Anyone who writes about music is likely to have at some point been warned that words are but limited instruments for describing the most evanescent and time-bound of the arts; as the old cliché would have it, "writing about music is like dancing about architecture." A less discussed corollary to this problem is that reading about music makes for an oddly mixed experience as well. Consider, for example, the following excerpt from Richard Powers's novel The Time of Our Singing (2003), narrated by a mixed-race pianist whose artistic genealogy is at once classical and popular, traditional and modern, black and white: "'Naw, naw. Play me that pretty one. The one with the string quartet.' He hummed the first three notes of 'Yesterday,' with a schmaltz three years too late or thirty too soon. I'd heard the tune thousands of times. But I'd never played it. . . . The problem with pop tunes was that, in those rare moments when I did recreate them at the piano, as a break from more études, I tended to embellish the chord sequences. 'Yesterday' came out half Baroque figured bass and half ballpark organ" (431). It is hard to think of many betterknown songs than "Yesterday," and upon encountering this scene, readers are quite likely to hear, somewhere in the recesses of their minds, Paul McCartney singing its "first three notes" or the sound of his accompanying "string quartet" as clearly as if a record had been put on. And yet the song has also been radically defamiliarized in Powers's treatment, still recognizable but rendered "half Baroque figured bass and half ballpark organ" by the improvising narrator. It is a counter-version of a pop song that, long before The Time of Our Singing took it up, was already among the most frequently covered in history, with Powers presenting a new "Yesterday" that his readers might be able to imagine but cannot T. Austin Graham is a doctoral candidate at UCLA, where he is completing a dissertation on musical approaches to American literature.