Word: foghorn
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...weakest operative on an album chiefly distinguished by the pensive unfolding of some fine solos by Saxman Webster. In Where Are You?, I Surrender, Dear and In a Mello-tone, Webster articulates his longings with spacious ease and a tone as husky with melancholy as a distant-sounding foghorn...
...world's end but the beginning of the future is mirrored here, for rising in that ancient, sandy patch is an orchestration of new sounds hammered out by an instrumentation unknown anywhere else in the free world. The solo tone of an old-fashioned foghorn is overcome by the shriek of liquid oxygen as it pours under high pressure through valves and pipes. Clanging chords of hammer on steel, the humming sostenuto of machinery, the blip-blip rhythms bouncing onto radar screens from a network of grotesque antennas-the counterpoint races on in time to a thousand clocks, paced...
...Foghorn Voice." Murrow, who lives on Park Avenue and gets his suits from a Savile Row tailor, started out, on April 25, 1908, named Egbert, the son of a tenant farmer, in a log-slab house near Pole Cat Creek in North Carolina's Guilford County, twelve miles south of Greensboro. He was the youngest of Ethel and Roscoe Murrow's three boys. The eldest, Lacy, rose to be an Air Force brigadier general in the 18th Tactical Air Command, and is now a transportation consultant in Washington. The other, Dewey, is a contractor in Spokane...
When he was five ("a fat little boy with a regular foghorn voice," recalls a cousin), the family moved to Blanchard, Wash., 70 miles north of Seattle, where his father (who died two years ago) became a locomotive engineer in a logging camp. Ethel Murrow, now nearing 80, was a frugal, hard-working Methodist who read her boys a Bible chapter every night until they went off to college. She wanted Egbert to be a preacher; he now regards religion as "more ethics than faith." She recalls him as a lad with a strong sense of duty and determination...
...body jolts forward to bump and grind and beat out a low-down rhythm that takes its pace from boogie and hillbilly, rock 'n' roll and something known only to Elvis and his pelvis. As the belly dance gets wilder, a peculiar sound emerges. A rusty foghorn? A voice? Or merely a noise produced, like the voice of a cricket, by the violent stridulation of the legs? Words occasionally can be made out, like raisins in cornmeal mush. "Goan . . . git . . . luhhv . . ." And then all at once everything stops, and a big, trembly tender half smile, half sneer smears...