Word: croonings
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...whatever the most magic laryngeal age is, and she hardly needs the frightened little mike she conceals in her brassière. Those big metallic syllables, perfectly enunciated, come forth like bullets and mow down the crowd. "I must admit," she says, "I don't exactly croon a tune...
...like an old-fashioned boarding school"; Plato advocated childhood conditioning, censorship and "compulsory virtue"; Fourier had "a pathological lust for social tidiness." Said Huxley: "Most utopists have had the souls, but happily not the effective power, of drill sergeants and dictators." Blonde Jean Martin Black, 34, who used to croon coffee commercials for Chock Full O'Nuts when she was married to its bossman, had a heavenly idea. Since her niggardly $3,000-a-month alimony from ex-Husband William Black, 53, didn't go very far after she paid her $1,100 rent at Manhattan...
...Poet Trowbridge, George Gobel should have been a natural. Instead, the only thing that stands up in his performance is his crewcut. He is so meek, mild, and mousy as to seem spiritless. Composer Jay Livingston and Lyricist Ray Evans have concocted some tender little lullabies for him to croon, but Gobel's singing voice scarcely carries the length of a baby's crib. Gobel is a comic miniaturist, and a Broadway stage is too wide-screen for his TV-styled gifts...
...Harlem, the densest concentration of Negroes in the world, is a world unto itself, occupying a fifth of Manhattan Island and stealthily creeping south. It is at once a dark and tragic slum, a thriving, neon-trimmed Main Street, a sparkling and earsplitting nightclub. It is the homesick croon of a West Indian immigrant, the glint of a switchblade in a teen-age rumble, the patient prayers of the hardworking faithful, the clink of pennies in a revivalist's plate. Harlem has mothered a strange and varied brood: Bojangles Robinson, tap-dancing down Broadway; Sugar Ray Robinson...
...First, Kansas Best"). Taking the air between concerts by hillbilly bands and sessions by the "Tell Me a Story Lady," Brinkley read sermons, pitched hard for goat glands, and made "snapshot diagnoses" of the ailments of his correspondents. "Now here is a letter from a dear mother," he would croon, "a dear little mother who holds to her breast a babe of nine months. She should take Number 2 and Number 16 and-yes-Number 17 and she will be helped." Brinkley got $1 a bottle from each of the hundreds of druggists who peddled his prescriptions...