Word: paled
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...Glitter Rock movement, turned himself into music's most exquisite artifact, then turned away. Subsumed in his own myth, Bowie became a zombie, sending back musical dispatches from the dead zone. He was a casualty, but he endured. He was a recluse, but he kept making records ("pale blinds drawn all day, nothing to read, nothing to say"), strange albums full of pity and doubt. He was a soul, not lost but stranded, who willed himself into a survivor...
Calculated outrage like this burns out fast, and Bowie was in danger of doing just that. Pale under all his stage makeup and already well into the high life, he was held together only by the weight of his old dreams. Born in Brixton, one of London's toughest neighborhoods, Bowie originally dreamed of being a painter. He describes his father Hayward Jones as "a gambler and drinker and layabout for most of his life. I have one brother and one sister that I know about." His mother Margaret Mary Burns was a movie usher when she met Hayward...
...bass are tolerably strong the orchestra disciplined and subdued; the only touch that proves more distracting than ingenuous is the "Creative" black tie of the soloists, which includes a woven Indian style smock along with the cummerbunds and so forth. But what happens on stage necessarily leaves them pale by comparison. Carlo Rizzo who dances the rooster is astonishing as is Susan White as the Fox; the latter in a scarlet body stocking attacks and "dies" with a sinuous grace while Rizzo does best in the rooster's moments of sweaty panic. In one such attack White flips Rizzo...
...Though pale and plainly sick the day she lost, Evert Lloyd made little of that afterward. Since she holds the other three major titles at the moment, a grand slam, admittedly not the calendar one, was lost too. Still her grace in defeat was heroic, in contrast to the style of the defending men's champion and top seed Jimmy Connors, who fled in a fury after his fourth-round loss to a big server from South Africa, twelfth-seeded Kevin Curren...
...music, pulsing like a motor. One could never join this crowd of pedestrians; anyone who has ever tried to move across a major artery, or even a busy sidewalk, in an alien capital knows how hard it is to catch the rhythm. Yet a series of three couples in pale unitards does invade the mob, finally clearing a space for their own brief dance and slightly skewing the renewed movement of the throng. Clearly this urban ritual could go on forever, but abruptly the bright lights are quenched...