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When I was an infant, my father set up a little record player near my crib. He was a man of few words, and his love of music was out of proportion to everything else about him. His ambitions had been curtailed by the Great Depression, and he wanted to make certain that I had a chance at the career he had been denied. I became a pianist, composer, and teacher, and when I heard the story about the record player as an adult, it seemed to account for why I had always thought of music as being somehow more
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