Word: rhythm
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...were his sports. In art, Gulbenkian polished his own tastes, finally acquired by shrewd trading what was one of the finest private collections in the world, ranging from Rembrandts and Rubenses to Paul Chabas' famed September Morn. As for women, "a varied sexual experience is necessary to the rhythm of life," he once told Secretary Young. "It quietens, it deadens, and it diverts." For the rhythm section of his life, Gulbenkian required a new girl about once every three months. He seemed to prefer the Eliza Doolittle type. There was a discreet "mistress of the mistresses' wardrobes...
...Rhythm Section. To feel Gulbenkian's anger, an acquaintance once said, was "to know the electric chair without death." The danger signal was an open-palmed slap, slap, slap on the bald dome, often followed by the saliva-flecked roar, "You are a broken reed I" If Gulbenkian was something of a solid gold Scrooge, he also had Scroogian fears. According to Young, the sordid 1920 murder of a Manhattan pawnbroker named Gulbenkian, no kin, scared him out of ever visiting the U.S. He reputedly kept a ton and a half of gold in his London safes, presumably against...
...dusty streets, urchins rock to the pennywhistle's fast kwela beat; in shabby speakeasies, women shuffle to its slower marabi rhythm. Among natives who earn only $20 a month, pennywhistle records (75 ? apiece) are selling at the rate of 1,000 a day. By this spring, the rage had crossed to Britain, where a song called Tom Hark became the top jukebox hit so fast that record companies have ordered a half dozen new pennywhistle tunes. Princess Margaret herself has cut some kwela steps. Pennywhistle records will soon liven U.S. jukeboxes; American jazzmen (including Clarinetist Tony Scott, Saxophonist...
...Richter's technical mastery is so complete that he makes audiences forget about technique. With his enormous hands, he can play tenths and simultaneously thirds between thumb and forefinger. His bravura passages are majestic with no hint of pounding, his pianissimos a wonder of velvety control. His flexible rhythm gives even the most familiar music unexpected tensions. As he plays, his faunlike face registers emotion like a mass of exposed nerve ends, winces in a spasm of pain when he hits one of his rare wrong notes...
...treats self as the only reality and cultivates sensation as the only goal. But the self-revolving life is a bore, a kind of life-in-death that requires ever intenser stimulants to create even the illusion of feeling. Stepping up the tempo, "go, go, go" becomes the rhythm of madness and self-destruction. The future of the Beat Generation can be read in its past-the James Deans and Dylan Thomases and Charlie "Yardbird" Parkers-and the morbid speed with which its romantic heroes become its martyred legends...