Word: pseudo
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Crosby's Conversion. Ever since swing began, show business tipsters (and press-agents for sweet bands) had predicted its death with monotonous regularity, but none of the swingsters had paid attention before. Now the No. 1 exponent of pseudo-Dixieland, Bob Crosby (brother of Bing) was packing them in at a Broadway theater with a toned-down band that went easier on the drums and the brass. Crosby late of the U.S. Marines, learned his lesson when leading a service band on Bougainville. He expected the Marines to demand music with hair on its chest. Says he: "They wanted...
...crazily exaggerated build-up [which] led. . . to the inevitable 'letdown' after the tests. . . . The Navy's safety precautions for the first test were almost ridiculously overdone Pseudo-scientists and in a few cases reputable scientists . . . made some astounding and wholly unscientific predictions" and the press lapped them...
Naughty boys, perverts, and the world's few serious Satanists have for centuries amused themselves with much talk and rare observance of the luridly infamous Black Mass. Capable of infinite variation in its pseudo-liturgical mumbo jumbo, the Black Mass usually has as its basic ingredients a consecrated host, an apostate priest, a prostitute and a virgin, combined to achieve a maximum of orgiastic blasphemy...
...arranger and composer he hasn't acquired quite enough of the American jazz idiom. "Mop Up," "My Ideal" and numerous other Commodore records handled by Feather on which numbers of big guns in the jazz world have emitted nothing but pops illustrate comprehensively his type of cramping, pseudo-modernistic, flagrantly artificial arrangements. Here we have the reverse of the King Midas situation, for it seems all of the Gold Award players turn to lead when Feather handles them. Yes, one might say that though Leonard writes interesting copy for several nationally known magazines, like most critics of anything he talks...
Ever since John P. Marquand discovered that there was a gold mine on Beacon Hill, books on Boston and Harvard have been hitting the stands with monotonous regularity. Last year's pseudo-Marquand, "Boston Adventure," was a very poor piece of goods, as most imitations are. But the latest effort, Helen Howe's "We Happy Few," is several cuts above its predecessors. Showing a speaking acquaintance with the Beacon Street-Brattle Street axis, Miss Howe's special target is the Cambridge cocktail crowd, the effete, hyper-esthetical group which knows all there is to know about Sex, Marxism...