Word: lil
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...West sued Manhattan's Hotel Chatham for $250,000; she wanted compensation, she said, for the broken ankle suffered in a nasty fall on a bath mat last February. Mae claimed the injury has kept her show, Diamond Lil, closed for nearly five months, and hence kept her from getting a $3,000-a-week salary...
...when he dropped some lyrics on the floor during a recording session, he quickly substituted nonsense syllables, and added "scat-singing" to jazz. He had formed "Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five" (Satchmo, Clarinetist Johnny Dodds, Trombonist Kid Ory, Johnny St. Cyr on the banjo and second wife Lil Hardin Armstrong on the piano) to make recordings of his best numbers for Okeh. When he played Chicago, such youngsters as Bix Beiderbecke, Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa and Eddie Condon, who were to help create the "Chicago school" of jazz, sat and listened worshipfully. All of them now make their...
...Diamond Lil (by Mae West; produced by Albert H. Rosen & Herbert J. Freezer) is probably the masterwork of the unversatile author of Sex, Pleasure Man, The Constant Sinner and Catherine Was Great. As a vehicle, at any rate, Lil remains after 21 years a good sturdy Mae Western. Too dated in 1928 to date much since, and so bad a play that it has considerable merit as a parody, Diamond Lil gives Miss West every chance to shoot the works, to be as majestically unrefined and unreformed as she knows...
Against a flyblown Gay-Nineties backdrop, Lil queens it over a cosily archaic underworld of cokies and floozies, shoplifters and white slavers. She loves passionately and profitably, conceals a heart of gold under a breastplate of diamonds, commits murder once, gets away with it often, and renews-at the end of Act I-her hospitable invitation to come up and see her some time...
...place was crowded with more that people. Shades of Aunt Hagar and Sister. Kate filtered through the smoke and a lil ol' muskrat rambled in. For two solid hours in that staid Lowell House cubicle there were ladies of the new Orleans evening and the stale smell of K.C. gin. But for the grim visage of Abbot Lawrence Lowell above the fireplace it might have been any backroom in Chicago back in the days when Cicero was Cicero and not an essay in Life magazine...