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This crazy pianist plays the black keys with a swagger and a charm that has you up on your feet. My memory of his playing is distinct, with the decaying mulch from the floral arrangement atop his baby grand giving a long drawn out accord, that seems to be without end. When asking what itís called, I am told by the patrons in unison that I must know itís lily-of-the-valley. Who am I to argue? As long as it never ends, I shall be a happy man. Some things are best not understood, just enjoyed.
01st October, 2009