Word: drone
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Cooder and Leon Redbone. The usual reviews of Ry Cooder's concerts have differed mainly as to whether he is the best white blues guitarist or potentially the best white blues guitarist. If you like barroom-type songs done in a monotonous drone, you'll like Leon Redbone also. Saturday, April 27 at sanders Theater...
...trying to put across existential banality there's no reason to sacrifice style, but Ashby does. The prison-to-prison closedness of the action seemed to make the moviemakers shove messy details into the inbetween rather than shape new levels of meaning or regulate the rhythm. "Significant" background voices drone constantly, the Anchors Aweigh music is dopey-ironic, and there's an unnecessary and facile glimpse of the kid's mother's room in some tacky New Jersey somewhere--strewn with bottles...
Along the Suez Canal there were ripples of unrest. The Israelis complained to UNEF that Egyptian troop advances were taking place along the western shore of the Great Bitter Lake, threatening Israeli supply lines. Later they announced that Egyptian missiles had shot down a pilotless Israeli drone plane on a reconnaissance flight over the canal. But at Geneva both sides still seemed eager to put an optimistic face on their negotiations. At week's end they announced that they had reached "consensus on some principles of disengagement." If they can reach an agreement on this critical problem within...
...that we all need it and we are not getting it. The past decade is littered with the wreckage of previously successful magazines: Look, Life, The Reporter, even The Saturday Evening Post. None of them were very good but they at least provided some antidote to the relentless drone of television; they at least marked out a conception of the world less fleeting than a half hour of network news sandwiched between vapid and escapist situation comedies and cop shows. Now they are gone, and we are left with a choice among Walter Cronkite, Time magazine and the local newspaper...
COOLIDGE CORNER stop. About ten people pushed their way onto the trolley, plunked their forty-five cents into the farebox, and moved to the rear, the driver repeating his drone, "Don't forget your fares, please, your fares." Meanwhile, the elderly woman next to me had been leaning forward towards the floor; she reached down awkwardly, coming back up with a bunch of dollar bills as wrinkled as her paste-white hands. Thoroughly bewildered, she looked...