Word: mick
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Horab Greenbloom, a character so prodigious that he nearly runs away with the book. Horab can only be described in superlatives of wealth, intelligence, vitality and childishness. He drives his Bentley at top speed, depending for guidance on his passengers ("What's that coming up on the left, Mick? Good God, you should have warned me minutes ago. It nearly hit us"). He flies his deHavilland Moth with the aplomb of Wrong Way Corrigan. Aiming for France, he makes a forced landing instead on a race track in Ireland. Even when he hears a native's brogue, Greenbloom...
...euphoric Paris critic recently told his readers of an artist whose work has "an intense living presence because it is drawn from the pulsing daily life of breathing humanity." This panting prose was directed to the achievements of a 31-year-old singer named Mick Micheyl. With Juliette Greco, who last week was breathing her dusky ballads to patrons of Manhattan's Waldorf-Astoria, Mick is the most extravagantly acclaimed of post-Piaf popular French "art" singers. Singers Micheyl and Greco look as if they may become the most exciting exports from the Paris nightclubs since Piaf began looking...
...girls are a study of Gallic contrasts. Mick Micheyl is sunny; Juliette Greco is subterranean. In her simple sheath or plain skirt and white broadcloth shirtwaist, Mick affects the saucy style of a French street urchin-the impertinent type Parisians call un titi. Juliette, in her clinging, floor-length black, displays the kind of world-weariness that once moved Jean Cocteau to speak of "the 'ruinous jewel of her heart." Both Mick and Juliette, intense admirers insist, do not merely sing-they have something...
Bittersweet Memories. If Mick Micheyl is a Parisian spring breeze, Juliette Greco is a gust from a dark grotto. In Manhattan last week, with her weedy dark hair hanging to her waist, she chanted in French the bittersweet songs that have made her famous at home. Her large, square hands shaped the phrases; her high-cheekbonsd, chalky face was alternately sullen and sad. In her best song, I Hate Sundays ("Every day of the week is empty and hollow, but there's worse than the weekday, there's pretentious Sunday"), her voice faded to an organ whisper. Even...
...Gehrig was always on deck." The long-memoried fellow alongside demurs: "Look at the record. They walked the Babe 138 times in '27. He had only 540 at bats. Mantle has 413 with a fourth of the season left. And what about Berra? Do pitchers pass the Mick...