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By Amanda Petrusich
The music video for “A Barely Lit Path”, the first single from “Again”, Daniel Lopatin’s tenth album under the name Oneohtrix Point Never, is set on a dark path in a dark forest. Two CPR mannequins dressed in turquoise jumpsuits are strapped to a self-driving car. On the floor are a textbook on artificial intelligence, a book on understanding computers and a copy of “Erewhon,” the 1872 satirical novel that imagines a future in which machines gain consciousness. The models play chess; they take a nap. His rubbery hands fold on the seat. It’s soft. At some point the road becomes difficult and the models begin to fall apart. There is a stop button on the shifter, but it’s barely out of r. One of the models starts to cry. The car has veered off course and hurtled toward oblivion. The feeling is one of general helplessness in the face of certain disaster. Then I do not know. Maybe one of them will make it to Yetton? The screen becomes like a car, twisted and starts pulsing. You would possibly hear something similar to a listeningbeat. The series is reminiscent of a prenatal ultrasound and the Rapture.
Open with the voice of Lopatin. Su voice is fractured and loaded with effects:
If I clear my mind, I remove my skull, what gifts can I find, there is nothing inside, just a slug that provides a dimly lit path from your space to mine.
Lopatin has developed a career writing elegiac and otherworldly electronic compositions using computers, synthesizers and virtual stony ground; When it comes with lyrics, they rarely seem confessional. But the hurtful nature of those last two lines is devastating: the fragility of our bonds, the fervor with which we try to maintain them. The video was directed by French artist Freeka Tet. “It’s the story of two lifeless characters,” Tet said. “There is a layer of meaning connected to sensibility: life, death, forced entertainment, choices. Another is this kind of strange and romantic tale. There’s the honeymoon phase, followed by the bump phase, and then the moment you have to choose: do you step on the brake or do you floor the accelerator?This feeling – liminality, ambiguity, unforeseen tenderness – is consistent in Lopatin’s music. “The tragedy of our story is that we are trapped in the unknown,” Lopatin told me one afternoon. “It’s part of us. ” The purpose is not to combat disconnection (or panic, the old human intuition of dominance and subjugation), but to integrate it.
For over a decade, Lopatin has been a highly regarded composer in electronic music circles and respected in certain corners of the Internet. But recently, he has become the user pop stars call when his records become boring, routine or predictable. Lopatin has collaborated with FKA Twigs, Caroline Polachek, Arca, Rosalía, Charli XCX, Anohni and Nine Inch Nails, among others. In 2022, he produced “Sometimes, Forever”, Soccer Mommy’s third album. “He has the gift of making things strangely beautiful,” Sophie Allison, the singer-songwriter who plays Soccer Mommy, told me. But the two most important artistic associations of his life are with directors Josh and Benny Safdie, best known for the tense thrillers “Good Time” and “Uncut Gems” (Lopatin wrote the scores for both), and with Abel Tesfaye, who recorded like the weekend. Lopatin worked on three tracks for The Weeknd’s “After Hours” (2020) and co-produced “Dawn FM” (2022), two of the biggest-selling pop albums of the decade. “It’s full of emotion, even things that sound colder, more electronic, a little icy. That’s the paradox,” electronic musician James Blake said of Lopatin’s work. “Dan is a delicate user who is also very interested in exploring the absolute limits of what is artistically possible. »
One morning in mid-August, Lopatin and I met in his studio, a bright two-bedroom apartment, nicknamed Sky Dungeon, on the fifth lot of a former commercial building in Williamsburg. A long wall covered in synthesizers from other eras; Elsewhere, there were books, stacks of VHS tapes and framed posters of Enya and the 1972 science fiction film “Solaris. ” Lopatin, forty-one years old, is tall and relaxed. Although he recently composed and conducted music for a Chanel show, he dresses discreetly: “Basically, I just need to dress the way I’ve dressed since I was fourteen,” he declared. dressed in what he calls “Italian shoes for old people. ” He grew up in Winthrop, Massachusetts, a waterfront suburb across from Boston Harbor and Logan Airport. His parents are Russian Jewish immigrants; Before leaving the Soviet Union, his mother taught music lessons and his father played the Roland Juno-60 keyboard in a rock band called the Flying Dutchmen. “When they arrived, in ’82, they had to abandon everything. The roots of it were simply removed,” Lopatin said. “They have become very focused on survival. My father, thanks to his computer knowledge, managed to get into the latest technology. My mom, who didn’t know it, taught herself to code in the early 80s. She took a piece of paper from a bulletin board that said “Learn C++” or something like that. She said: “It’s a lot like musical notation: it’s a symbol in position for an idea. »Her code did not intimidate her. She ended up in software development.
Lopopin’s parents worked full time and her sister was nine years older than her, so she was alone, which would possibly explain the thread of alienation running through her work. (He is also the only American-born member of his family circle. ) When he was six or seven years old, his father brought home a personal computer. “I’ve never noticed anything like this before. It looked like the monolith of 2001,” Lozón recalls. It was a Unix-based computer. It had a gorgeous design: it looked like a crazy black cube. It was connected to a 28. 8 Kbps modem and allowed me to access the Internet. He continued, “We had computers all the time and music all the time. That explains everything you want to know about me.
As a preteen, Lopatin absorbed much of the select rock of the nineties. “It was definitely grunge,” Lopatin said of his high school years, adding, “He had a hat that said ‘LOSER. ”. In high school, I was done with it. “If anyone had a nominal interest in living their life in a maverick way, I was interested,” he said. Lopatin attended Hampshire, the prominent progressive liberal arts school in Amherst and began making music using a sampler, his father’s Roland and a PC. In 2007, after a brief stint living in Boston, he came to Greenpoint, rented a dark, moldy basement apartment, and enrolled in the Pratt Institute’s library science program. “The plan was to be a librarian and make music at the same time. I thought it would be a better life,” he said. I had read ‘Archive Fever’ by Derrida – communicate about pretentious !- and I said, ‘This is crazy. ‘ The human intuition to preserve and document the afterlife while it is ruined is one of the most romantic things I can probably think of.
In 2008, Lopatin met Carlos Giffoni, a Venezuelan musician who had recently started an experimental label in New York called No Fun Productions. “I said to myself: nothing like this is happening now,” Giffoni said of Lopatin’s early tapes. “He uses polysynthesizers and arpeggios, he composes experimental music, but sounds and noises, things that at that time were not usually combined. “No Fun has reissued on vinyl “Betrayed in the Octagon”, Lopatin’s first official release. “We produced 300 copies and they sold out in a few weeks,” Giffoni said. “Then he made an original album for me called ‘Russian Mind’. It sold out in two days. And then we decided: let’s put all this together and upload some songs. “Rifts”, their first double album, has become the label’s bestseller. The ingenuity and inscrutability of Lopopin’s paintings resonated throughout the stage. He released two more albums on smaller labels (“Returnal” in 2010 and “Replica” in 2011) before signing with Warp in 2013 and releasing “R Plus Seven”. By then, he had amassed 3 coveted Best New Music proclamations from Pitchfork.
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At the time, “I was looking to use sounds that I considered vulgar and almost offensive,” Lomon told me. He sampled TV commercials from the ’80s and ’90s, taken from YouTube. “I tried to do all this garbage. ” There’s nothing interesting about it,” he said. “When I was a kid with a key, my memories were of the commercials I saw between shows. It’s not a matter of pride: when other people say, “Your music is nostalgic,” I say, “Fuck, are you crazy?Think I like this? ‘But it’s the object of my life, whether I like it or not. He paused. ” That’s my brain. I am susceptible to the ephemeral. Maybe I was surrounded by other people. But I just don’t forget the ads.
While Lopatin was still living in Boston and working at a textbook publishing house, he began creating what he called “eccojams”: necessarily cut-and-screwed remixes of molasses ballads, combined with videos that featured repetitive images. The frame editing was mind-numbing. “I was nothing,” he responded when I asked him what the task entailed. “I was a piece of furniture. I may feel like my life is ending. Lopatin began uploading videos to YouTube and in 2010 he released about a hundred copies of “Chuck Person’s Eccojams Vol. ” 1″ on cassette. “B4,” the most beloved of the eccojams, features a haunting pattern from “The Lady in Red,” a terrible song recorded by Chris de Burgh in 1986. De Burgh’s voice alone has a quality cadaverous; Lopatin repeats a single part of the chorus (“There’s no one here!”) nineteen times in just over two minutes, becoming a kind of surreal, lonely and eternal call for help. The video presents a repeated graphic: an exciting stretch of rainbow colored highway – from Laser Grand Prix, an arcade game from the 1980s. Watching it made me think of ancient Gregorian chants, of the pentatonic drones and wails of northern Greece, of some Indian ragas and Ultimately, in any kind of music that blurs vision or makes the brain comfortable enough to see God.
The song and video were assembled entirely from discovered material. However, the release of “Eccojams” was also a Big Bang: it was the dawn of vaporwave, a genre of electronic music obsessed with the aesthetic relics of the recent past. Trying to define Vaporwave is humiliating: like most web-based phenomena, it deploys an idiosyncratic grammar that remains commonly impenetrable to anyone who has recently launched. Images tend to include 3D graphics, screensavers, dolphins, dead shopping in malls, VHS tapes, corporate educational videos, poor graphic design, and Greco-Roman statues. The main tools are synthesizers and YouTube. In some of them there is a kind of painful pathos. If you’ve ever walked through a flea market and felt a twinge in the center after encountering, say, a 2008 inkjet printer, an old cable box, or an unopened Sony MiniDisc player, you know what I mean: the accelerating obsolescence of advertising products. The generation can appear as a kind of mori souvenir. Nothing is applicable forever.
Lopatin is considered one of the first practitioners of Vaporwave; He is probably the inventor. The genre had a moment of glory in 2012, when Rihanna performed her hit “Diamonds” on “Saturday Night Live” in front of a projection of vaporwave graphics: a neon peace sign, a ceramic bust, a chess board, a rotating symbol. Globe, fractals, palm trees. That “Diamonds” – a pop ballad – isn’t a vaporwave song at all, doesn’t matter. Borders, systems, context: they are also relics of the past.
One Friday afternoon, Lopatin and I met at the Storm King Art Center, a five-hundred-acre sculpture garden in the Hudson Highlands, about an hour from Manhattan. The center’s collection includes large-scale works by artists such as Isamu Noguchi, Alexander Calder, Andy Goldsworthy, Richard Serra, and Louise Bourgeois, set on grassy hills. That day, the hallways were filled with couples, possibly from Brooklyn, probably laughing on a third or fourth date. Lopatin and I were sitting under a tree near “Lockport,” a five-meter-tall Crayola blue aluminum pole and lintel built by Lyman Kipp, an American sculptor, in 1977. Kipp was encouraged by the skeletal shadows of part body. -Buildings finished on design sites, and the final form of the piece seemed transitory, fluctuating, transforming with the softness and inclination of our approach. “An exciting facet of the generation is that, metaphorically, you can revel in one thing from so many other angles,” Lopatin said. “And it’s also sculpture. Being able to see things in a million other ways.
Lopatin feels more indebted to cinema and sculpture than to music; He once asked me, in a mocking and honest tone: “Do you sit at home and pay attention to the records?” – It also harbors what he describes as “active vitriol” towards art. world, which can seem cloistered and inaccessible. “Art itself deserves not to have a specialized language,” he said. “The sculpture, in particular, is very, very metaphorically aligned with the music. ” He continued: “There is an artist called Gordon Hall. I went to school with them and we were very close. I attended one of his lectures many years ago, at the SculptureCenter in Long Island City. Gordon said, “Here’s a chair” and showed a picture of a chair. And then it was like, “Here’s a condensed sculpture. » The chair infers the human structure. So what framework is inferred when looking for a summary sculpture? There is an identity facet to this component of Gordon’s work, but there is also a universal lesson, which is this: what can the new art bureaucracy teach us about the new worlds we need to build, the new framework, whatever? I saw this chair and I saw this sculpture and I said, “Yes. I’m in the sculpture business. I’m not in the chair business. “
For the canopy of “Again”, Lopatin commissioned an original piece from Norwegian sculptor Matias Faldbakken after seeing his “Locker Sculpture #2”, in which a row of collapsed steel lockers are fastened in combination by ratchet straps. It’s as if the lockers are tight to death. “Again” features a variety of obsolete PC speakers in the same state. “I spent a lot of time in thrift stores and kept seeing those PC speakers in the little electronics aisle. This is a dead section. But someone had I lovingly turned off the speakers and wrapped them in duct tape,” Lomain said. “It reminded me of Matias’ sculpture, so I took a chance, dared and asked him if it occurred to him that it was imaginable to melt plastic in the same way he did. hammered steel. He said, “There’s only one way to locate him. “»
Lopatin’s paintings are possibly literally linked to the past, but the effect is unknown. It is fickle: more dream than memory. Around the time of “R Plus Seven,” Lopatin stopped depending so much on discovered sounds. “I didn’t need to rearrange other people’s textures and let that show me what the music would be like,” he said. The albums that followed (“Garden of Delete”, in 2015; “Age Of”, in 2018; “Magic Oneohtrix Point Never”, in 2020) each have a specific sound quality and conceptual frames. “Garden of Delete” is about a “molting teenager” who is visited by an alien carrying a USB drive; “Age Of” is about the chaos and danger of the Trump era; “Magic” is a softer, gentler album, the closest Lopatin gets to sentimentality. In 1962, film critic Manny Farber coined the term “termite art” to describe paintings that “always advance beyond their own limits,” a concept that is especially applicable to Lopatin, who has a tendency, perhaps a limitation, to invent and then dismantle new forms. “I’m not going to regurgitate old concepts just because they work. I distrust my own tastes,” he says, laughing. “Making a record over and over again is too self-confident. “
Lopatin met the Safdies in the mid-twenties. “That’s the result in New York: They’re all in the soup together,” Lovon said. “You know other people are doing attractive things. They invited me to their downtown offices. There is this brother, crazy, who looks crazy, I see his cheeks slightly, they are only covered with hair. It’s beautiful. I love it! And then the other guy, he’s well dressed, serious, I think. He dressed in a fleece. A gigantic poster of “Akira” on the wall. I just felt an immediate affinity. It doesn’t happen that often.
Josh Safdie recalls: “For a brief period I worked at a video club in Little Italy and recorded a CD-R in the player thanks to a call from a friend with whom I used to play electronic music. It was probably around 2008. La twelfth track brought the store to a new location. I texted my boyfriend, “Who’s song twelve?”and he replied “Oneohtrix”. It’s one of those words you read but don’t say out loud. Rather an image. In 2015, when the brothers were hunting to compose “Good Time”, they contacted Lopatin. “He showed up wearing a Boston Celtics cap, which was alarming, but I immediately felt like I’m in an endless suspension session,” Josh Safdie said. “He’s a very deep guy, and yet maybe it’s all just a joke. “
Safdie and Lopatin wrote together in Lopatin’s Brooklyn studio, until the wee hours of the morning. “We hacked plugins and navigated through each and every sound. Once a feeling or mood is established for a signal, the elements of the box “Can motivate a note or melody: we would locate ourselves by synchronizing a metallic sound with a road overpass briefly erasing our screen, or chimes corresponding to a signal. I learned from Dan that writing music and generating it is like a completely different movie hiding inside the movie. I think we’re looking to take off, and by that I mean we’re looking for an outdoor destination. of time and place. Or we are totally interested in the present moment and need to lose ourselves in it. We also suffer from anxiety, and music, especially electronic music, can tap into it directly.
Lopatin met Tesfaye through the Safdies, who chose Weeknd for “Uncut Gems”. “Since we met, we were just inseparable,” Tesfaye told me. “He has a lot to listen to. And you hear it in his music. Even in his With the maximum cutting-edge material, you can hear the soul. He added, “I think in combination we have created one of the most innovative pieces of music of my career. “The Weeknd’s “Dawn FM,” co-produced in 2022 through Lopatin, Tesfaye and Swedish hitmaker Max Martin, sounds like a witty response to “Magic Oneohtrix Point Never”: both records are obsessed with crackling FM radio and obsolete as a comforting but ultimate supernatural force. “Dawn FM” is full of slippery moments (unconventional vocals, bowed melodies, distorted synths, existential restrictions) that are captivating to find on the pop charts.
When it was decided that The Weeknd would perform at the Super Bowl part-time in February 2021, Tesfaye asked Lopatin to be his musical director. He said, ‘We’re going to find a solution. ‘ That’s my language,” Lomane said. The realization is unique among part-time shows. It was a dark and paranoid time for the American psyche: Covid was raging and the Capitol had been stormed last month. Due to the pandemic, more than one portion of Raymond James Stadium in Tampa was occupied through cardboard cutouts. Tesfaye bounced off a hall of mirrors filled with avatars of himself, his face bandaged, singing a love song like a completely annihilating force. Then, suddenly, he was Jumping around a platform, smiling, as fireworks broke out, making a song a song about romantic happiness. It was an exciting combination of perverted and cheerful.
When I asked Lopatin if he was on the ground that night, he replied, “There is a large pirate shipment in one of the target areas, and I was in the pirate shipment. He continued, “My therapist calls me ‘Enfoiré. ‘ We have a good trick. He told me, “Enfoiré” (he’s from Texas), “Enfoiré, I’m old, I’m a sack of bones. You’d better bring me anything from that pirate ship, because I love it. “Tom Brady!’ He laughed. ” I pulled all this thread out of the string holding the fake veil and put it into this little plexiglass thing for him. If you need to fly, borrow some yarn. Steal as small as you can find.
Lopatin finished “Again” in March, in a rented space in Accord, New York. The album closes a series of 3 albums in which Lopatin remembered, remembered badly and invented his own coming of age. “Rock, an austere genre that merged in the early ’90s and is largely fostered through punk and experimental music, was imposed on me, but I was still at an age where I was making my own decisions,” he said. .
Lopatin is drawn to post-rock’s specific mix of discouragement and sophistication, to the way it fostered through the avant-garde but distorted those influences, in a way that can make the music go wild. Something: post-rock can be bloodless and boring, but also unpredictable, it reminded him of synthetic intelligence. “We’re experiencing a paradigm shift where everyone thinks about the soul, or the relative lack thereof, of AI,” he said. OpenAI’s Jukebox, which the company describes as “a neural network that generates music,” is credited on two tracks on “Again”; Lopatin also used Riffusion (which converts a spark of text into a symbol and then translates that symbol into sound) in one song and Adobe Enhanced Speech (an artificial intelligence tool that cleans up low-quality audio) in two others.
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Lopatin’s paintings with A. I. owe a debt, at least theoretically, to the French composer Edgard Varèse, who was bored with the limitations of acoustic tools and who, in 1936, described “electronics” as “our new liberating medium. “Varese believed that only electronic tools could “satisfy the demands of the inner ear of the imagination” and dismissed fears that such new modes might challenge composition. “Everything new in music has been called noise,” he writes. Lopatin finds that most considerations about AI are silly. “It’s over, we’re all going to die, the machines are coming for us,” he laughs. “It’s actually boring. What attracts me most is how AI fails. “He continued, “When it fails, which happens occasionally right now, it creates those hinting arrangements that are nothing like any music I’ve ever heard. It’s so damaged that I can only compare it to the most excessive music I’ve ever heard. heard in my life.
The bizarre nature of AI (all those networks are still in their infancy) has forced Lopatin to reexamine his instinctive and hackneyed peak habits. “It reminds me a lot of Paul Schrader’s transcendental cinema,” Lovset said. “It says there are videos that are old and others that are not. Those who don’t do weird things over time. They stay too long in the wrong object, such as a door after someone passes through it. You usually stay with the person, but now we stay at the door. This is what the A. I. se is doing really well. What you don’t do very well is get attached to the person. He continued, “When I started using AI, I was just giving it metadata. . I was like, “I need you to do a Smashing Pumpkins song. He tries and can’t. It sounds a lot like me. “
On a recent afternoon, Lopatin and I met at the public library in Katonah, New York, a leafy suburb of Westchester County. What were we doing there? I’m not sure any of us can say. Lopatin forgot the call of the city. It turned out that it would be fun, even relevant, to find yourself in a library. “Ideal for a suspension session,” he had sent a text message. “Mark Twain’s ass. ” Lopatin is smart on the phone: smart, charming, fast. One morning, he texted me a song through singer and manufacturer Marcus Brown, who records under the name Nourished Through Time. The song “Shed That Fear” features a destructive but heavenly synthesizer. line that made me feel like my body was a helium balloon recently launched through a child. Lopatin described him as “Arthur Russell meets Daft Punk and yet he is an R.
We walked around the city for a while, passing rows of well-kept houses and alleys with children’s motorcycles scattered on the sidewalks. The dissociation and environmental loneliness of the Internet seemed far away. During lunch I talked a little with Lopatin about his private life. “How about we just say ArrayArrayArray I’m not a eunuch? he warned. Lopatin is sometimes interested in obfuscation and what he calls, more formally, “confusing the ear. ” He likes synthesizers, he says, because they stimulate a person’s “sense of stability. ” Even the call he records under (Oneohtrix Point Never) is a montitlen, a misheard call from a radio station (Magic 106. 7) from his youth. When they warned him that there might be a misleading detail in his work, he laughed. “It’s Oneohtrix-‘an oh thing,'” he said. “Ones and zeros, manipulating computers, manipulating sound. I like to absorb real things and turn them into fictitious ones. It is also a trickster’s move: introducing doubts into things. He enthusiastically recommended a BBC program titled “Fake or Fortune?” ”, in which experts try to determine the provenance and legitimacy of various works of art.
They gave it to me. A little mystery is at the heart of the project. It’s not so much that Lopatin needs to be enigmatic, but rather that he doesn’t do so in the sanctity of constant narratives. A photograph, an interview, a memory, an Instagram post, all this is a little shaky, a little wrong. He is more attracted to a philosophy of transubstantiation, in which things can become different.
Early American guitarist John Fahey described Mississippi blues singer Charley Patton, who recorded between 1929 and 1934, as “a pioneer in externalizing, through music, strange and even terrible emotional states. “Patton’s words, which oscillated between the absurd and the obscene, uttered in a carnal tone like many bluesmen, Patton used what historians call “floating” verses: memorized (or, more likely, half-memorized) fragments of other songs, which he had retrieved from the street, in bed, around a campfire, or from a jukebox. at a time when music was recorded and frozen. At that time, artists were still collectors: of sounds, melodies, grudges, psychic states. Country blues was an incredibly creative language, but it was also rooted, like many vernacular traditions, in assemblage.
Musically, Oneohtrix Point Never couldn’t stray from country blues, but anything in Loptin’s taste reminds me of Patton and his traveling cohort. Lopopin’s music is designed to make his listeners think about other things. “Again” after all made me reconsider my childhood, the satellites, the slow dances, crossing a bridge in a new car, the iPods, the obscene “No Smoking” ad that appeared before the ’80s videos, the spoken introduction to “Let’s. ” Go Crazy” by Prince, Philip K. . Dick and, perhaps especially, a line from Jack Spicer’s 1962 poem “Three Marxist Essays. “(“They know that what rules this country is an IBM device connected to an IBM device / They never think of using their knives against their aluminum case. Lopopin’s most productive songs build an area (strange, distorted, almost a purgatory) in which various eras and ideas, living or dead, can talk to each other.
Lopatin told me he almost thought idiomatically. ” Oh, it looks like this. It reminds me of that,” he said. I am building a global of interference. And then I can start grouping some of those idioms into the more sensible ones. “from each other. I think that’s my postmodern side of Generation X. I just like to make crazy collages.
It is imaginable that in recent decades, abundant technological advances have led to the creation of new. . . what? Feelings? Interacting with your smartphone requires accepting an endless stream of simulations; We drift, gently submitting to an amorphous, floating sensation of connectivity and engagement. The artifacts of our youth, once relegated to the wormhole of memory, are here and now, on our phones. We are constantly faced with the gap between what is genuine and what is not so genuine. Oneohtrix Point Never speaks directly to this new sensation: to its tranquility and euphoria, but also to the hazy, sourceless boredom that arises when one invests too much time in an ersatz facsimile of life and the disembodied. When I asked critic Simon Reynolds, who wrote about Oneohtrix’s early Point Never albums in his 2011 book, “Retromania,” what kind of emotions Lopatin’s records evoked in his mind, he responded: “I’m not even sure I can identify what Lopatin’s albums are”. The records did it. Emotions are. They often look like strange new effects from the future. It’s hard to think of any other new musician who approaches the delights of hypermodernity (living and dying on the Internet) with the same precision and compassion. Lopatin has discovered a way to make the fragmented experience of our current times not only beautiful but also true.
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