Word: singerly
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Before a Senate Judiciary subcommittee appeared Singer Paul Robeson, a long time fellow traveler, to denounce the bill. He refused to tell whether or not he is a Communist. Declared Robeson: "Nineteen men are about to go to jail for refusing to answer that question. I am prepared to join them." Nobody asked him to go to jail. The subcommittee listened to a few other witnesses, decided to end the hearings. They had already run a day longer than scheduled...
Britain's conservative Royal Academicians (of whom John is one) also find him confusingly out of step. He is as fashionable as John Singer Sargent once was, and his portraits come high (?1,000 and up); but he gets along fine without Sargent's dramatic slickness. What's more, his art, admittedly academic, has enough sparkle to put the stuffy Academicians to shame. At 70, Augustus John and his works are living proof that it makes very little difference what "school" a really good artist belongs...
...exceptionally clever or even plausible one, but it is presented in such a turbulent way, with those French (or better 'adult') touches, that the interest never lags. The story is set in that other side of show-business that Betty Grable never sees. A music-hall singer named Jenny Lamour and her piano-playing husband are plugging along in vaudeville when Jenny gets an offer for a contract from a big movie producer who happens also to be an aged, lecherous, hunchback. At a secret rendevous, he makes a pass at Jenny and she breaks a bottle over his head...
...maestro and the orchestra, were a television milestone (TIME, March 29). But pictures of jazz bands tootling are as dull on television as they are on a movie screen. Crooners, in particular, are finding the telecamera's unwinking stare an embarrassing experience. (Notable exception: NBC's pretty Singer Kyle MacDonnell, an unknown to radio listeners, but already becoming television's No. 1 pin-up girl...
With the final chord of the Prelude to Die Meister singer, the courtly figure on the podium put down his baton, bowed elegantly to his audience, and strode from the stage. The orchestra and audience remained in their seats, but Serge Koussevitzky did not return. In his place, amid a sudden hush, gold-spectacled Henry Cabot, president of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, slowly mounted the stage. The word had already gotten out that Harry Cabot had a very special announcement to make, and most of the audience had a good idea of what...