Harry Partch spent all day moving his homemade orchestra from his home in an abandoned chicken hatchery in Petaluma to the ballroom of San Francisco's Sheraton-Palace Hotel. Not until evening, when delegates to the Ameri can Symphony Orchestra League's convention began drifting into the room, were all the instruments ready. There stood the "Spoils of War," the "Sur rogate Kithara," the "Harmonic Canons I and II," the "Chromelodeon" —and there stood Harry Partch, quietly examining the tolerant smiles that have confronted him all his life. "This re minds me of an...
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