It all began in my grandmother's house. It was a bungalow surrounded by black earth and dark green, shiny leaves. The rooms inside the house were as dark as the earth and in one small room there was a wind up gramophone perched on a small brown table. I was 4 but seemed to know how this machine worked. It was 20 years old. Perhaps it was her mother's. Nearby there was a pile of 78rpm records. I managed to pull the records out of their crumpled, faded sleeves and play them from the outer edge of the disc. Crucial. One stood out. It was called "My Happiness" and the singer was Ella Fitzgerald. She sounded like an angel. The backing harmonies of the "Song Spinners" were mesmerizing. I played it over and over again. So where was the mighty wise man lurking in the corner of the room saying, "Uh oh. You're a songwriter lad. Get started as soon as you can?" No such figure was present. Cultural desert. No matter. I'm ready now. I am the most unusual 78 you've ever met. Can't wait to be 79.