Beginning with one-note children’s pieces, with their complex chordal modulations morphing from a C chord to a reasonably nearby stave where the trembling young person’s composer can stretch his copyrighted crayon, requiring that fingers which wanted to stick straight up into the air be sadistically crooked into some equally weighted assault on gravity, like wire work in a martial arts film, and then progressing on to the arpeggiated lavishness of schlocky seasonal homages with titles like Autumn Leaves and very little to commend those limp leaves other than their tolerance for the pedantic multi-fingered rippling accompaniment, the wind over their grave, the gravitational root of all those otherwise unmotivated motifs, but, to repeat myself, (must I always), after enduring this belittling initiation, finally the hormone-shedding adolescent (currently doing business as you or me) is licensed to pound Rachmaninoff Préludes, harvest Norwegian cadenzas, even dole out equality to pushy tones in Mozart concerti.