The steady beat of cars passing on the street outside and raindrops falling onto the roof above punctuate a rhythm created by the shouts of uncles over a barbecue, the clink of dishes washed by cousins, and a grandfather’s booming laughter. It all blends together to form the soundtrack of a child’s life—a soundtrack of love. A musical read-aloud that tenderly captures the comforts of a loving home and family, Nighttime Symphony is as contemporary as it is timeless.

    He interviewed 82 inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ... 174 recording artists who had at least one No. 1 hit. His interviews were heard daily on radio stations around the globe during much of the late ‘70s and ‘80s, until severe bipolar disorder took full control. In One Brain Cell Left, Rosy doesn’t always paint a rosy picture of the Mega-Stars he interviewed. Some were absolute sweethearts; others were absolute assholes. And they’re not always the ones you’d expect. He’s never asked what he talked about with celebrities. People only want to know what the stars were like in person. This book answers the “What were they like?” questions about a cross-section of superstar entertainers, newsmakers and athletes that Rosy interviewed. But it’s equally about the unique and unusual life that he’s led outside the entertainment industry. He REALLY didn’t want to like Paul McCartney. He found George Harrison to be completely down-to-earth. Unfortunately, he can’t say the same about Ringo. He found Madonna to be “Queen Shit with a muffin top.” Mickey Mantle swore at him. Mel Brooks ran after him. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar intentionally treated him like shit. His first words to Lionel Richie were, “So they tell me you’ve become a real asshole since you’ve gotten all this success.” And you’ll laugh at his self-deprecating chapters “Always wear a cup when you play tennis” and “Free drinks, a blind hockey goalie and a goat.” You’ll likewise be drawn in by the poignant “I’m no Belushi, but I’ve become Joe Cocker” and the riveting “A machine gun and explosives.” His stories aren’t always pretty. But they’re always pretty interesting. And he’s got the brain cell to prove it.

    He urges more frequent performance and more sensitive hearing of the music of new composers. He discusses sound media, new and old, and looks toward a musical future in which the timbres and intensities developed by the electronic engineer may find their musical shape and meaning. He considers the twentieth-century revolt against classical form and tonality, and the recent disturbing political interference with the form and content of music. He analyzes American and contemporary European music and the flowering of specifically Western imagination in Villa-Lobos and Charles Ives. The final chapter is an account, partially autobiographical, of the composer who seeks to find, in an industrial society like that of the United States, justification for the life of art in the life about him. Mr. Copeland, whose spectacular success in arriving at a musical vernacular has brought him a wide audience, will acquire as many readers as he has listeners with this imaginatively written book.

    A lullaby which asks animals such as a lizard, monkey, and water-buffalo to be quiet and not disturb the sleeping baby.