Word: thickness
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...Hungarian master walked solemnly over to the cowering 13-year-old, laid his heavy hand Lurch-like on the boy's shoulder and roared in his thick Central European accent, "Son, are you a fighter...
...less literate, when he would teach each player his part by rote--he said that that music swung more than written music ever could. At its best, this band is free and sensitive; Mingus's rhythms and harmonies are felt as well as understood. At times, the sound is thick with instruments, over-reaching, trying to do so much; the disc's 56 minutes of playing time suggest that both players and leader sensed the importance of getting out as much of this music as was humanly possible...
...company of 13 singers and dancers, backed by an 18-piece band behind a scrim, worked its way through about 20 Ellington numbers in the course of two hours. They seemed to have all they needed to conjure up a '40s nightclub--dim lights, thick smoke, and swinging music. But they missed the intimacy of a nightclub-sized area; the Loeb stage is pretty forbidding, especially when it's set up as a proscenium instead of the modified theater-in-the-round Loeb directors often choose. Michael Der Manuelian, Ellington's director, didn't even try to protect his performers...
Start brunch off with one of Shanghai's soups. The tender bean curd is mostly thick and custardy; it melts in your mouth and sits in a bath of broth. We had the sweet variety, although you can order it salted as well. Another of Shanghai's sweet soups is the sesame rice ball. This is a very sweet broth containing one-inch dough balls filled with sesame seeds. They have the consistency of bubble gum and could choke even the most flexible esophagus. Keep away! If you don't like sweet things, be careful. Shanghai really sugars their stuff...
...with the death of the avantgarde. The very idea of collaborative groupings, once an essential part of modernist practice, seems to have lost its strength−at least for the moment. In fact, it takes some effort to remember the days in the '60s when the air was thick with talk about which movement (Op, Pop, post-painterly abstraction, arte povera, conceptualism, photorealism) was the latest incarnation of history. In an eerie way, the future seems to have joined the past (as far as painting and sculpture are concerned) in a common elephants' graveyard. So one is left...