Word: ballroom
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Manhattan's Palm Gardens ballroom was really turned on. The flowers, Tim, the flowers. They were in people's hair, on the floor, swarming over two huge screens from the color-slide projectors. Lights flashed everywhere, bounding off the Day-Glo lunarscapes along the wall. And when the phosphorescent beams caught the dancers, it turned the boys' white shirts purple, along with their teeth and eyeballs. The electronic band made the floor jump, and everybody was happy, sniffing the incense, smoking pot. It was a real love...
Then in came the beautiful people on four motorcycles, right into the ballroom, oozing with flower-power. It was the signal for everybody to get ready for the wedding and gather around the sanctuary, an arbor of aluminum beams and reflecting plastic panels. There came the groom, Artie, 24, carrying a guitar and wearing baggy trousers, a white, Nehru-collar tunic with red trim and cowboy boots. "My wedding suit. Nancy made it," he beamed. And there came the bride, Nancy, 15, her long blonde hair glistening, silver braces on her teeth (she'll take them off next year...
Andre Courreges is a designer of an altogether different cut. No little gold ballroom chairs for his customers. Inside his stark white salon, the mood is discotheque, with pigtailed models frantically gyrating to earsplitting records of the Modern Jazz Quartet. His styles still echo the severe architectural geometry of his original look-the first and only new look that Paris has offered in 20 years. He still favors Mary Jane shoes and calf-length white socks, and his original miniskirt is just where he first cut it off-four inches above the knee...
...pass the Wonderland Ballroom and a mean sub shop on your way to the grandstand. In the backround are the wooden hills and valleys of an amusement park where thrillseekers of a tamer sort celebrate. You follow the sports through a huge parking lot, jammed with Pontiacs, Caddies and Ramblers. You pay your 50 cents, mumble "Yes, I'm 21," and pass through the fateful portals...
...Airplane is the anointed purveyor of the San Francisco Sound, a heady mixture of blues, folk and jazz that began as the private expression of the hippie underground and only recently bubbled to the surface. Now, in such cavernous San Francisco halls as the Fillmore and the Avalon Ballroom, as well as in rollerskating rinks, movie theaters, veterans' halls, park bandstands, college gyms and roped-off streets from Pacific Heights to Butchertown, about 300 bands are inviting the faithful to "blow your mind" with the new sound. Hairy hippies all, they go by such fanciful names as the Moby...