It's April in Paris and vice versa--as you'll see when you peruse this April issue's trio of Gallic goodies, our vernal tribute to the perennially verdant city of lights, city of love, city without peer in its ambient atmosphere of romantic encounters. First is a portfolio of Les Girls from La Vie Parisienne, that jauntily sophisticated journal which was the boulevardier's bible from the Eighteen Sixties on into the tantalizing Twenties. During those years, the weekly La Pie Parisienne presented its readers a provocative package of fine art and fine writing by the best of native and expatriate artists and writers--and liberally spiced each issue with drawings of those delightsome, lissome ladies whose saucy grace graced the city's social whirl and private worlds, and kept its romantic reputation beacon-bright. (Come June, a full volume of these coquettish confections will be available at the bookstalls, published by Citadel Press at $5.95.)
Playboy, April, 1961, Vol. 8, No. 4. Published Monthly by HMH Publishing Co., Inc., Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago 11, Ill. Subscriptions: In the U.S., its possessions, The Pan American Union and Canada, $14 for three years, $11 for two years, $6 for one year. Elsewhere add $3 per year for Foreign postage. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, 232 E. Ohio St., Chicago 11, Ill., and allow 30 days for change. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director, 720 Fifth Ave., New York 19, N. Y., CI 5-2620; Branch Offices: Chicago, Playboy Building, 232 E. Ohio St., MI 2-1000; Los Angeles, 8721 Beverly Blvd., OL 2-8790, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager; San Francisco, 111 Sutter St., YU 2-7994, Robert E. Stephens, Manager; Southeastern Representative, The Hal Winter Company, 7450 Ocean Terr., Miami Beach, Fla., UN 5-2661.
Aregrettable oversight has come to our attention--astronomers have given names to only four of Jupiter's dozen moons. These are: Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto. With the Space Age already upon us, we feel it would be a public service on our part to suggest names for the other eight. Most of the Greek and Roman deities have been used up, so we might turn to the Muses: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore and Thalia. (Isn't there a ninth Muse, you ask? Yes, Urania, but her monicker sounds too much like Uranus, already a planet.) Or we might investigate the Eight Immortals of Taoist mythology, but it occurs to us that, in this modern age, such jawbreaking, unfamiliar names should be eschewed and something simpler used instead, like Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Ti and Do (that would give us two Dos, true, but think of how many Springfields we have right here in the U.S.). Or why not Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner and Blitzen? Perhaps something homey as an old shoe would be nice: Al, Joe, Bill, Jack, Hank, Fred, Gus, Herb and Sid. If The Clan gets much bigger, the problem will be solved by simply using Frankie, Dino, Sammy, Peter, Joey, Shirley and so on. How about the colors of the spectrum: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet? That's only seven, so we might call the eighth moon Black or White or Gray or even Puce. Then there's always Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Payday. Being romantic fellows, we wouldn't mind perpetuating as heavenly bodies: Brigitte, Sophia, Ava, Marilyn, Jayne, Gina, Lollo and Brigida. Famous pulse-stirring quotations might serve, if they consist of eight words with no repeats. Think of: The, Valiant, Never, Taste, Of, Death, But, Once. Or: Breathes, There, A, Man, With, Soul, So, Dead. Or: Now, Is, The, Time, For, All, Good, Men. Or, in a pinch, we could call the first seven moons Unaccustomed, As, I, Am, To, Public, Speaking, and the eighth moon Er (or Uh). But our most obvious idea comes-- as the most obvious ideas often do--by way of Tin Pan Alley. Surely we could do no better than June, Tune, Spoon, Croon, Soon, Noon, Boon and, but of course, Honeymoon.
Now that Lerner and Loewe's Camelot has settled down for an extended stay on Broadway, the record companies are engaged in some spirited jousting, with diamond styli on a field of vinyl, for chunks of the pre-sold market. The albums displacing the heaviest weaponry are Camelot (Columbia) the original cast, ant André Previn and His Trio Play Music from Lerner and Loewe's Camelot (Columbia). Tackling first things first, we can report that Richard Burton acquits himself admirably: actors who are forced to sing are almost always as bad as singers who are forced to act, but Burton as King Arthur is an exception. He makes no use of the Rex Harrison recitative dodge, but instead forthrightly tackles every Loewe note with high success.
La Fonda del Sol (The Inn of the Sun), a shimmering dining diadem, is on display in Manhattan's icy steel-and-glass igloo of the Luce empire, the Time-Life Building at 50th Street and the Avenue of the Americas. This most recent, and probably most ambitious, enterprise of the wunderkind of the wine-and-dine world, Restaurant Associates (Forum of the Twelve Caesars, Four Seasons), takes its theme from the avenue on which it's located (a thorough fare still called Sixth Avenue by Gotham's unregenerate hardheads); the decor and the dining are lusciously, Latin American. Its seven dining rooms have been decked out in varied and vivid hues by internationally approbated designer Alexander Girard, and each is capped by a ceiling aglitter with thousands of star-simulating gold lights. La Fonda, which dispenses its delights daily, can accommodate 350 diners and another 75 intent up on wetting their whistles in the bar and cocktail lounge. Each dining salon is like a room of a museum -- illuminated glass-fronted wall recesses contain objets d'arts and crafts collected from Brazil, Mexico, Ecuador, Guatemala, Peru and Argentina. There are on hand such authentic culinary accoutrements as an Argentine broiling wall with three-giant rotisseries and a multitude of vertical and horizontal grills for preparing Brazilian churrascos and Argentine asados (native barbecues). A la carte lunch is served from noon to 4 P.M., you with entrees from $1.50. From 3 to 5 P.M. you can order any dish from the churrasqueria (rotisserie, that is). Dinner, served from 5 to 11 P.M. (Sundays from 2 to 11 P.M.), is a multi-coursed meal for $5.95. The menu is printed in Spanish. English and Portuguese but, in any language, one would have a devil of a time choosing from among so many exotic dishes. For a miniature cook's tour of Latin America, start with a many-flagged mixture of appetizers called Bocaditos (little mouthfuls). From Mexico there is the tasty guacamole, the Peruvian seviche, a marinated fish; also empanadas, little Argentine meat pies, and anticuchos mixtos, tidbits of sirloin and beef heart. Busboys in South American costumes roam among the tables passing out tortillas and a delicious but mucho hot green sauce to spread on them. If your taste are a bit jaded, move on to Foam Soup (Mexican), made of chicken and veal broth with whites of eggs dropped in to achieve the bubbly effect. Typical entrees included in the $5.95 feast are whole roast chicken on the spit, gaucho-barbecued beef ribs from Argentina, Brazilian beans and meats with native garnishes, and skillet pork chops in giant peppers. For a buck more you can order baby turkey in spicy chocolate sauce, or a Peruvian classic chicken with orange and bread sauce or perhaps a fish stew of unpronounceable Latin American marine life. Add another dollar and you can be transported to Lucullan heights by a smoked and roasted pigeon or a suckling pig from the spit. At the bar, try a Pisco Sawer, a grand Peruvian brandy sour and, with the meal, a white or red wine punch which is mixed at the table. Coffee, too, is prepared at tableside. We suggest you embark on a two-day last before finding your place in the sun.
The Misfits, written by Arthur Miller, is good enough to make you wish it were really good. Far above most Hollywood efforts, it is a serious film that asks to be judged seriously -- but by such standards The Misfits misfires. On the surface this is the story of an ex-chorine (Marilyn Monroe) who, while getting a divorce in Reno, meets a trio of sagebrush beatniks. She moves in with one (Clark Gable), is sought after by the other two (Eli Wallach and Montgomery Clift), and finally decides to stay with Gable. So much for superficials. Thematically, this is a story of maladjusted moderns, a girl looking for the truth of love and three men trying to avoid the confinements of today's life. To them anything is better than "working for wages," so they ride in rodeos and hunt mustangs for dog-food dealers -- a line of work that the girl detests almost pathologically. Much that Miller has to say is pertinent and poignant, but parts of it verge on existentialist horse-cum-soap opera (as when, after a hectic scene, Miss Monroe leans against a wall, looks heavenward, and murmurs, "Help"). The whole thing depends on the character of the girl; and her transformation from muddled neurotic to Earth Mother, on whose healing bosom these three vagabonds can (separately) rest, is not easy to accept. However, the film contains John Huston's best work in years; the shots of horse-hunting, by plane and truck are visual bonanzas. Miss Monroe is hush-voiced and jiggly, as usual, and manages occasionally to work herself into a nervous tizzy approximating neurosis. Gable's last film represents him fairly: a severely limited actor but a forceful, resonant man. Wallach is as Brooklynish a Westerner as you'll ever encounter. Clift comes off well, as the lonely, wiry little bronc-rider a long way from home. (Arthur Miller has turned his screenplay of The Misfits into what he calls a "cinema-novel" [Viking, $3.95], an effort to combine the immediary of film with the "reflective possibilities of the written word." With the reservations suggested above, he succeeds, describing the gutsy surface-action in trenchant prose, while at the same time probing his people's inner yearnings and orchestrating the whole into a meaningful social statement.
It may not be another Guys and Dolls, but Do Re Mi manages to serve as a high, wide and hilarious Runyonesque romp. This new musical, another in the growing galaxy of David Merrick hits (see On the Scene, page 108), is the work of a host of talented contributors: Phil Silvers and Nancy Walker, two of the theatre's most creative clowns; the reliable note-and-lyric team of Jule Styne, Betty Comden and Adolph Green; choreographers Marc Breaux and Deedee Wood, who invented the helter-skelter skedaddling: no less a writer-director than Garson Kanin; and a chorus line of the beamingest long-stemmed beauties that ever kept a businessman awake and happy. Admittedly, Kanin's book is an on-again, off-again shenanigan about some former slot-machine racketeers who come out of retirement to take over the jukebox industry, including the business of supplying singers and platters. But the vagrant narrative gives its top bananas a pair of comic characterizations that are a good cut above average. Phil Silvers plays Hubie Cram, a mousy operator who develops delusions of grandeur with the acquisition of some unemployed jukeboxes. Nancy Walker is his realistic wife who wants nothing better than to have her no-goodnik husband settle for honest employment-- preferably in her father's dry-cleaning establishment. Take a Job, Nancy pleads with her heart in her throat, but Phil sings out It's Legitimate with mock yeggs David Burns, George Mathews and George Givot. While the hard-boiled quarter wails a barroom-beery Don't be Ashamed of a Teardrop, Miss Walker is doing a wild fandango on a bouncy bed that gives this first rate comedienne her best moments in a half-dozen years. It is only fair to mention that Young Love (Nancy Dussault, John Reardon) offers a pair of ballads, and those good-looking girls we were talking about perform a mostly-naked nonsense number called What's new at the Zoo. What's new on Broadway is a galloping, good old-fashioned musical. At the St. James, 246 West 44th Street, NYC.
In his new novel, A Burnt-Out Case (Viking, $3.95), Graham Greene grapples again with the paradoxes of the Catholic faith and of mundane love which have been at the center of his most memorable earlier works. Here he tells of Querry, a world-acclaimed church architect who, no longer finding meaning or satisfaction either in his vocation or in his eminently successful avocation of love-making, flees civilization. Chance takes him to a Congo leprosery run by an order of Belgian priests and an atheist doctor. Like those lepers who can be cured only after the disease has eaten away all their fingers and toes, Querry is, spiritually, a burnt-out case when he arrives. Helping to build a hospital at the leprosery, he is on the verge of knowing happiness again, when the saint-seeking world intrudes in the form of a professionally cynical journalist, a foolishly pious colon and a murderously innocent girl. Like all of Greene's books, this one is written with the cool skill of a natural novelist in total control of his material. With great economy and restraint of language, he allows his characters to unveil themselves, revealing the strengths and weaknesses which, loosed, can mean joy or tragedy for bystanders. The book's limitations, particularly for those who have read The Heart of the Matter and The End of the Affair, are that the central figure of Querry, at once questing and rejecting, has become a standard one in the Greene cosmology, the numerous conversations about faith and grace contain familiar echoes and the plot, recalling Greene's superior mystery novels, has a quality of patness. A modest achievement, this, of a first-rank writer whose modest achievements are worth reading.
During any one of his performances, Bobby Short can be counted on to augment his usual repertoire of brightly-polished ditties with a number of tunes that never quite made it for one reason or another. These have become profitable staples for Mr. Short, who, by some vocal alchemy, transforms them into shimmering bits of nostalgia. Two particularly pleasing examples, offered by Bobby the evening we caught him at San Francisco's Hungry i, were Love Is on the Air Tonight, which we suspect was originally sung by Dick Powell or Jack Oakie in one of those Big Broadcast movies of the Thirties, and Little Jazz Bird, a tune we're sure George and Ira Gershwin considered one of their less-successful efforts of 1924. Bobby gave them both the "And who can ever forget..." treatment. Short is long on that highly intangible but nevertheless prime requisite of a prime performer, the ability to establish rapport with his audience. This go-around, Bobby rapported the hell out of the assemblage, especially during a wildly electrifying rendition of Down in Mexico. Throughout the proceedings, Short handled his man-sized vocal-piano chores with an engaging aplomb that belied the fireball-express effort he put forth. The smooth Short style may be sampled on a string of Atlantic LPs, including a rousing visit to the Mad Twenties, a swinging survey of what's happening On the East Side and a disc Bobby devotes to enthusiastically Speaking of Love.
It's easy to find out if a prospective vacation spot is attractive, expensive, and what activities it offers, etc., but how can you determine if young, unattached people go there? -- F. O'B., New Haven, Connecticut.
Going aboard for the flight back east, Walter Hardesty was greeted by a stewardess at the top of the ramp. There had been a time, a recent time, when Walter might have winked at her, when he might have made one of those yearning, suggestive and usually graceless remarks that define a hopelessly married man. There had been that time and now it was behindWalter Hardesty forever. He was still a married man; indeed his marriage was essential to his scheme of things. But now Walter was an emancipated married man, and on him it showed. He smiled at the pretty stewardess with a warm, piercing, knowing benevolence; her standard airlines smile of greeting teetered on her face and then turned into another kind of smile entirely. Her trim standard airlines figure made Walter a gesture that was somewhere between a little bow and the beginning of an old-fashioned curtsy; the pencil she held over her clipboard made an unintended mark.
I was Nine Years of Age when I founded a Secret Society which created a certain commotion among the pupils of the College Georges Courteline -- an ancient boarding school situated in a quiet provincial town not far from Paris. The Society's purpose was to fight against war.
That French Cooking is the finest in the Western world, no man in his right appetite could possibly question. Too many bachelors outside France, however, make the mistake of thinking that the magnificence of the art culinaire depends upon the lavish use of one main ingredient: time. A Frenchman who's in a mood for onion soup, say, is quite content to take five hours just to simmer his stock before the first slice of onion goes into the pot. If you look up Alex-andre Dumas' recipe for leg of mutton Mirabeau (and we hereby excuse you for a full four minutes), you're told to keep the meat on the fire a comfortable seven hours before the mutton is ready for the carving board. And when you put tripe à la mode de Caen in the oven, you're warned that under no circumstances are you to open the casserole before twelve hours have elapsed. When such examples are cited, no man can be blamed for jumping to the conclusion that speed and convenience have no place in French cooking. But it isn't always so, by any means.
It was said of the years between 1870 and 1929 that the world was divided into two camps: those who lived in Paris, and those who wanted to. For the few who failed to regard it as an island of sanity in an insane world, it served equally well as the reverse. It possessed for many the attraction of an artistic and intellectual mecca, drawing unto it pilgrims from all over the world who came to touch the robes and receive the blessings of its glittering pantheon of iconoclastic deities: Gauguin, Gide, Hemingway, Giraudoux, Proust, Picasso, Joyce, Pirandello, Malraux, Milhaud, Fitzgerald, Modigliani, Stein, Stieglitz, Schiaparelli. Many others, however, hearing the archetypal call of the Panpipe down the twisting alleys of Montmartre and Montparnasse, were lured into a maelstrom of mah-jongg, gin fizzes, sinuous tangos, encrimsoned mouths, art nouveau, lemon-yellow Hispano-Suizas, "casual" suicides and gigantic ribboned candy boxes. "We drank up our lives," one survivor has said, "as though through a straw." One can never hope to recapture the bittersweet flavor of that life -- today so irretrievably lost, yet still so magically seductive. But the enchanting and ephemeral vision of the time -- its light and movement, its color and mood, its texture and design -- has been caught and imprisoned, like a butterfly in amber, between the pale blue-green leaves of La Vie Parisienne -- an extraordinary publication which burst upon fin de siècle Paris like a Bastille Day fireworks display. Decade after decade -- until the Wall Street crash shattered all the blown-glass illusions of the age -- La Vie was a gilded mirror for tattle and whimsy, art and letters, farce and fashion but most of all, for six upbeat generations of frothily evanescent womankind. Wrought by the most luminous literary and artistic figures of the time -- Baudelaire, Colette, Dore, and many others, all contributing under elaborate pseudonyms -- La Vie added its own beguiling chapter to the Origin of Species. By gradual evolution, it created the conquered but unconquerable, elegantly disarrayed Parisienne -- an emancipated and gently predatory breed of ladies-who-don't-want-babies; a confection part musk, part sauce, part sugar-candy; a pneumatic child-woman with nursery tastes and bedroom eyes, permanently and charmingly arrested in the oral phase of development. She adorned its pages, habillé and déshabillé, sitting, standing, walking, sleeping, eating, bathing, preening, flittering, languishing -- caught in every mood and posture within the increasingly wide bounds of what was considered propriety -- a tantalizing and eluive ideal as sedulously emulated by women as she was pursuedby men. Even today the vision is undimmed. It is still a poignant thing to feel, filtered perhaps through a haze of sweet melancholy, something of the appetite for life with which the era -- and its giddy girls -- were so irrepressibly infused.
If the dream of the American male---as some have said, only half in jest--is to grow up and marry a beautiful, nymphomaniacal heiress who runs a liquor store, the American female's dream is that someday, somewhere, she will be tapped on the shoulder and a gentleman will present his engraved card identifying him as a talent scout associated with a major motion picture studio or an independent producer. He will bow, tip his hat, and say, "Excuse me, but I think you're just the girl we've been looking for to play the lead in our new twelve-million-dollar production of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. At that instant (in the fantasies of every female, from high school sophomore to harried house-frau), a star is born.
If All Good Things come to those who wait, ex-waitress Nancy Nielsen can surely expect a super-sized supply of nothing but the best. This lady-in-waiting has high hopes of nabbing a TV or movie thesping contract, wants to make the move from memorizing menus to learning lines in the very near future. But it's more than just the wishful dream of a wistfulhopeful: Twentieth Century-Fox is sufficiently impressed with her potential and proportions to have enrolled her in their acting school. Nancy's home in Lynwood, California, is just a sports-car spin from Hollywood, the Gilt Complex that's the spur for her acting ambitions. NN is a motoring enthusiast and a superb sports-car accessory in her own right: when she isn't scrubbing down her MGA between trips for dramatic coaching or dashing out to the Coliseum to cheer for the Dodgers, she takes more than a passing interest in oil painting. We aver that twenty-year-old Nancy Nielsen makes a pert and pretty picture within her own 36-24-36 frame.
You know what we are living in man? We are living in the age of the Urban Chick. You can't tell them any thing. They're hip! they learned it all at Smith or Radcliffe.I'm like a Little Boy Hvey! What can I do?
Everyone makes mistakes. Businessmen, young or old, are no exceptions to this rule. And neither am I. Like most people, I'd much prefer to have the memories of my mistakes fade quietly into oblivion, but there are many I cannot forget. Among them are three monumental blunders I shall always remember.
That Girl who made the Greeks launch a thousand ships had nothing on Linda Gamble, last year's April Love. Miss G's incredibly-constructed figure was classic enough to launch a fleet of vote-bearing missives pitching for luscious Linda as Playmate of the Year. The face that goes with the figure, an intriguing amalgam of sophistication and sensuality, added to the aura of an out-of-the-ordinary Playmate. Linda was really no gamble at all for our annual accolade -- for the fourth year in a row, Playboy's editors and readers were as one in their choice of the choicest. The former pride of Pittsburgh has since wended her way to the Windy City, where in leporine splendor she niftily fills out one of the Playboy Club's Bunny costumes. Linda, who used to collect antiques back where the Monongahela meets the Allegheny, now collects appreciative glances from club customers. Our champion chick has big green eyes for water skiing and sports-car driving, a pair of rather adventuresome avocations which have set our brow afurrow; we'd hate to have the wrappings ruffled on Playboy's 1960 prize package.
The arrival of Spring is observed by certain primitive tribes with eye-popping fertility rites in which the males--wearing crimson paste, bristling feathers and rapt expressions--impersonate the mating dance of indigenous wild birds. Our own version of this ritual, of course, is far more protracted, lasting straight through the hot months; and far more intricate, involving not one but many such tribal celebrations (which we call "parties"), as well as an entire season of such ceremonials as the sacrifice of fatted calves (called "dining al fresco" or "barbecues") and the rattling of gourds to fend off evil spirits (called "cocktail-shaking"). In civilized society, all of these seasonal observances require the display of male plumage which, though less flamboyant than its primitive counterpart, is equally possessed of social significance (and certainly holds a better crease). The urban man who fails to perceive the sometimes finely shaded sartorial distinctions between the colorful and the gaudy, the conservative and the pedestrian, the elegant and the expensive, is consigned to the bottom of the pecking order just as irrevocably as the square who shows up featherless at a Friday night fertility social.
A Certain Judge's Wife believed that no man alive could defeat her in the game of Venus. Therefore, from time to time, when the judge was away at court, she would place a bet and have a contest. She always won.
After A Look at New York's theatre marquees, one might begin to suspect that producer David Merrick has signed Thespis herself to an exclusive contract. With five shows running simultaneously on Broadway (Do Re Mi, Gypsy, Irma La Doucne. Becket, A Taste of Honey), two more on tour (Destry Rides Again, La Plume de Ma Taste), another opening this month. (Carnival), and three others coming this fall (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, I Can Get It for You Wholesale and Oliver), Merrick has become undeniably and unrelentingly the most prolific and prosperous producer in the history of the theatre. He has parlayed four million dollars' total investment into a cool forty million gross since 1954. But withal, his success has not been unalloyed. The dauntless impresario who introduced the American public to Osborne's Epitaph for George Dillon in 1958 at a tidy loss ("If I like something, I put it on"), is also the ballyhoo merchant who arranged for a life-sized nude statue of belly dancer Nejla Ates to be placed on a pedestal in Central Park's Poet's Corner as a stunt to publicize Fanny ("I'll do anything to sell a play"). Merrick's pitching style may be oddball, but even his critics find it difficult to argue with his 750 batting average--fifteen hits in twenty at-bats.
The Peppery Gentleman who accepted the editorship of McCall's, in November 1958, did so at perhaps the most inauspicious moment of his -- or its -- career. After more than twenty years as the pioneering editor who had built Cosmopolitan and Good Housekeeping into the showcases of the Hearst empire. Herb Mayes had found himself unemployed following a war with the management over his efforts to brighten a lacklustre editorial policy. Suffering from the same malady -- hardening of the policies, monetary malnutrition, bad circulation -- McCall's seemed to be on the verge of prostration. But Mayes, empowered by McCall's president Arthur Langlie and chief stockholder Norton Simon to prescribe his own cures without stint or stifling, proved to be just what the doctor ordered; McCall's circulation has been pumped up to a phenomenal seven million, hypoed with massive doses of brain-food for the wide-ranging interests of the modern woman: first-rate fiction by writers like Steinbeck, Wouk and Drury; strong editorials castigating evils ranging from the decline in symphony orchestras to the rise in life insurance rates. Fed on a high-calorie diet of rich advertising, its girth has fattened to a healthy average of two hundred pages a month. Its complexion -- made radiant by Art Director Otto Storch's eye-drenching layouts -- has become the rosiest around. And its editor, at an age when most men are content to rest on their annuities, has bounded into a second career which most would be glad to trade for their first.
Third Stream Music, today reverberating on records and in concert halls, is "neither jazz nor classical, but draws upon the techniques of both." So says composer--French hornist Gunther Schuller, principal practitioner and coiner of the term, who, along with John Lewis, Bill Russo, George Russell and others, is piloting the way down a stream that's part classical discipline and part jazz tradition. Schuller, the thirty-five-year-old Manhattan-based helmsman, writes jazz and classical charts as well as such Third Stream excursions as the ballet Variants, performed last January by the New York City Center Ballet. His well-schooled compatriots share his aim: to utilize the best of two worlds. As Russo hears it, "The vital simplicity of jazz call be enhanced by the instruments of the classical orchestra." The Third Streamists, according to Lewis, seek the enlightenment and pleasure that first-rate music provides. Dodging rigid rules, he says, "I play the music I want to hear." Bolstered by sufficient audience support to rebuff some of the purists catcalling from both sides, the experimental new music continues to flourish. As the pens of Schuller and friends flow, so flows the Third Stream.
As every clod knows, the end of spring and the beginning of summer is the traditional start of the tourist season and it usually evokes shudders among knowledgeable travelers who have had, it up to here with the two-weeks-with-pay set that seems to roam everywhere on God's green earth. Happily, though, there are still a couple of spots relatively free from the hordes, and we herewith pass them on to you.