It was the age of high fidelity and there I was in the attic with a victrola. How odd it was. Its needle like the proboscis of an insect. The platter covered with green baize, as if you might throw down poker chips instead of a record. It was most certainly a gambler’s machine. I’d put the needle down on the fast spinning disc and hear something uncanny…arias and folk songs sung by dead people. Gambling, ghosts, the wind up mechanism with its baleful crank.