in a tiny, dank bathroom. Outside, he could hear the dog pacing back and forth. He was terrified. Now that it had his attention, he knew that he would have to do its bidding. From the window of his tiny apartment in Yonkers, he looked outside. In the yard below, you could see the big black dog staring at him.

Its eyes were almost human. It was barking. It was snarling. It looked like it was about to start screaming at him. You fucking loser, you pathetic piece of shit. The world hates you. Why don't you just die, you worm? Do it.

Do it now. Sam is hungry. Sam wants to hunt. Get out there and kill. Kill. Kill. David covered his ears, but he couldn't drown it out. He grabbed a small rifle.

from the couch and threw open the window. He fired wildly at the dog below as it ran whimpern back home. August, 1977. Despite a massive police manhunt, David Berkowitz had successfully killed again. A year, almost to the day, from his first shooting. No one is safe from Son of Sam, declared the New York Post. Daily News Calm, this Jimmy Breslin pleaded with the killer to surrender in an issue of the paper that sold over a million copies.

nightclubs were empty lover's lanes were deserted David Berkowitz had achieved the type of fame a guy like David Byrne could only dream of with his immortality assured David Berkowitz was now planning to go out with a bang

head to a nightclub just like the peach tree and new Rochelle and lay waste to the entire crowd all the party girls and leisure suit wearing guys macho fuckos, all those people who pushed him around, who ignored him, who made fun of him, he was going to kill them all. And if the cops didn't shoot him first, then he would end it himself.

Right there in the nightclub, blood, all over the dance floor. He already had one gun in his yellow Ford Galaxy. Now he loaded his familiar 44 caliber bulldog with fresh bullets and placed it in a brown paper bag. He was ready to hunt. It was just before 10 p.m. He walked down the steps from his apartment. Outside, there was no one. It was pitch black.

And with the help of a dim streetlight at the end of the block, he could make out his car. He walked quickly toward the vehicle. He pulled out his key and slid it into the lock of the driver's side. Then he heard footsteps, approaching quickly from behind. He turned around to see an NYPD detective running toward him, gun drawn. Two more cops were approaching from the other side. He dropped the brown paper bag to the ground and stuck his hands in the air.

Then he slumped his shoulders and looked at the ground. Well, you got me. The cop asked him, who in the hell did he have exactly? I'm Sam, he said, David Berkowitz. The next morning, August 11, 1977, the headline of the New York Post read, caught. It sold 1.2 million copies, almost twice the paper's normal circulation. The New York Daily News responded with their own breathless coverage of the arrest and arraignment. The papers could only hope for a lengthy trial, but instead David Berkowitz confessed the next day.

Although it would be months before he was finally sentenced, for New Yorkers, the long and terrifying summer of the psycho killer was finally over. A parking ticket. That's all it took. After a reign of terror that lasted more than a year, left six people dead and another seven seriously wounded. It was a parking ticket that finally did David Berkowitz in. In the early morning of July 31, 1977, just moments before we shot and shot, killed Stacey Moskowitz and wounded Robert Violenta as they sat in a car in Brooklyn. David Berkowitz's own car was ticketed for parking too close to a fire hydrant.

An eyewitness later told police she saw a young man snatch a ticket off his windshield and glare at her. Just moments before she heard shots ring out. Eventually, that ticket led police to the Yellow Ford Galaxy, owned by David Berkowitz. And when they found it parked outside his apartment in Yonkers, it had a gun laying in the back seat in another letter to police detailing his grim final plan. But just because David Berkowitz was finally jailed, didn't mean the press coverage cooled off. If anything, it intensified. Papers jockeyed for access, seeking explanations for how this could have happened.

The New York Daily News blamed the LSD that David Berkowitz took as a soldier in Korea. Even the gray lady of the local press, the New York Times, reported Brewery. breathlessly on theories that David Berkowitz may have acted together with the sons of Sam Carr, the literal sons of Sam. Sam Carr was the neighbor who owned the black lab that David Berkowitz claimed had ordered him to kill. Stories like that only increased after both brothers died violent deaths in the two years following Berkowitz's arrest. On Friday, September 16th, the New York Mets finally completed the game against the Chicago Cubs that had been post-year-old. prone by the blackout.

That same day, Talking Heads' debut album, also delayed by the blackout, was finally released. Psycho Killer was the first single. Seymour Stein's new wave marketing strategy worked perfectly for a band of clean-cut art school students. They didn't look like punks. They didn't sound like punks. They were the vanguard of an entirely new sound. And by the following spring, David Berkowitz was for a very good one.

found legally sane and sentenced to 25 years to life, thanks in no small part to the publicity around the case. Around that same time, the Talking Head single Psycho Killer snuck onto the Billboard Hot 100 for a five-week run, peaking at number 92. It was a hit, just barely, but it was enough of a hit to guarantee the band a second album on Sire. They made the most of it. Learning from previous experience, they lined up Brian Eno, formerly of the band Roxy Music, and at the time, one of David Bowie's musical collaborators to produce their next record. Finally, working with someone who was on their wavelength, the band ditched the standard studio practices of recording in isolation. Instead, they played together in the same room, allowing them to harness the energy of their set

in the recording studio. Brian Eno rode the rhythm section of Tina Weymouth and Chris Franz as he pushed the band into a funkier or more stylistically diverse sound. Their second album, More Songs About Buildings and Food, went all the way up to number 29, largely powered by their cold, detached, an incredibly funky cover of Al Green's Take Me to the River. The band worked with Brian Eno for three albums in total, including one of their many masterpieces, remain in light. Over the years, David Byrne and Brian Eno continued to collaborate on more award-winning albums and projects, including My Life in the Bush of Ghosts and 2018's American Utopia,

which charted higher than any Talking Heads album ever did. The power of art is an incredible thing. It took an awkward college dropout and gave him an outlet, a way to communicate, a way to connect, to see, and to be seen. and it made him a star. Without art, who knows where David Byrne would have ended up. David Berkowitz, on the other hand, found no such connection, no outlet for his rage and for his pain.

And because of that, he inflicted that rage and that pain on the world around him. It's enough to make you wonder, if he had found his place, could this have been stopped? Could those lives have been saved? Could it all have turned out differently? With another chance, could David Berkowitz have turned out like David Byrne? But was David Berkowitz simply destined for evil, for violence, for disgrace? Jake Brennan.

And this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com slash membership.

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