There used to be a composer — there still is, come to think of it — who delighted in playing one note. La Monte Young wrote brass pieces where tuba players almost passed out blowing far longer than a set of human lungs could manage, or he and his wife would sing one note until they got tired of it. But he branched out with other instruments, too: He threw gravel against the side of a garage, and one storied afternoon at a private concert, he brushed a string bean against a pane of glass until a member of the audience leapt from his chair and cried out, "All right, La Monte, you win."
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