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Dismissive of traditional hierarchies, Kurt Weill once opined, “There is only good music and bad music.” But what to do when the antipodes of taste are joined as inextricably as Chang and Eng? What, indeed, to do with a record that frames over a dozen outrageous forays into the display-music stratosphere with fragments of the “William Tell Overture,” that butts a Lennon and McCartney chestnut—and “The Old Rugged Cross”—up against the sentimental melodies of Neapolitan songsmiths and finds a Puccini waltz cheek to cheek with “Cheek to Cheek,” that chest-thumpingly proclaims its dizzying pyrotechnics “were recorded solo “live,’ without overdubs,” that solemnly invokes the names of Jascha Heifetz and Chet Atkins to fashion a pedigree for this mongrel form in which all pageantry is rendered by the tremolo-strummed paroxysms of a mandolin? Well I, for one, can only concur with the judgment of the Providence Journal-Bulletin‘s Channing Gray that Evan Marshall sounds “at times like the Boston Pops, maybe even the Boston Symphony!,” and take this kitsch manifesto, this masterwork of daft genius to heart. My favorites are the Italian numbers: Ten years ago, I was indulging a newfound taste for dolce far niente atop the roof of the former Palazzo Venier dalle Torreselle when a braying stranger—clearly one of my countrymen—greeted me from his Canale Grande flotilla. I asked him the price he and his friends had been charged for an excursion down la Serenissima‘s most celebrated sewer. As an accordion squeezed out the tunes that again rise to my ears, “They charged you double,” I lied. Evan Marshall recalls this all to me. Bless him for that!