The Twenties, Edmund Wilson

New Year’s Eve. The dinner party belowstairs began with the popping of corks and the braying of a phonograph: about one in the morning; the company were apparently on the crest of the wave. When the phonograph was played, I could hear what sounded like a large heavy man joining loudly in the refrain of the melody. After every burst, he would stop and laugh boorishly at his own clumsy efforts, surprised that his exhilaration should have tricked him into enjoying so unfamiliar and ludicrous a thing as music.

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