The Frequency of Void
Los Angeles in 1947 was a city of neon and noir, a place where the sunshine only served to highlight the grime in the gutters. I used to be the man who told the world what was art and what was noise. As the chief critic for the *Chronicle*, my pen could make a career or kill one in a single paragraph. I lived for the purity of sound, the absolute truth of a perfect composition. Then I heard...
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