Arnold Arnstein, 68, is one of music's obscure middlemenor more accurately, muddlemen: he is a copyist whose job it is to decipher the scribblings of composers. He works in a dingy cubbyhole on Manhattan's upper West Side, surrounded by towering stacks of music and a massive duplicating machine named Ozalid. Together they make a unique team: Arnie singing an aria from La Bohème while bent over a new score, Ozalid humming contentedly and smelling of ammonia. Yet despite the humble trappings, for the past 25 years Arnstein's office has been the musical...
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