Word: throbbingly
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Break Out to Bop. Russia has always been a musical nation, so it came as no surprise that the Russians played well. The stunner was how closely the Russians caught the sense of the music, particularly the sad throb of the blues. There were times, says Ruff, "when the renditions came close to eloquence." Where the Russians fall short is on improvisation. After one demonstration at which Ruff and Mitchell improvised around a current Russian song, a young man asked for the score. "They couldn't understand." says Mitchell, "that except for the basic chords...
...come away." The voice is big and bold: "Hey, you fool you! Why so cool you!" The voice is sad and soft behind real tears as the lights go down: "Only yesterday, when the world was young . . ." Whatever the tempo, Tin-Pan or torchy, the songs of Felicia Sanders throb with a strange, sinewy vitality in the basement's air-cooled dark. The mikes and the speakers and the slow-changing spotlights are superfluous. When Felicia sings, the silence beyond the stage is the silence of rapt attention. The clink of glasses stops, the convivial chatter dies...
Under the long, lemon-tinted gown and the towering headdress of aigrette plumes, the tall, tawny body is heavier now. The warm eyes seem smaller, softer, in a face fleshed with age. But the quick, bright smile is as vivid as ever; the remembered throb of her voice still husks the rafters-a rising, clear-toned shout. At 53, Josephine Baker, the supple emigre from St. Louis who sailed into the heart of Paris on the high old tides of the '20s, is still a top banana of the boulevards. It is three years since her last "retirement...
...throb of skin drums mingled with" the high-pitched, cacophonous music of steel-stringed gourds. Fires flickered in every direction under great cauldrons simmering with a beef stew made from 14 cows and oxen. The village of Mahusekwa in Southern Rhodesia's Chiota reserve, only an hour's drive from bustling, modern Salisbury, made ready to crown a King...
Pothered by an ache in the jawbone, weedy Pianist Van Cliburn dropped in on a Tucson dentist for some overdue drilling, canceled all concerts until the throb in his ivories dwindled to a pianissimo. Mumbled Van, his gift for hyperbole undiminished: "I'm thrilled to death it happened here, in the land...