Father sang; he sang gypsy romances, things such as 'Ah, it's not you I love so passionately' and The chrysanthemems in the garden have faded'. Magical music, they called it, and it was a great help to me later on when I banged away on the piano in cinemas. I don’t renounce my interest in gypsy songs. I don’t see anything shameful in it, as opposed to, say, Prokofiev, who pretended to be enraged when he heard such music. He probably had a better musical education than I did. But at least I’m not a snob.