Of all the names contained within the storied history of rock and roll, few have contributed more to the tradition, and done so in a greater number of ways, than Lenny Kaye.
Alongside the inimitable rock and roll poetess Patti Smith, Kaye has taken up lead guitar duties for over four decades now, infusing sanctified albums such as Horses and Radio Ethiopia with driving riffs and licks to go around. As a producer, Kaye has manned the helm for a great deal of his recordings with Smith, even producing their debut single of “Hey Joe / Piss Factory” on his very own Mer Records, as well as worked with underground folkie Suzanne Vega on a number of albums.
Through his writing, Kaye ups the ante for all so-called dual threats. Though he has contributed to many of the Patti Smith Group’s most enduring songs, such as the reggae slab “Redondo Beach” and the experimental title track to Radio Ethiopia, his writing as a music historian and critic is every bit as vital and essential.
Rising to initial prominence as one of the original rock writers, Kaye contributed to every music publication imaginable over the course of the 1970s, from Rolling Stone and Creem to Melody Maker and Crawdaddy. Unlike some of the more self-aggrandizing members (who shall remain nameless) of the early intelligentsia, Kaye maintained a quality to his writing that was just as pithy as it was lyrical. Whether he was attempting to summate the rise and fall of Hendrix or waxing poetic on the latest and greatest Stooges LP, he always made certain to place the music front and center. Plus, he remains one of the select few critics from the period to not completely execrate Zeppelin, but more on that later.
There’s also this little thing called Nuggets. Perhaps the most influential collection of music ever assembled, Kaye’s 1972 compilation of eclectic gems from the mid-to-late ’60s rock and roll renaissance presented the raw energy of the period at its finest and boldest, providing the blueprint for countless bands to follow, including a great many of the acts to emerge from the New York City punk circuit in the latter half of 1970s.
The Patti Smith Group is currently at work in the land down under, and we caught up with Kaye just before the southbound journey to talk the usual suspects: Nuggets lingo, 45 fairs, free jazz, and music journalism.
You’re more than likely aware of this, but I feel obligated to mention that the Aussies were putting out some absurdly great rock and roll back in the ’70s with groups like Radio Birdman and the Scientists, so it’s no surprise that you’ve got a nice little following down there.
Totally, and I’m going to do a couple DJ nights there playing what they call obscure ’60s garage rock, even though I don’t think it’s probably as obscure as some of the collector fiends would like. But yeah, I’m going to DJ and they seem very receptive to the sounds of classic, high-energy rock and roll.
I think it’s absolutely dumbfounding how the songs you had on that collection were so overlooked to the point where they needed reviving in the first place.
Oh, it’s amazing, but the music was changing so quickly then. It came out in ’72 and the latest song on there, by the Nazz (“Open My Eyes”), was from ’68. Things were changing very rapidly, where something that just came out a few years ago seemed like a part of ancient history. It was great to put it together. I didn’t have the long distance hindsight that probably would’ve made the record less interesting. I would’ve made it more “garage rock” as opposed to these kind of weirder things, like Sagittarius or even the Blues Project. A lot of it falls outside the parameters of what we’ve come to define as garage rock.
But, y’know, I was just feeling my way and not really sure that Elektra would even put out this album, so I was just having some fun and putting a lot of my favorite songs that seemed to fit together in a concept called Nuggets, which was kind of an open-ended concept the way Jac Holzman gave it to me. I was there and I had an opportunity. I didn’t invent this music, I just appreciated it, and it continues to live on, amazingly enough.
If I had to compare its effect to something, it’s not all that dissimilar to the cliché surrounding the Velvets records or Big Star’s three LPs, y’know, how so many people who heard this album started a band or devoted their lives to music in some capacity. I mean you never could have known just how formative this was going to be, especially considering it’s a compilation album.
Well I didn’t know anything. I just had the chance to gather these songs which returned to the wellsprings of why we pick up a guitar in the first place. It certainly held true for me. I mean these were the songs that were on the radio or in a record store when I was in a band in New Jersey in the mid-’60s, kind of feeling this rush of new energy and excitement and new ways to make sound, and new ways in which to understand who you could be with a guitar in your hand.
Especially now looked at in the hindsight of almost fifty years with some of these songs, it was almost like a renaissance. There were all these larger-than-life characters making great strides, from the Beatles and the Yardbirds to Jimi Hendrix and Cream. You name it. It was a great explosion of creativity in the music that I loved, and I was privileged to participate in it and draw inspiration from it. I was kind of given a chance to pay back a tribute. It’s an honor that a compilation album is remembered after so many years, but it obviously touched a kind of inner source within everyone who listens to it in the sense that this was music that had a yearning and a desire to it, and it needed to live on and be remembered.
Did you have any involvement in the followup releases that Rhino put out?
I was kind of a cultural advisor. There was supposed to be a second volume of Nuggets. Elektra didn’t pick up the option. The secret of the first record was that they had a really good lawyer named Michael Kapp tracking down these bands and securing licensing. It wasn’t as well-grooved a way to do things as it is now when you have these incredible legal departments who are all about licensing. But they had a different lawyer for the second one and after about a year with the list that I provided for them, they had only gotten like three songs, and of course the album itself hadn’t sold that well at the time so it kind of vanished. Rhino utilized a lot of the songs that I had picked for the second record and they allowed me to advise and consent, but I was more than happy for them to carry the ball over the finish line.
Especially at that time, I had understood garage rock enough that I was moving on to different music that needed investigation from me in the ’70s, like reggae, country music, bebop, all the other genres that I’ve spent a lot of time learning my way around. To me, Nuggets is about garage rock, but you could make a Nuggets of any genre really, a great girl group or punk rock Nuggets. You could even make a great synth-pop Nuggets, and they have. The modus operandi is really just to go into a genre and find twenty or twenty-five incredible records ’cause to me, what makes Nuggets live on, is the fact that it’s not about garage rock—it’s about great records. All of those records are not your genre specific hits. They’re great hits, whether you’re familiar with garage rock or not.
Yesterday, I went to the semiannual Allentown 45 flea market, which is like a room full of half a million 45s, and I go down there and I swim amongst them [laughs], and I was looking for some garage records because that’s what I’m asked to play at these DJ things. Y’know, I have some, but I thought, “Well maybe I’ll find a couple fun records.” And so I listened to a bunch of them and a lot of them sounded like your typical garage record with the fuzztone and everything, but I thought, “Y’know, I wanna find the ones that are great in the same way that I picked out the ones that I thought were great like ‘Pushin’ Too Hard’ or ‘Let’s Talk About Girls.’” In my wanderings, I came upon a record on Parrot that I’d never heard before, but it was a true nugget if you dug it. It’s called “The Crusher” by the Novas, so search it out! It’s a crazy, crazy great record. And I thought, “Yeah, they’re still out there,” and people are finding them and that’s all I hope is that this little nook of rock and roll will be celebrated and remembered.
It’s that never-ending search, and the great thing is that you can’t really run out of great music to find, even if you were to confine yourself to just a five-year stretch in music history.
And you see the same with doo-wop music. There’s incredible doo-wop that was discovered long after any of those songs were hits. One of the nice things about today’s interconnected digital world is the fact that you can find a lot of great stuff. I often go on YouTube and just put in a favorite record and then walk out of the room only to see what’s going to be on there an hour later. It gets you to wander, and it’s a great way to become friends with music.
YouTube might well be the greatest thing to happen to anybody interested in music history. Just the other day I came across a one-off single by a garage band out of Oregon, and unless you were both in those parts back in the day and in touch with that kind of music, there’s next to no chance you’d ever hear it.
Yeah, it’s all out there. In some ways, the internet makes it just a little easier, but it also maybe takes a little of the fun out of it. Y’know, if the internet existed when I was doing Nuggets, maybe I wouldn’t have followed through because those songs would have been available to anyone with that frame of mind.
It also takes the joy out of going to the local record store and just taking a chance on what you might discover.
The thrill of the hunt and finding that one record.
Exactly. Of course they’re still kicking, but when you have massive online marketplaces geared towards vinyl, cataloging every last record known to humankind, there’s a little less motivation to get out of the house and go find something for yourself.
Along with the serendipity of going into a record store, hearing what the clerk has to tell you, finding an adjacent record, meeting a fellow fan and he or she telling you of something that they’ve heard of. There’s a certain social world to it. When I worked at Village Oldies in the early ’70s, which was kind of my day gig, I’d meet a lot of people and it was really heartening that this was their world. This was their social group. I always appreciated the camaraderie that came with talking about records and arcane B-sides, what happened with this group or that group. You had no way of knowing who a lot of these groups were. I had to do actual first-person research to find out who Mouse and the Traps were. There was no Wikipedia or garage rock site for me to find out who was in the band, so first-person navigating is something that I treasure. It makes the work that you do and the songs that you find almost more valuable.
Speaking of Wikipedia, they’ve got a rudimentary track listing for that second Nuggets volume. You had appearances from Richard & the Young Lions, ? and the Mysterians, and even the Left Banke, so as you said, it was never just about rough and tumble garage tunes.
I’m a person who resists definitions. I believe that, as Mayo Thompson of the Red Krayola once said on one of those International Artists records, “Definitions define limit.” I’ve always looked for those moments in time where definitions are blurry and that to me is what’s really nice about Nuggets is that the bands hadn’t figured it out yet, so you had a lot of wild cards. When music gets figured out in, say, the ’70s at CBGB, you had like six or seven bands there at the start who were very different from each other. Then five years later, when the Ramones template became popular, there were a lot of bands that sounded like the Ramones. They may be good or they may be bad, but that to me is a little more predictable. I like when things fall outside the boundaries, when they kind of cross-reference each other, when somebody brings in a weird thing from somewhere else and aligns it with other music. I like unpredictability and that’s why, when I look at what I did with Nuggets, even though a lot of it was unconscious and instinctual, I like that it’s not a compilation where you’re hearing twenty versions of the same sound. You got a really great spread, and all of the components of that spread are intriguing and have their own story to tell.
Plus, people weren’t exactly using definitions like garage and punk to describe rock and roll back then.
Punk was around but it wasn’t even aligned with any kind of music. It was more of an attitude, a kind of snotty kid trying to puff him or herself up and take on the power structure. Garage rock wasn’t even thought of, even though my first band rehearsed in a garage. But they’re great terms, and I like to go to the record fair and see the heading “garage” and know pretty much what I’m going to find there. It’s a navigational way but, y’know, I like the stuff that falls between the cracks, in the work that I do as a musician with Patti or anyone I work with. I try to make sure I’m in a different musical place each time.
I just finished and released a record with Jessi Colter, Waylon Jenning’s wife, on her improvisations on the Psalms, and it’s a beautiful record. Not sure if somebody would expect that to be where my musical interests lie, but that’s where they lie. I love country music and I play some pedal steel with a country band out of New York called the Lonesome Prairie Dogs. I just try to keep on appreciating the many forms of music because each one has its language and way of looking at human emotions.
You’re very much into free jazz as well, correct?
Yeah, I love it, though it’s not as free as people think. It’s not like you’re just making noise without any sense of who’s making noise next to you. It’s a very delicate music to play beyond melody and rhythm and notes, to play just sound. And if you rise to the challenge and do it well, it can be incredibly freeing. I think of the great works of Sun Ra, the Art Ensemble of Chicago, and Albert Ayler. These are musicians who stepped outside the bounds of any definition. You can call it free jazz because that may be where they started, but when you get “out there,” as Sun Ra used to say, you’re playing all musics. You’re going back to a pre-Tower of Babel language essentially, before all of these musical sounds splintered off into their own ways of looking at the world. I find it really exciting when you can get to that place where you’re truly free.
In terms of influence on the great ’70s bands, people tend to focus on, and for good reason, that three-chord rock and roll that folks like Eddie Cochran and Berry were doing way back when, but when you hear Lou Reed, Iggy, Wayne Kramer, or yourself talk about it, free jazz was at the heart of everything. So the appeal really lied in just how stripped of limitations it was compared to most other music at that time?
Yeah. It was free and in the ’60s especially, the word “free” had a lot of underlining. The concept was to be free, to be able to move in any direction or all directions at once, and see where you wound up. It was incredibly liberating in a certain sense, and to be able to put that into your music and find how it fits into that three-chord rock was the great challenge. I believe that music, and especially rock and roll, was made better by it. It made it so that you could do anything, and I’ve always thought that the greatest blessing for a band is to have that freedom to go in any direction. With Patti, we’ve been so many different things. We believe in the wide open spaces of improvisation, but we also like the structure and hookiness of a hit single. We can have a blast of sonic noise, and then do a song that’s acoustic and wears its heart on its sleeve. That range of motion is what I personally aspire to as a musician, to be able to partake of all these musical cultures and synthesize them and utilize what you need in order to express your emotions.
That’s more or less the kind of “spread” you referred to earlier.
Yeah. You try your best, but you’re never going to be able to absorb all the different kinds of music. They’re all worlds unto themselves, but it’s really nice if you have the option of moving in these directions. You just have to set aside a huge field and know that you can maneuver within it. Otherwise, you’re going to run out of things to say very quickly. That’s one of the reasons why we’ve had a career moving past forty years now. It’s really remarkable, but we don’t feel like we’re a part of any era. What we’re doing is actually kind of transcendent of all eras and we want to have the freedom to be able to pick and choose. We call it “roaming in the fields of the Lord.” It’s all out there waiting to be absorbed and taken to the next step.
And it’s that very same transcendence that applies to a group like the Velvets. Their work doesn’t conform to any sort of dating.
It sounds better and better. The Velvets are one of our great role models, and here’s Lou Reed ages ago on the first album, going from “The Black Angel’s Death Song” and “Venus in Furs” to “Sunday Morning.” That’s what we want—no limits.
What other bands were you into around that time? I’m guessing the MC5 and the Stooges were somewhere on the list.
Huge MC5 fan, huge Stooges fan. I loved the Byrds and the Yardbirds, along with Bob Dylan Hendrix, and the Doors. The list is endless because there was so much music being created of that moment. I’m not saying it was better or worse than any other moment, but it was the moment that struck home the most to me. I know that, given computer technology and the ability to sample and edit, move things around and spin ’em, we’re entering a new era. A lot of great songs are out there and a lot of great songs will result, but from my personal growth, the wellspring of the 1960s was just incredible. I loved the San Francisco bands, especially, like the Grateful Dead and Quicksilver Messenger Service. Big Brother and the Holding Company were my personal role models. It was an exciting time to grow up in music and I helped celebrate it with Nuggets. Then I really helped put it into play with our work with Patti because this is what we aspire to. You can do anything with this music called rock and roll and open its universe.
That reminds me of something Lester Bangs once said about rock and roll being the great populist art form. It’s open to anyone and everyone with the guts and passion to do it.
It’s one of those things where it’s easy enough to play within five minutes of picking up a guitar and yet you can spend a lifetime unraveling its mysteries, and I’ve been privileged to do that. I learned my three chords back when I graduated from high school and I’ve spent the next half-century or more [laughs] understanding how they fit into a continually evolving music.
So at the same time you were getting deeper into music, you were also getting really interested in sci-fi, correct?
Yes, I was kind of a weird, mutant kid [laughs]. In Brooklyn, not even a teenager yet, I was attracted to its otherworldly and interstellar universe. I think it gave me a star-crossed imagination that I found pretty useful when the guitar and I started making music, because I always hoped to give it that sense of cosmic solar system. It was just a way to place yourself within the future. There was also a camaraderie in science fiction, a fandom, especially for these sort of weird outcasts and misfits who got together and published fanzines, wrote to each other, and had some sense of subcultural community, which was very comforting and appealing to me when I was moving through high school. It was my other world, and transferring some of that allegiance to the world of rock and roll made rock’s insularity and sense of encouragement, mutual and fandom, it all worked together.
Did comics ever cross your radar? I feel like there’s often a bit of overlap between those two mediums.
I love comics but I’m not a big superhero fan, so I really liked comic strips. I loved Dick Tracy, Pogo, which was really outlandish, and Alley Oop. I also liked the science fiction comics such as Mystery in Space and Strange Adventures. I was a little too young to get into EC’s horror comics, and I don’t think my mother would’ve allowed them in the house anyway. Of course, I was a big fan of Mad magazine and, y’know, the highest end of science fiction writing taught me a lot about my own writing. A writer like Cordwainer Smith, for instance, is every bit as poetic and far-ranging in my canon as anyone. It was a great field to be a part of and form my sense of self as I was growing into my next sense of self which would be in a rock and roll band.
Would you say that this particular writing interest kind of sparked some of your desire to get into rock writing? As you well know, that was very much a budding field to say the least.
Oh yeah, Crawdaddy was actually started by a science fiction fanzine editor, Paul Williams. Basically, it kind of expanded outwards. I actually thought I would be more of a writer. I didn’t dare think that I would be a musician, being fairly untrained, but I did always envision myself as a writer. When Crawdaddy came out, I saw that there was a way in which to write about music that was as heightened and in a way artistic as the music itself. It was a great revelation, that golden age of rock writing. To see people like Paul Williams, Sandy Pearlman, and Jon Landau analyze this music, it helped me unite the two sides of the brain, my logical and analytical with my intuitive and emotional, which I can move back and forth between without having one outweigh the other. When I play music, I’m very intuitive and not analytical at all. I can feel the music, and that’s probably what helped me the most with Patti. And when I write, I also believe that there’s melody and rhythm in a sentence, a certain narrative arc.
So you were a musician, rock writer, and record store worker all at once. That’s like the ultimate three-pronged attack. How difficult was it trying to balance being both a musician and a critic, in particular?
I know that many writers, when they take up music, are a little self-conscious about it, but I’ve never been the way. Luckily, I can move because I was in a band before I was a writer, and then I was a writer, then I was in a band. They’ve all interacted, y’know, and I’ve tried to maintain their parallel paths. Writing is not a performance art, so I’m always glad to get off the road and go into the basement and have it between me and the keyboard. If I’m down there for too long, then I need the social and interactive moment of musical creation that is performance. All of them feed each other.
What sort of bands were you most interested in writing about?
I wrote about the left-wing of bands like the Velvet Underground, the Stooges, and the MC5. I often thought of myself as a pop journalist, so I liked to write about bands that perhaps weren’t getting critical respect to see what would make them tick, like Grand Funk Railroad for instance. As I moved forward in investigating, I wrote Waylon Jennings’ autobiography, Waylon, and then I got deeply into the crooners of the 1930s, so I wrote about them in You Call It Madness, kind of attempting to make a musical language out of it. I feel like, as a researcher and musical historian, I’m able to apply what I learn to the music I make at the moment. When I did You Call It Madness, I actually learned a couple of chords that I like to throw in occasionally.
Do you have something of an assessment on music journalism these days?
It’s a little more practical I guess, a little more newspaper-like. It’s not as freewheeling, but there are people who write really beautifully about music. I think Peter Guralnick is an incredible researcher and analyst. Nick Tosches as well, though he doesn’t write about music too much anymore. You also need vehicles, and a lot of the vehicles (i.e. the magazines) are no longer around and I think the culture of the internet is still figuring out how to bridge the gap between amateur blogging as it’s called, which has great ideas but is more like a diary, and incisive writing. We’re very much in a transitional period, and who knows how it will turn out, but I think people will always need writers to help put a frame around the music they love and help them see what makes it tick.
It’s amazing to think about how you had such a small clique of writers back then, and yet it was the best of the best because, considering this was a burgeoning trade, you really only had those who were the most fervent and passionate doing the writing. At least that’s the way it comes across.
Well it was so new. We were like the first responders. You attracted only the best and the brightest. Reading early editions of Crawdaddy is really marvelous just to see everybody so excited. It’s a little bit like Nuggets in that everybody was so excited about this new opportunity to look at rock and roll in a new way, to feel the rise of this counterculture of bands and document and proselytize. I look at a lot of my early writing and it’s just like ad copies for the MC5 [laughs]. It embarrasses me, but to be honest and passionate about something is to write well about it. I always try to remember that when I write. I think a lot of times, especially in the press, it’s more job-oriented. That’s OK, because maybe it’s a little more objective than a writer loving your first record and then feeling betrayed because you went in a different direction on the second one. But it was just a wide open field. You got a lot of people who were looking to write but didn’t exactly know what to do, similar to Nuggets where you suddenly get handed the keys to the kingdom and you can do anything. Pretty soon, it develops into a style or star system and by then it’s been figured out. I always like it when it’s a little cloudy and you have to figure it out as you’re doing it.
To understate things, those early writers also weren’t afraid to err on the confrontational side, especially Bangs and Richard Meltzer.
Those guys were a little more confrontational, I must say. Sometimes I think it was like trying to be cooler than what they were writing about. I didn’t have that confrontational thing. I believed in celebrating, honoring, and understanding how difficult it is for a piece of music to be made and how you’re often at the mercy of forces that are not under your control, even though whoever hears it thinks that it’s exactly how you wanted it to be. Sometimes you’re just following the path.
Of course, I never set myself up as did Lester and Richard to try to out-cool the people they wrote about. I do feel strongly about that. It’s easy to not have respect. I just believed in the miracle of music enough that, when I wrote about or spoke to somebody, I tried to see it through their eyes. My opinion is my opinion, but to see the work through the eyes of the artist, to understand his or her motivations, after that you can decide whether it’s successful or not. But to try to impose your sense of how you think they should be, that’s not the role of the writer in my worldview. The writer is to illuminate and analyze as opposed to saying the artist should be doing something else, because if the artist should be doing something else, then why don’t you do it? That’s my same philosophy with record production. I’m there to help the artists realize their visions. I’ll have a lot of opinions, so if we’re not seeing eye to eye, I shouldn’t be there. If I feel they should be like this or that or the other thing, I’m not working on their record—I’m working on my record. That’s not a fair trade.
My mind always jumps to John Mendelsohn’s Rolling Stone pieces on the first couple of Led Zeppelin albums. Sure they were pretty scathing, but they were also so hilarious and just fun that you couldn’t help but be engrossed in his writing.
Yeah and in retrospect, I was guilty of this as a writer. Y’know, Led Zeppelin is an awesome band, and the fact that they undertook such critical flak meant that people were taking positions on them for what they supposedly represented as opposed to what they are. I’ll blame myself, too. I wrote the review of ZoSo and I gave it a good review with caveats. It wasn’t poetic mumbo jumbo. Listening to the first couple of Zeppelin records, as I did as a writer when I wrote an overview of their work for eMusic, just sitting between the speakers and listening to Jimmy Page’s incredible production and the way the songs build…when you hear “Whole Lotta Love” on the radio, it’s an incredible piece of music. Like I said, you have to start by respecting and honoring what the artist is trying to do and see it through their eyes, then see it through your eyes and make your value judgment from there.
You must’ve written that review just a couple of years before the Rock Writers’ Convention in ’73, which is something of a fabled event at this point. Do you recollect what went down there fairly well?
Vaguely. It was kind of a scam. We went down there and swanned around like we were really important. We got to see Big Star, and I’m sure there was a money loser in that record company. It was fun but I guess it looms larger in mythology. What really speaks to me is that rock writers thought they were the shit [laughs]. “Welcome to the real world, boys and girls.” It was in keeping with the times. Everybody was feeling the first full flush of journalistic semi-stardom, so maybe it was more of a bad example of writers thinking that the story was about them rather than the music.
Any current artists that you would be keen to write about?
They come to you so randomly. It’s a lot of local stuff that really doesn’t get heard. I was just listening to “Work” by Charlotte Day Wilson. People send me records and I’ll put them on. Sometimes I like them. There’s a girl group from Canada that I like to play called Madison Violet. I mostly listen to ’50s and ’60s country music these days. I just like it and I can play along with it. I listen to the music of my heroes and a lot of reggae. I mostly listen to what I’m working on or thinking about.
Right now, I’m writing a book about rock and roll called Lightning Striking, and it looks at ten landmark scenes over the history of rock and roll, like Memphis ’54, Liverpool ’63, San Francisco ’67, and Detroit ’69. So I mostly listen to music from that era. I just finished Memphis, which was really fun getting to listen to all the crazy music that came out of Sun Records, and now I’m listening to Liverpool in 1962, trying to figure out what made that such a center of energy. I kind of skip around so next I’ll be going to Detroit in 1969-70 to listen to the MC5 at the Grande Ballroom. It’s a good way of immersing oneself in the history of the world.
Well, considering how much time has passed since Nuggets, if you could create another compilation album now, what tradition or genre would you want to center it around?
I’d like to hear a great Nuggets album of mid-’70s reggae, before it became too much DJ talk-over, when it was still getting into its roots in American R&B, when it was very tuneful. There’s a sweet spot right around ’73 that I’ve always appreciated, when it started moving from rocksteady into reggae. But, y’know, whatever works. I’d also like to hear a compilation of all the great trip hop songs from the 1990s. Of course, I make my own Nuggets compilations of all my favorite hits off the radio, so whatever’s new and the ones that I think are great records, and there’re always great records being made.
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TOP PHOTO: GERARD ALBO | BOTTOM PHOTO: DINA REGINE
