Word: wails
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Yesterday the wail of protest reached an unprecedented crescendo. Reeling from Saturday night's massacre in New York--sixth-ranked Columbia more than doubled the Crimson's meager offense, 115-56--the players and their fans dragged through the day in disbelief. As usual most of the student abuse was directed at Coach Wilson...
...when she sings, she is something else again. "Ain't nobody gonna turn me around," she belts out in the knowing tones of an older and wiser woman. Her plangent voice, ranging from a sensual whisper to a banshee wail, exuberantly projects the confident sexuality of Baby, I Love You: If you want my lovin'. , . Stretch out your arms, little boy, you're gonna get it, 'Cause I love you. Or it summons the throbbing despair and resignation of Going Down Slow, a lament of oncoming death: Somebody write my father . . . Tell him that early...
...music is new and unfamiliar. But Schuller's Bagaetelles are full of contrasts--dynamic, textural, rhythmic--and the orchestra brought them out vividly and strikingly. Here the orchestra received a bit of unplanned assistance from the Cambridge Fire Department. At the end of the Third Bagatelle, the rising wail of the fire siren coincided exactly with the solo 'cello's ascending glissando. It was probably the only time 'cellist Martha Babcock smiled during a concert...
...just plain mad, the slang harangue of Rockin' Robbie D is delivered in a keening, rapid-fire wail that is recognizable only to dogs, seismographs-and teenagers. Not that the kids understand it all; sometimes, when Mr. Hip Lip, as he is also called, starts "makin' with the shakin' " on Detroit's WCHB, the station runs a write-in contest called "What Did Robbie Say?" Nobody really knows, least of all Robbie. The important thing is that Rockin' Robbie and dozens more like him have given radio an advanced case of the screaming meemies...
...looks vaguely like a molting broom, is only 20, most of the rock jockeys are pushing 30. Their natural habitat is the "jock booth," where, surrounded by stacks of 45-r.p.m. records, they suck on lemons, spray their throats, turn the treble up and the bass down, and wail. During an average three-hour program, they cram in six five-minute newscasts, twelve station breaks, 35 records and 54 commercials...