Word: sarabands
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...Flat and No. 2 in C-Minor. (Igor Kipnis harpsichordist, Angel.) As musical forms go, the Baroque suite or partita was in its old age when Bach decided to have the final word on the subject. He not only included every kind of dance movement previously used (saraband, gigue, minuet) but also introduced some that had not been: capriccio, rondeau and scherzo. The French style of ornamentation, so essential a part of this music, is something Harpsichordist Igor Kipnis has long since mastered. His mordents, appoggiaturas and other embellishments have the ring not of frivolity but, as is proper, indispensability...
...obscenely corrupted by intermingling with a race of fiendish undersea creatures. Learning all this, the narrator attempts to flee. On the outskirts of town, he looks back and sees his pursuers "in a limitless stream-flopping, hopping, croaking, bleating, surging inhumanly through the spectral moonlight in a grotesque, malignant saraband of fantastic nightmare...
BRAHMS: GERMAN REQUIEM (Deutsche Grammophon; 2 LPs). "Blessed are they that mourn," softly sings the chorus, and soon the sad saraband begins ("For all flesh is as grass"). At length the black solemnity is relieved by the soaring soprano voice of Gundula Janowitz singing "I will see you again." A powerful, rhythmically relentless performance by Herbert von Karajan, the Berlin Philharmonic and the Vienna Singverein...
...Hold Your Potatoes." On through the day, Lyndon and Lady Bird moved, almost ritualistically, as in a stately saraband. To the old Johnson homestead they went, to reminisce a while about Lyndon's boyhood and to sit in the porch swing. Later they visited at the ranch of A. W. (Judge) Moursund, Lyndon's old friend and trustee of his financial interests. The President sat slumped in a living-room chair for a while and watched the election returns on television. Then, by helicopter, he and his party flew to Austin's Driskill Hotel, waded into...
...just keeps The Unsinkable Molly Brown afloat is an unquenchable Tammy Grimes. Starting off, in potato-sack finery, half tomboy and half troll, she roars and soars ahead with her magically rusty vocal cords, her magically uncombed look, her meltable rock-candy hardness, now executing a slow, sneakered, ragamuffin saraband, now after a Denver fiasco ripping into an exuberant barefoot dance, now smashing a chair over a stranger's head, now reacting in Paris to her first taste of snails: "With that sauce, you could eat erasers." Thanks to her, Molly is dripping but undrowned...