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In order to catch Legendary Fish though, you must first speak with Jeremy Gill, a man that can be found fishing on a pier at the Northern shores of Flat Iron Lake. This will initiate the mission " A Fisher of Fish ", which will allow you to purchase the necessary Special Lures that are needed to catch these Legendary Fish. The Bluegill isn't the only fish available in Flat Iron Lake , so don't forget to check out our complete list of fish and wildlife below. It is also important to note, that if you are attempting to cross Flat Iron Lake upon a small boat or canoe, and you have yet to completely unlock the Blackwater and New Austin regions, you may want to turn back.

Forest Service investigators have identified two people who they suspect are responsible for the Gun Range Fire. The fire destroyed three homes, damaged eight others and burned more than acres in Bountiful and Centerville in early September. Forest service investigators are working with the U. Utah Wildfire Info and Inciweb are currently tracking four active fires across the state:.

It has burned approximately acres and is monitored by fire managers to restrict its spread within predetermined boundaries. View the discussion thread. The word wildfire tends to invoke fear, but some wildfires are actually good. According to the U. Forest Service, the Peavine and Poison Canyon fires currently burning in the Manti-La Sal National Forest will help the environment and act as future fire suppressants. Listen Listening And they are also threatening our already-precarious watersheds.

USFS Prescribed Burn on White Iron Lake

In Utah, it is unlawful to discharge fireworks — except in certain places and in certain time frames. Those include the four-day windows surrounding the Fourth of July and Pioneer Day, which start two days before and end one day after the holidays. A United Nations environmental report released on Monday focusing on global biodiversity shows species throughout the world are declining at a rate faster than any time before in human history. Wildfire season is around the corner in the Mountain West. Before long, firefighters switched tactics, using bulldozers to knock down the burning warehouse and clear away barriers to extinguishing the fire, including the remains of the UMG archive: rows of metal shelving and reels of tape, reduced to heaps of ash and twisted steel.

USFS Prescribed Burn on White Iron Lake - White Iron Chain Of Lakes Association

Heavy machinery was still at work dismantling the building as night fell. The job was finished in the early morning of June 2, nearly 24 hours after the first flames appeared. The fire made news around the world, and the destruction of the video vault featured prominently in the coverage. But nearly all news outlets characterized the vault fire as a close call, in which worst cases were averted. But journalists moved on from the story, and there has never been a full accounting of film and video losses in the fire. The confusion was understandable. Universal Studios Hollywood was a movie backlot, not a record-company headquarters.

One of the few journalists to note the existence of the UMG archive was Nikki Finke, the entertainment-industry blogger and gadfly. In a Deadline. A majority of what was formerly stored there was moved earlier this year to our other facilities. Of the small amount that was still there and waiting to be moved, it had already been digitized so the music will still be around for many years to come. These reassuring pronouncements concealed a catastrophe.

When Randy Aronson stood outside the burning warehouse on June 1, he knew he was witnessing a historic event. A master is a one-of-a-kind artifact, the irreplaceable primary source of a piece of recorded music. According to UMG documents, the vault held analog tape masters dating back as far as the late s, as well as digital masters of more recent vintage.


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And it held session masters, recordings that were never commercially released. UMG maintained additional tape libraries across the United States and around the world. There were recordings from dozens of record companies that had been absorbed by Universal over the years, including several of the most important labels of all time. The vault housed tape masters for Decca, the pop, jazz and classical powerhouse; it housed master tapes for the storied blues label Chess; it housed masters for Impulse, the groundbreaking jazz label.

And it held masters for a host of smaller subsidiary labels. Nearly all of these masters — in some cases, the complete discographies of entire record labels — were wiped out in the fire. The scope of this calamity is laid out in litigation and company documents, thousands of pages of depositions and internal UMG files that I obtained while researching this article. The monetary value of this loss is difficult to calculate. But in historical terms, the dimension of the catastrophe is staggering. It cannot be said exactly how many recordings were original masters or what type of master each recording was.

Also very likely lost were master tapes of the first commercially released material by Aretha Franklin, recorded when she was a young teenager performing in the church services of her father, the Rev. Franklin, who made dozens of albums for Chess and its sublabels. Then there are masters for largely forgotten artists that were stored in the vault: tens of thousands of gospel, blues, jazz, country, soul, disco, pop, easy listening, classical, comedy and spoken-word records that may now exist only as written entries in discographies.

Last year, Vivendi announced a plan to sell up to 50 percent of UMG.

Implications for Drinking-Water Treatment

The sale is the talk of the music business; rumored potential buyers include Apple, Amazon and the Chinese conglomerate Alibaba. The vault fire was not, as UMG suggested, a minor mishap, a matter of a few tapes stuck in a musty warehouse. It was the biggest disaster in the history of the music business. The recordings that burned up in the Universal fire — like the songs that are blasting from car windows on the street outside your home, like all the records that you or I or anyone else has ever heard — represent a wonderment that we have come to take for granted.

For most of human history, every word spoken, every song sung, was by definition ephemeral: Air vibrated and sound traveled in and out of earshot, never to be heard again. The act of listening again has defined music culture for a century. It is also the basis of the multibillion-dollar record industry.

Today a stupefying bounty of recordings is available on streaming audio services, floating free of the CDs, LPs and other delivery systems that once brought them to audiences. The metaphors we use to describe this mass of digitized sound bespeak our almost mystical sense that recorded music has dematerialized and slipped the bonds of earth. The Cloud. The Celestial Jukebox. Something close to the entire history of music hovers in the ether, waiting to be summoned into our earbuds by a tap on a touch-screen. This is the utopian tale we tell ourselves, at least. In fact, vast gaps remain between the historical corpus of recorded music and that which has been digitized.

Gerald Seligman, executive director of the National Recording Preservation Foundation, a nonprofit organization affiliated with the Library of Congress, estimated in that less than 18 percent of commercial music archives had been transferred and made available through streaming and download services. That figure underscores a misapprehension: the assumption that the physical relics of recorded sound are obsolete and expendable.

The objects in question are master recordings: millions of reels of magnetic tape, stored in libraries like the one that occupied the backlot vault. These archives hold other masters of various vintages: the lacquer, glass and metal masters that predated tape, and disk drives and digital tapes from the past few decades. It is sonic fidelity, first and foremost, that defines the importance of masters.

Every copy thereafter is a sonic step away. This is not an academic point. A Spotify listener who clicks on a favorite old song may hear a file in a compressed audio format called Ogg Vorbis. Audiophiles complain that the digital era, with its rampant copy-paste ethos and jumble of old and new formats, is an age of debased sound: lossy audio files created from nth-generation transfers; cheap vinyl reissues, marketed to analog-fetishists but pressed up from sludgy non-analog sources.

The remedy is straightforward: You go back to the master. This is one reason that rereleases of classic albums are promoted as having been painstakingly remastered from the original tapes. Right now, sound-savvy consumers are taking the next leap forward into high-resolution audio, which can deliver streaming music of unprecedented depth and detail. You have to return to the master and recapture it at a higher bit rate. But the case for masters extends beyond arguments about bit depth and frequency ranges audible only to dogs.

It enters the realms of aesthetics and phenomenology. Simply put, the master of a recording is that recording; it is the thing itself. It holds the ineffable essence that can only truly be apprehended when you encounter a work of art up-close and unmediated, or as up-close and unmediated as the peculiar medium of recorded sound permits.

The comparison to paintings is instructive. With a painting, our task as cultural stewards is to hang the thing properly, to keep it away from direct sunlight, to guard it from thieves. A painting must be maintained and preserved, but only in rare cases will a technological intervention improve our ability to see the artwork. If you were to stand before the Mona Lisa in an uncrowded gallery, you would be taking in the painting under more or less ideal circumstances.

You will not get a better view. In the case of a recording, a better view is possible. The reason is a technological time lag: For years, what people were able to record was of greater quality than what they were able to play back. The process of revisiting and decoding can transfigure the most familiar music. These epiphanies would not have been possible without masters. The tapes themselves feature additional recordings — alternate versions, overdubs, studio chatter — that were included on the rerelease.

But the masters in the London archive are unique. They have more documentation than any version anywhere. And the masters contain more Beatles music too. The same is surely true of many masters destroyed in the Universal fire. John Coltrane and Patsy Cline music has not vanished from the earth; right now you can use a streaming service to listen to Coltrane and Cline records whose masters burned on the backlot. But those masters still represent an irretrievable loss. When the tapes disappeared, so did the possibility of sonic revelations that could come from access to the original recordings.

Information that was logged on or in the tape boxes is gone. And so are any extra recordings those masters may have contained — music that may not have been heard by anyone since it was put on tape. They are corporate assets. In , most commercial recordings from the past century-plus are controlled by three gigantic record companies: UMG, Sony and Warner Music Group.

But they are also the warehousers of millions of cumbersome master recordings. That task is expensive and complex, and if the past is an indication, it may be a job for which record companies are ill suited. The Universal fire brought losses on an unprecedented scale, but it was only the most recent disaster to strike the masters holdings of American record labels. These disasters include not only events like fires but also instances of neglect and even willful destruction by the labels themselves, a hair-raising history that reaches back to the beginnings of the music business.

A number of these insiders, including individuals with knowledge of the backlot fire, spoke on condition of anonymity, concerned they could face professional consequences with UMG and other labels. The result is a crisis, a slow-motion assault on our musical heritage that is poorly understood by many within the record industry, to say nothing of the public at large.

Had a loss of comparable magnitude to the Universal fire occurred at a different cultural institution — say, the Metropolitan Museum of Art — there might have been wider awareness of the event, perhaps some form of accountability. Yet the conservation mission faced by record labels may be no less vital than those of museums and libraries. How should it be safeguarded? And by whom? I met Randy Aronson for the first time on a spring day in He was living in the same three-bedroom house where he had been jolted awake by a phone call on the morning of the fire.

As a young man, Aronson did some acting, and he recently returned to the stage, starring in a community-theater comedy about the s golden age of radio. Aronson has the look of a guy who can do a good screwball turn. He is tall and husky, with an elastic face and eyes that hold a gleam.

When I arrived at his house, he led me into the living room, where I noticed a BB gun. His father worked as a repairman for the Otis Elevator Company for 35 years. I sought out Aronson more than a year after learning about the vault fire. Aronson admits he would not have consented to interviews were he still with UMG. But he insists he is not motivated by animus toward the company. He agreed to talk, he said, because he hopes the story of the fire will lead to a broader conversation about preservation. He expressed anxiety about his job prospects in light of his participation in this article.

Iron County

In dozens of conversations and email exchanges, he described the event as a personal trauma. The fate of all those tapes has been an open secret for years. It hides in plain sight on the internet, popping up on message boards frequented by record collectors and audio engineers. References to the loss of Decca and Chess masters in the fire appeared more than three years ago in the Wikipedia entry for Universal Studios Hollywood and were still on the page at the time of this writing. Yet the news has never reached the broader public. In part, this represents a triumph of crisis management.

In an email sent to UMG executives and P. Horowitz, who has since left the company, declined to comment for this article. Other newspaper accounts described damage to master recordings by little-known artists, whose names may have been cherry-picked by UMG in an effort to downplay the gravity of the loss. The Times ascribed these assertions to a UMG spokesman.