Leroy Anderson Has Some 'Splainin' To Do

I'm a child of rock and roll. I was the oldest of my parents' children so I didn't have an older sibling to walk me through hootenannies and folk music, or Belafonte-inspired calypso or any of those vocal white guy groups with identical haircuts, matching sweaters, and harmonies like the Four Freshmen. 

Growing up I don't recall a lot of radio in the house. I do recall a lot of Broadway musical soundtracks coming from the Fisher cabinet Dad bought from Liberty Music on Fifth Avenue in New York City; a piece of furniture whose whole function seemed to be to attract dust that became the bane of mom's existence. 

I mention all of this so that when I tell you my idea of classical music is early Beatles, you can appreciate my perspective if not actually accept it.  And I mention The Beatles and classical music in the same sentence (twice in a row if we're keeping track at home) because for quite a large number of years I was quite pleased with myself when I said I very much enjoyed Leroy Anderson's The Typewriter.  

I realize your reaction might be more of 'that's ninety seconds of my life I'll never get back,' but, as they say on those late-night TV infomercials, wait! There's more! 

I don't imagine the maintenance crew appreciated amateurs appropriating their tools but I think we'd all agree that great art takes sacrifice.

Proving again, your eyes and ears, and yours alone, determine what you consider art.
-bill kenny