Into Tin Pan Alley's Broadway capitol, the Brill Building, there passes each day a hustling parade of tunesmiths and music agents, each hopeful that he carries the answer to a song publisher's prayer. "This number is the greatest," one says, or "I gotta song here, it'll fracture 'em." The publishers buy such songs in the hundreds each year, and record-company presses compound the fractures by turning them out with the regularity of automatic cooky cutters. The multitude of dins is largely devoted, of course, to love, and mostly in songs that court, exhort...
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