Word: throbs
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After a couple of hours of this, the audience is ready, even eager, for violins and end music. Instead, it hears the unmistakable throb of disaster's kettledrums...
...port of Aden itself, Arab nationalist ardor still runs high. A total of 1,800 oil workers are out on a strike called by the local Arab Trades Union Congress. Aden's port workers may still throb to Nasser's broadcasts, but it is the now quiescent Imam whom the British worry about. He is the chief threat to the garrison post from which they watch over their Persian Gulf oil interests. Reassured, the British are now preparing to create a second federation in Aden's even emptier Eastern Protectorate, where the British-run Iraq Petroleum...
...draw up before the lush green lawns of the Mount Kenya Safari Club. Stretching away to either side are bamboo forests where roam the elephant and rhinoceros. Above towers snow-clad Mount Kenya, soaring 17,040 ft. into the equatorial sky. At sunset, guests are thrilled by the throb of tribal drums in the gloaming. (Since natives were lacking on the 95 acres of grounds in the "white" highlands of Kenya, the club owners imported a band of Wakamba drummers from 200 miles away, installed them in a specially-built, rent-free, mud-and-thatch village, and placed stern instructions...
Break Out to Bop. Russia has always been a musical nation, so it came as no surprise that the Russians played well. The stunner was how closely the Russians caught the sense of the music, particularly the sad throb of the blues. There were times, says Ruff, "when the renditions came close to eloquence." Where the Russians fall short is on improvisation. After one demonstration at which Ruff and Mitchell improvised around a current Russian song, a young man asked for the score. "They couldn't understand." says Mitchell, "that except for the basic chords...
...come away." The voice is big and bold: "Hey, you fool you! Why so cool you!" The voice is sad and soft behind real tears as the lights go down: "Only yesterday, when the world was young . . ." Whatever the tempo, Tin-Pan or torchy, the songs of Felicia Sanders throb with a strange, sinewy vitality in the basement's air-cooled dark. The mikes and the speakers and the slow-changing spotlights are superfluous. When Felicia sings, the silence beyond the stage is the silence of rapt attention. The clink of glasses stops, the convivial chatter dies...