Ora Cogan: Hard Hearted Is How You Survive
Ora Cogan on the politics of 'Hard Hearted Woman,' the hollowing-out of folk tradition, and why her forties have been the best time of her life to be playing music.
Today, we’re putting The Tonearm’s needle on singer and songwriter Ora Cogan.
Ora Cogan’s music pulls from folk, country, psychedelia, and gothic rock. She holds all of it without flinching, as heard on the fantastic album Hard Hearted Woman, her latest release on Sacred Bones.
Ora has worked as a photojournalist and human rights advocate, and those experiences feed directly into how she thinks about art, resistance, and what the music is actually for. We get into all of that, including her creative process, the long arc of folk music as a living tradition, and why staying soft in hard times is a form of defiance in itself.
(The musical excerpts heard in the interview are from Ora Cogan’s Hard Hearted Woman)
Dig Deeper
• Visit Ora Cogan at her official site and follow on Bluesky, Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube
• Purchase Ora Cogan’s album Hard Hearted Woman from Sacred Bones, Bandcamp, or Qobuz, and listen on your streaming platform of choice
Label:
• Sacred Bones Records
Collaborators and Band:
• Lankum — Irish doom-folk group; Cormac MacDiarmada contributed to Hard Hearted Woman
• Backxwash — Zambian-Canadian rapper and producer; collaborator
• Y La Bamba — Portland-based indie folk group; collaborator
• Emma Ruth Rundle — artist Ora has toured with
• Lori Goldston — legendary cellist (Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged); appears on the Bury Me EP
Musical References:
• Fire Draw Near — Ian Lynch’s podcast on Irish traditional music
• One Leg One Eye — Ian Lynch’s experimental solo project
Activism and Organizations:
• Trans Lifeline — Grassroots hotline and microgrants organization run by and for trans people; US: (877) 565–8860, Canada: (877) 330–6366
• Advocates for Trans Equality — Legal and political advocacy for transgender rights in the US
• Heiltsuk Nation — The First Nations community on British Columbia’s Central Coast whose members accompanied Ora on the canoe journey she describes as a turning point in her life
• Indigenous Climate Hub — Resource hub for Indigenous-led climate action in Canada
• GLAAD Transgender Resources — Directory of support resources for trans people and allies
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(This transcript has been lightly edited for clarity.)
Lawrence Peryer: Now the record's been out a little bit. I'm actually glad we had a little bit of time between the release and now. I'm curious about how your feelings about the music have evolved, how your relationship is changing with it as you perform it. I'm curious about your experience of the record.
Ora Cogan: So Hard Hearted Woman came out — has it been like three months? Like two and a half months?
Lawrence: Yeah, I think mid-March.
Ora: The creative direction for me with this record — and I think this isn't an uncommon experience for artists — is that I had a certain idea in mind, goals I wanted to execute, theories and methods and concepts. All of that went out the window as soon as I started working in a cohesive way.
I thought I was going to be doing something that sounded quite different. What I ended up writing and working on was a lot more personal, simple, heartfelt — more internal than cerebral in a lot of ways. It was frustrating. It was like, I want to do that, but I kept coming back to this other thing.
And of course it's my choice. But there was something coming through that felt more impulsive or intuitive that I chose to respect and listen to, because every time I sat down to work it just kept coming up. I'm like, okay. Then I reflected on it — maybe that's what I need and maybe that's what needs to happen. It seems to have resonated with other people in a meaningful way. That's always nice when that happens. You're like, okay, I guess this is what it's going to be.
I'm still processing my relationship with the music. It's been a lot of fun — maybe both a little sorrowful and a happy thing. Taking a lot of personal pain and grief and grievances and reckoning, wrestling with the world, sharing that with other humans, and trying to have some catharsis in the process.
Lawrence: It's interesting to hear you give that answer, because when you started, you put the word "artist" in air quotes. And yet what you experienced — the way you articulated the work of creating this, sharing your personal experience with the world channeled through your art — to me that is the artist without air quotes. That is the work of the artist. I'm curious: are you self-conscious about that word, or was that just a tic?
Ora: I think it's both serious work and a joke. Being an artist is serious, important work — and it's meaningful. But it's also not exclusive to some class of people. I think that's human work. Anybody can take up plenty of vocations as an art form by connecting to life. I don't know what definition we want to use when it comes to art, but in my mind that should be quite an expansive term.
Maybe sometimes it's relegated to professionalism — like certain people have some kind of genius or brilliance or masterful skill. A lot of the time that just has more to do with who has the privilege to spend time working on that rather than working some shit job. I know plenty of really ingenious artists who are indentured. I guess that's where the air quotes come from. I feel hesitant because of politics — because of capitalism and patriarchy. Everything gets reduced when we're talking about art under capitalism or in the context we're living in. So the air quotes are important. (laughter)
Lawrence: By virtue of a lot of the music and art I cover and the people I speak with, I talk to people who have what I'll blandly call portfolio careers — they don't have the luxury of just pursuing art as a way to make life work. Your point about the artist not being some far-away genius — as much as I wish all artists could simply pursue their art, a lot of the people I speak with who live these more diverse lives find that it brings a lot of meaning back into the art. It gives them more raw material. They're not ascetics shut away. They're in the world, reflecting it and processing it. That to me is crucial.
Ora: Hell yeah.
Lawrence: As you might guess, a lot of music comes to me through my own research and listening, and things get sent to me, and every once in a while something stands out and sort of forces me to listen. "Honey" was that song for me in the last few months. It has this familiarity to it, but it still sounds so — it's a great entry point into the record and it really drew me in. As I've spent more time with your work and learned more about you and your creative body of work, I'm curious about your relationship with the political song, the protest song. Because that song doesn't scream strident, and it's not sloganeering.
Ora: Maybe we're all a little burnt out on explicit didactic sloganeering. Everybody's allowed to speak their truth in their own way. I don't know how much space I want to take up in the room when it comes to this stuff. I've just got my own things to say. I want to support and uplift people who are facing oppression, facing fascism, facing the rise of hate and bigotry. I think people from the communities being targeted probably have an awful lot more to say about all this than I do.
I'm going to use my voice because I've been asked to, and because we're all asked to speak out and use our platforms and skills and tools to fight for collective liberation, to be part of a movement. In my view, that means working toward decolonization, toward justice, toward collective liberation — seeing the great cruelties that are going on in the world as systems of oppression bolstered by a lot of apathy and complacency from people who benefit from them.
When it comes to protest or solidarity, I don't see it as a badge of honor. It's not about cult of personality, not about singular genius, not about how brave or stoic or exciting somebody can be. It's about doing the dishes. It's about all of us taking on activism or solidarity not as a badge of honor but as a collective responsibility to each other and to the land — in a very harrowing time, just helping, supporting, amplifying the voices of people who are often not respected or heard.
That's my worldview when it comes to solidarity or politics. There are great conspiracies in the world — horrible conspiracies. They're called white supremacy, capitalism, patriarchy, and Zionism. Anything that cuts life up into bits and says that some group of people should hold rank and power over everybody else. How do we fight against that? How do we do it in the form of song?
For me, in a very personal way, that's somatic work. I'm trying to understand that gentler, subtler work of embodiment — being present with all of the feelings, holding all of that inside, and dealing with it as feels right to my spirit. Trying to do that in a humble way. Being present, being in my body while witnessing grave injustices in this world, and saying: there are dishes to be done, there are practical things to be done, there are ways to get involved. And then when it comes to art, there's this other kind of work that can be a little more enigmatic. How do I stay connected? How do I not get overwhelmed by how awful things are and tap out into apathy or complacency or a fight-or-flight trauma response? How do we stay here and respond like an adult — be present and try to have a sense of humanity and joy and connection while picking yourself up and dusting yourself off, and hopefully going about the work of being part of collective liberation and justice?
I'm not a spokesperson for anybody here except my own little self, and I don't want to speak for anybody else. But I'm sitting here watching friends of mine face really brutal legislation in the States that's taking away their human rights. Trans rights are human rights — in a specific form for a specific demographic, but they're human rights issues nonetheless. I'm watching people face this hateful, angry rhetoric toward people I love, toward friends and community members, and thinking: why are you so threatened by people who are just existing and living like they always have? We're not cookie cutters and everybody gets to be who they are.
Trying to examine where that hate and ignorance comes from — how do you engage with it while being part of a system? Instead of paying attention to historic injustices against marginalized communities, white people often seem to struggle so much with the burden of just acknowledging systemic forms of oppression, just sitting with the idea that maybe they're on the wrong side or carry a burden of responsibility for living in an unjust society. Instead of doing that, there are all these concocted alternate realities that paint certain groups as the victims. Why not just sit with it? Say: how can I take on a responsibility to do better, to be part of something better? It's not about hating yourself. It's about sitting with an uncomfortable truth and asking, how can I be part of something better?
So that's where "Honey" came from. It's kind of facetious — "hard-hearted woman" — thinking about how fear permeates people when they buy into bigotry, when they buy into hateful rhetoric where they think somebody just walking down the street in their truth is oppressive to them. I think sometimes that comes from great fear. You see people who have maybe restricted their own spirits or their own hearts, and they see somebody else really living in their authenticity and they feel attacked by it because they feel jealous and insecure about the ways they've condemned themselves to a binary, to some internalized hatred.
But I'm trying to understand it, and I could be wrong. The process of songwriting is listening, thinking, questioning. That's a long-winded answer, but it's a hard one to get into.
Lawrence: I appreciate the point you made about trying to understand where the hatred comes from — like, why are you so fixated on this person's choice or life that has really nothing to do with you? But when you were speaking earlier, the thought that came to me was this notion about how — especially in the last whatever interval — the people most entrenched in power have the biggest sense of grievance. I can't help but tie that to the zero-sum nature of capitalism. If you get something, somehow that means I don't get it, as opposed to there being enough for both of us.
Ora: Yes, absolutely. That is a zero-sum game — it's a competition. And weirdly, when you think about the way these systems of thinking, which are quite old, see nature itself that way — zeroing in on an interpretation of nature as a violent competition where everything's out to get at each other's throats — having spent enough time in the natural world myself with people who have very different worldviews, watching animals and watching the land... I was just hanging out with my godmother. There's a horse hanging out in the valley where she lives. He doesn't want to work, so he kind of took off — he's half wild, just hanging out in this valley. There are coyotes and bears around, all sorts of things going on, but nobody's messing with the horse.
Fear is a horrible filter to look through. It can motivate people to do the most horrible things. When you have a fear that's imposed onto the other — whether that's nature itself, or another group of people — when you project all of your demons, all of your shadows, all of your worst fears onto somebody else, you can really see a monster. It's good to keep that in mind, especially if you have power, because you can do an awful lot of damage if you've got a gun in your hand and you feel that way about somebody else.
So it's about unpacking that, undoing it, trying to understand it and take responsibility. I'm Jewish, I'm white, I'm in a relatively privileged position in the world — a position of privilege in a really unjust society, a cruel society that was born out of colonization. How do you sit with that and take responsibility and do something beautiful and meaningful with life in a framework that actually makes sense and moves toward justice and liberation? Just looking at all this stuff, trying to understand it from the inside, looking around and asking: what are these systems that I'm part of? Taking responsibility for that. Where is this from? How can we change it?
Lawrence: Was there ever a time for you where you envisioned a life that wasn't as an artist? Was there ever an alternate path you entertained or were pursuing?
Ora: When I was a teenager, I was studying silversmithing. I left home when I was young and did an apprenticeship in jewelry making. But I always knew I wanted to be a musician — so the answer is no, not really. I did that apprenticeship in hopes that I could make a living at something that would sustain music. It's a given that it's pretty hard to make it in music. I tried to learn about business and entrepreneurship through making jewelry so I could cover the bills that way, but I struggled with it. Mining silver — it just wasn't the right thing for me.
I worked loads of labor and service jobs. I worked at restaurants and cafes, did landscaping and farm work, worked some funny jobs too — I made nipple tassels for strippers. (laughter) That was a wild job.
Lawrence: That's great.
Ora: Worked at farmer's markets. I worked at a chocolate store for about eight years. When I got into my thirties, I started working for different organizations as a contractor doing media and communications. That was really great. Since I was a teenager I felt this heavy hurt about the world — thinking about colonization and white supremacy, thinking about cruel systems of oppression and wanting to do something to stand up against that and choose a better road together. I got to do that work. A lot of it was grant work, but I was being part of organizations advocating for human rights, climate justice, indigenous rights. That was a huge, important part of my life and still is — should be more so. I should be doing way more than I am.
At another point I got into photojournalism, very much focused on the same issues but in a different way. I put aside working for any organization and was doing independent media — writing articles and publishing photos. A different commitment and a different responsibility than doing media and communications from an advocacy position. With journalism, you're accountable to just stating what is as best as you can, in service of people making up their own minds about situations. Of course we all have our values. I came into it with my own. But I wasn't telling my story — I was there to witness.
Like you said before, a lot of the artists you talk to don't have this singular path in life. They have other work as well, and I feel the same way. Under capitalism, everything's a vocation — you're either valid as a professional or you're a hobbyist. It's kind of a funny value system to put on things. At the end of the day, being alive on this planet with everything and everyone else — whether it's digging a trench or writing an article or writing a song or doing some dishes — it's all part of just being a human. The work that I got to do around human rights and environmental justice, I see as civil service. Doing the dishes. Picking up the trash on the side of the road. That work is meant for all of us, as much as we can to our capacity. Taking care of each other, taking care of the land, making sure we're trying to build a society that is not cruel, that is based on respect and dignity for everybody — that everybody gets to be safe, feed their families, and have dignity and respect in their life.
Lawrence: When I hear you speak on that, what strikes me is that it feels like a different type of usefulness — a usefulness to your world, however large or small you draw the circle.
Ora: Right.
Lawrence: It's not usefulness measured in productivity or economic output. It's like fellowship.
Ora: And it's hard to gauge that kind of thing — if you try to measure it, how do you know what's useful? How do you know if you're going to do anything meaningful to anybody? You hope that you will. There are a lot of people who set out to do good and have done an awful lot of harm. That's not meant to be quantified, maybe. But I know that it's meaningful. When I go out with a band and we're playing these shows, it obviously feels good for people — that's what they're saying. People are dancing, getting together in a room, doing something that feels cathartic and feels all sorts of ways for different people, because it's not a singular experience. But I know that there's something about this particular music that's helpful right now.
I wish I were the kind of person who could just respond to the best in life and focus on that. I've got people in my life who are such angels, and that's how they move through the world — they're able to just float above all the bullshit and keep on responding to the good. Something in me just needs to hold the pain. My only way out is through. I've always been like that, even when I was young — it takes me a long time to get through things. I need to really work them out inside, feel them, really wrestle with stuff and try to understand it. But I also need to get through to the other side, and I need to dance and feel good and have a good sense of humor and feel some levity and joy. I think that's a lot of what music has been for me, and it's what seems to be serving a purpose — a lot of this starts with pain and anger, and it ends up being cathartic. Moving through that, being able to let it go, speak to this stuff, but also find a sense of joy and beauty in keeping my human soul alive.
Lawrence: Well, I'm glad you have your creative practice for that. I'm grateful you have that ability to process whatever you need to process through your work.
Ora: I think it's a good tool for a lot of people. There's some kind of magic in that — and this isn't unique to me at all — where you can take sometimes the most harrowing things that have ever happened to you and talk about them, move through them, find a way to transform your relationship to them. I'm not advocating for anybody to do anything in particular. But that's been my experience of it. Finding different ways of moving through the pain and reestablishing yourself in a way that feels more connected to life. Even as a kind of meditation — like a spell, where you take something that has a lot of power over you, that you don't want to have power over you, and you change your relationship to it. That's magic.
And it really manifests in the world too. I remember being at protests when I was working as a journalist, and there are these cops who show up — so tough and angry, with guns, pretty ominous. But then you get these kids who just don't buy into that fearmongering. They just show up with their sense of humor and they're not falling for it. Like, no, I'm not going to give you power. I'm not going to give you what you're looking for. You see it with ICE, and the way that people are standing up in the face of these people acting as henchmen of a very cruel system — these brave people going and standing up for their community and other people's communities and saying, no. Part of that is somatic, it's energetic work. It's in the music, it's in the art, it's in culture. It's in the ways that people hold onto their dignity and humanity and joy and humor and all of that.
Lawrence: Obviously you record under your own name — you're an air-quote solo artist, but it's not just you and a hammered dulcimer singing folk music. (laughter) Obviously different people and different sounds are necessary for different pieces and different works. How do you think about contributors and collaborators? Do you write for individual people and their sound, or are you looking for a certain type of contribution? What do you look for in collaborators?
Ora: It's nebulous — it can be a lot of different things. What I mostly look for is to make sure that those relationships are good, that the communication is good, that there's respect. Musicians who do support work and lend themselves to someone else's vision need to be given a lot more money and respect and attention, because there are a lot of really fabulous artists giving a great deal. It's cool to look at that through that lens — go back through the history of music and think about all the artists big names played with, how they wrote those bass lines or drum lines. I don't think the work I'm doing now would feel as meaningful without all the people I'm playing with, and I feel really lucky.
The nature of collaboration really depends on who I'm working with and what we want to do together, or what feels right. There are certain people I've been working with for quite a while now who are more a part of my creative process than others. Finn Smith, who plays drums with me on tour, also worked as assistant producer on the recording sessions for the past couple of records. He co-arranged material with me. He's been a big part of these past few years — that's been a really exciting part of my journey with music. And Nancy Pittet, who plays bass with me, has been on the road with me for a couple of years now. So many people I'm getting to work with now really believe in my writing and they contribute a lot.
It doesn't always do the music justice to just have it under my name — it's maybe just a default sometimes. I think a lot of that has to do with it starting with me alone in a room most of the time. It starts with the writing, starts with something deeply personal — using my human body as the main instrument, my voice. So it ends up being quite a personal thing. But maybe once again it's that transformational nature of art and maybe existence, where it might start as this deeply personal, individualist, particular thing and then ends up being quite collective.
A lot of the music came out of a vision I had during the pandemic — alone in my room with my dog, thinking: all I want is to be in a big fun band where there are more people on stage than there are in the audience. Then I met all these people and it happened. Finn's killer, Nancy's killer. Ida Maidstone is touring with me — she's got her own project, she plays synth and sings. Jessie Conrad on rhythm guitar. They're all Nanaimo-based musicians with their own projects. Nancy does her own singer-songwriter thing and is working on a record. Finn has a clown jazz improv project that's really great.
And then I work with Tom Deis. I've been working with him for about ten years. He's in upstate New York, has a recording studio there, and he is a real savant — really skilled and knowledgeable, plays many instruments, engineers, and has worked as a producer with me in the past as well. He co-produced Crickets with me. He played a lot and sang a lot on this last record. Really great.
And then David Parry here in Victoria, who I've recorded the past three records with — he's an enigma. He comes up with these crazy guitar lines and has such a great ear for recording. Analog. You don't hear people record drums the way he records drums anymore. He's a student of the sixties and seventies recordings, and he does so much for the music. It wouldn't be nearly as good without him. Maybe the most fun part of playing music is getting to do those things in collaboration. I'm humbled that all these really brilliant, really kind, and really fun people are willing to take time and energy out of their own work and lend themselves to this — whether it's coming out on the road or working on a record. It feels incredibly lucky.
Lawrence: I'd like to get some thoughts from you on folk music — the notion of folk music as basically recording stories that may not otherwise be preserved, that sit outside the official narrative or canon, as an alternative way of documenting. And I'm curious: what does a song like "Katie Cruel" mean to you? You return to this song — what is that about for you?
Ora: I think folk music is very much the music of the people — the history books of the people, the history that isn't recorded in texts and books. It's very much working-class history in a lot of ways.
I feel less married to folk music now and more interested in the spirit of it. Folk music can be a lot of things. I think in some ways it's been whitewashed and reduced to a kind of LARPing — like you can put on period dress and LARP as a peasant, or have a nice spooky time without talking about politics or reckoning with real stuff. What capitalism can do to a lot of art forms is suck out the spirit — scrape out all of the history, the context, the significance of stories, the cultural relevance of things.
I want to give a lot of respect and meaning and humility and honor to specific folk traditions that can be really unique. You can't make a broad statement and say, well, this is what it is, because you're talking about individual families, songs that have lived within certain families, cultures, communities on their own terms in really beautiful, meaningful ways. I don't want to engage with all of that like some kind of scientist studying it. It's like — you wouldn't want to walk into somebody's family home at their dinner table and just start asking a bunch of questions about their family. Some things are private. They have significance and purpose and meaning in communities. The way to understand that can be complex and nuanced and depends on where you are and where you're coming from. It's just such a tangle.
My friend Ian Lynch does a lot of really interesting work with Irish traditional folk. He has a podcast I really recommend called Fire Draw Near. He's living inside of that — he's Irish, he plays a lot of traditional music, but he also plays experimental music and heavy, kind of undefinable stuff. And the question of where the lines are, when it comes to folk, is interesting. What is our folk music now? Are you going to put people outside of that because they're not playing an acoustic guitar and wearing a fedora? Maybe noise is folk. Maybe punk is folk, or hip hop, or all these different forms that are an expression of the people in their communities. We can get caught up in compartmentalizing or reducing things in funny ways — making them palatable, defining them in these constrained terms — when really it should be expansive and complex.
I think there's a really interesting and exciting time in music right now where more people are embracing this kind of ethos — really learning about music history and culture not in a voyeuristic, academic way but in a real human way, connecting with different traditional forms of music but also with contemporary music and innovation. Breaking down some of the walls, but also doing it with mindfulness and respect and care for tradition. Having respect for people who carry these songs, but also a lot of respect for young people today speaking about things and doing things on their own terms.
"Katie Cruel" is an interesting one. As far as we know, it's written about a sex worker traveling with light infantry soldiers in Scotland hundreds of years ago: "When I first came to town, they called me the roving jewel, and now they've changed their tune, they call me Katie Cruel. When I first came to town, they brought me bottles full of honey. Now they've changed their tune, they bring me the bottles empty." I don't know why this song has haunted me for years.
I first recorded it in a kind of country style — over a decade ago, maybe twelve years. I recorded it in Spain when I was on tour. It got picked up by a DIY label there when I was in my mid-twenties. I met some really great musicians from the punk scene there — a great drummer — and we got together and made a live record called Ribbon Vine and recorded this kind of country-western version of "Katie Cruel." Over the years I've kept coming back to it. It's still in my set, still something I want to play almost every night.
It's the same feeling as "Honey" — you can call me whatever the hell you want, I really don't give a shit. That sentiment: I will not let anybody reduce my friends or myself in the name of patriarchy or whatever the hell. That's my interpretation of "Katie Cruel" now. The way we do it, it's a dance song — fun, upbeat, uplifting. It's meant a lot of different things to me over the years. When you spend that much time with a song, it morphs and shifts and changes in your own mind.
At one point it was about sexism, and thinking about sex workers — how that work is demeaned, how people who do that work are dehumanized, which is so dangerous and awful. Thinking about women, thinking about anybody who is reduced or minimized in unjust ways.
In another way it was about aging. Thinking about that line — "when I first came to town, they called me the roving jewel / now they've changed their tune" — and thinking about friends of mine who are older than me, who talked to me about how when they hit their forties or fifties, people just started dismissing them. Nobody wanted to hear anything they had to say. Somehow they lost their value in society because they're older women, and nobody cares about what older women have to say, they're not seen as beautiful or interesting. There's this fetishized thing about younger women — which is cruel for all of us, whether you're being fetishized or dismissed as irrelevant. Either you're getting scary attention and being dehumanized that way, or you're being dismissed entirely.
So hearing that in the lyrics, really feeling it — that spirit of: I am absolutely not going to let whatever this is, this force field created by an unjust system, define my worth or value or anybody else's. We're all valuable because we're here. It's somatic.
Lawrence: Yeah, I use that word a lot as well.
Ora: And it is feeling. Because that scrappiness, that facetiousness — it's actually just a gateway to dignity and respect. It's serious and it's really funny at the same time, because I'm not going to just give away my power to this stupid thing.
On that note — it's so funny that so many people told me in my thirties, well, you gave it a chance, you gave it a shot, it just didn't work out, maybe you should try doing something else. And sure enough, I'm in my forties and I'm having the best time of my life playing music. In the worst possible times, feeling a sense of purpose for what I do, a sense of meaning, feeling part of a global community and network of like-minded people — a time of my life when I've been told so much that this is when everybody drops off, that you're irrelevant, you have nothing to say or offer. And it's like, well, maybe that's not something you should pin on anybody — the idea that there's some certain time in life when we value people and don't. And it used to be talked about as just the way it is. Well, fuck that. (laughter)
Yeah, it's a cool song. I don't know how long it's going to stick with me, but I've learned a lot from holding something like that for so long — it just felt like it was meant to be there, and it has that shifting meaning where I'm learning new things about life from this one song, just playing it over and over again.
Lawrence: Yeah, it's incredible, isn't it? One song. Thank you very much.
Ora: Thanks so much for making time for me and for listening to my rants. (laughter)