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Wednesday, April 10, 2024 - Black cherry, library book that was last checked out during the Cold War, wild violets, iodine, rouge on your grandmother’s cheeks. Home baked spice cake, dusty iron, baked cherry crisp, with sufficiently graceful age and patina for Downton Abbey, but enough verve and electricity for the arc of a garage band’s ungrounded amps. Momtazi always has that surprising energy and zazz; and in the difficult 2011 vintage it surprises with complexity astride all the power chords. Will hold, but damn, I love it now. Wild Thing—choogle choogle chorale—you make my heart sing!

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