It's not a mandolin, or a capoed banjo. Someone had the idea that it was the inside of a piano, but it doesn't really sound like that. It's hard to picture how you could drag that thing around the back roads of the American south in the 1920s. In the 1960s, in Britain, a musicologist heard these sounds; heard the 18 songs written by a man named Washington Phillips. . .
Pulp novelist Holly Martins travels to shadowy postwar Vienna only to find himself investigating the mysterious death of his old friend Harry Lime. [more inside]