Word: blares
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Milhaud conducted sitting down, but with burly authority. The score opened with a fast descending scale on the strings joined by the brassy blare of trumpets. Four stark downbeats on the kettle drums were omens of doom. Cracking fortissimos rapidly fading to a whispered diminuendo, an accumulation of dissonant agonized tones, a carefree pastoral legato phrase, and a lamenting melody on a reedy oboe vividly characterized the fateful day in Dallas and the President's oblivious ride to his death...
...fish-meal plants now operate along the coast. In the north-coast town of Chimbote, the population has exploded from 5,000 to 150,000 in the past 20 years. New taxis clog the city's streets, and neon signs wink brightly all night; hi-fi shops blare out cha chas; Indian mopsters sip beer and lethal-looking, yellow-green "Inca Kolas" and fill up vacant walls with "Vivan los Beatles...
...blare of brass and a gathering bloodbeat of drums, the dancers in the two long lines-men on one side, women opposite-hop forward, jump back, hop-hop-hop ahead, and then kiss-kiss-kiss. After that, both lines shift right so that new partners pucker into view for the next round of "letkiss," the non-dance craze that has Munich on tiptoe...
...succulent Egyptian mummy who falls in love with a middle-aged American archaeologist, who has dug her, and causes him to abandon his shrill wife. Bertha von Paraboum, identified as Eine Deutsche Kreatur, wears high black boots, a flowing red boa, and a garter. As the loudspeakers blare the sort of martial music that would have stirred Von Ribbentrop, Bertha von Paraboum for the first time turns to face the audience fully, and there, serving as a G-string, is a swastika. Victoria Nankin is billed as "the Yé-Yé Widow." To show her grief, Bernardin has veiled...
...paintings is to hear them. They screech and honk with the aggressive dissonance of city traffic. They have the staccato beat of a pneumatic drill. The strident reds, blues, and yellows blare with neon. And the stray words that seem squiggled from a toothpaste tube onto his paintings are like the hip, harsh expletives that slum kids spew into the summer air. Davis had violence without anger, gaiety without abandon, and his paintings swing and jump with such durable joy that it is as if he had dipped his brush in some eternal fountain of youth...