Word: wailed
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Beatitude & Absorption. Suddenly a wail came from the crowd, as hundreds of hands seized the great ropes of Balabhadra's chariot and began to pull. With a screech of stretched leather and a grinding of wood on wood, the towering structure swayed into motion and started down the sandy avenue, flanked by policemen to keep people back from the huge wheels (though it has been decades since anyone committed the traditional holy suicide beneath the carts, accidents have been common...
...rooms, slowly Jonah works his muted way through the numbers his fans want to hear-Rose Room, 76 Trombones, Too Close for Comfort, and his signature, Mack the Knife. Throughout, Jonah juggles the symbols of his success-the bagful of mutes through which he makes his trumpet whisper and wail, growl, shiver and soar...
...York IQ (covering the sounds of Manhattan postal district 19, from the Plaza Hotel to the West Side docks), he has released The New York Taxi Driver (Columbia) and Sounds of My City (Folkways). On them, listeners will find strolling sidewalk instrumentalists, the raucous chatter of pneumatic drills, the wail of sirens-plus a series of rambling speeches, sometimes funny, sometimes pathetic, in the polyglot accents of the New York streets. A plumber, on music: "I mean to me when there's music I'll stop anything; without music, I mean I don't think there...
Died. Sidney Bechet, 62, Negro Dixieland jazz artist famed for the honeyed wail of his soprano saxophone; of cancer; in Garches, a Paris suburb. At ten Bechet was tooting his clarinet in the dives of Storyville, New Orleans' oldtime red-light district, over the years spread the lusty music of Dixieland up and down the land, across the Atlantic. An eclectic musician who knew Bach, could read music only sketchily, but wrote a ballet, Composer-Performer Bechet wove grand opera into Dixieland, combined some Verdi with Gershwin whenever he played Summertime. In and out of favor...
...wail of jazz drifts smokily through San Francisco bistros, the lean man with the horn-rimmed glasses and a grey-flecked crew-cut walks up to the bar and acts like the squarest square from Endsville. He orders milk. But from the Red Garter to the Purple Onion, not an eyebrow lifts. Everyone knows that on matters that count-a beat and a lyric-Columnist Ralph Gleason. 42, has a taste so cool that he turns out much of the solid reporting and comment on the convoluted world of jazz...