Word: mellower
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...turned out 90 volumes that attacked Chicago meat packers, Wall Street bankers, capitalist publishers, and just about everybody else in the Establishment. But last week, "the king of the muckrakers" had kind words for everyone around him. At the Bound Brook, N.J., nursing home where he lives, a mellow Upton Sinclair beamed as he leaned over in his chair and blew out the candles on his 90th birthday cake...
DUKE ELLINGTON: "AND HIS MOTHER CALLED HIM BILL" (RCA Victor). The Ellington band plays an affectionate tribute to Billy Strayhorn, who was the Duke's alter ego and musical collaborator for 29 years before his death last year. Among the dozen fine Strayhorn selections are some mellow successes from the '40s, such as After All, Rain Check and Day-Dream. Three new songs composed just before his death make most admirable vehicles for the band: locomotive-paced The Intimacy of the Blues, which perfectly brings out its elegant, insinuating sound; Charpoy, a perking bounce; and Blood Count...
...this era of shock theater, it is hard to realize that there were mellow days of social comedy, when moral and political dilemmas were discussed in the drawing room with reason and wit. In the '30s, Samuel Nathaniel Behrman was the master of the form (Rain from Heaven, No Time for Comedy). Now 75, he has applied the formula to his first novel, and it is as well-turned and entertaining as his best plays...
...will correct the "White right." The "White right" (fairness, honesty, impartiality, correctness, efficiency, etc.) has always been to exploit and keep the Black man down. He has had a full White program going for him in brainwashing the Black man with such myths as "White is Right," "Yellow is mellow," "Black stay Back," "Devil's-food cake is Black and Angel-food cake is white," "The White Knight rides a white horse, wears all white and is good and the Black Knight rides a black horse, wears all black and is bad," "You're black balled from groups...
...first mellow chords rippled from the organ and piano, Aretha stepped out of the robed choir that was massed on tiers behind the altar. Moving in front of a lectern, she closed her eyes and sang: "Precious Lord, take my hand ..." The congregation nodded or swayed gently in their seats. "Sing it!" they cried, clapping hands. "Amen, amen!" Her melodic lines curved out in steadily rising arcs as she let her spirit dictate variations on the lyrics, finally straining upward in pure soul...