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Eight years ago, I went to a friend of mine in distress. I had a lump or a bump or a cough or a premonition. “I am dying,” I told her. I was certain of it. “Or are you just about to put an album out?” she asked. My name is Charlee, and for the better part of twelve years, I’ve been a willing participant in the love-hate relationship most artists have with the music industry. The music industry is a peculiar trigger in my life. Anytime I move forward, I backwards dance into