Take it up with Rolling Stone.
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Norman ****ing Rockwell sounds like a whole suite of songs conceived in the Seventies twilight when all songs on the radio where about L.A. no matter where the singer was from, simply because it was universally understood that L.A. was the place where American dreams went to die. Everybody knew “L.A.” referred not to a city but to a labyrinth of AM radio hits about small-town romantics who run off to the city and get so poisoned they can never go home, so they end up stranded in a Steely Dan deep cut.
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