The Rice Thresher (Houston, Tex.), Vol. 44, No. 12, Ed. 1 Wednesday, November 28, 1956 Page: 3 of 8
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New Records Out By
Brubeck, W hite, Coniff
A REVIEW
Little Boy Evil
A STORY
BY MIKE REYNOLDS
i r TH
"Fat ol' cat... fat cat... fat oP cat sat on a rat."
A small tousle-haired boy with a sack over his shoul-
der skipped down the rain-washed sidewalk. The flash
summer downpour had changed the Denver street into a
civilized stream, encased in concrete. The boy stopped to
investigate the intricate pat-
terns his new tennis shoes
left on the walk.
The burlap bag twitched with
a life of its own, reminding him
of his business.
"Mommy's mad . . . mommy's
mad and I'm glad an she don't
know where to find me. . . she
don't know where to find her fat
ol' eat."
He threw a rock at a tree limb
as it hurried down the street,
carried by the water. It was a
young limb, he thought, and could
do nothing but follow the water.
He too followed the water.
Down the street—down, down,
down—past houses—big houses,
funny houses, houses with soft,
green lawns, empty houses—emp-
ty streets—no one. Ahead the
creek, rising slowly from the
fresh mountain rain. He quicken-
ed Ms pace.
"You'd think they'd let a guy
go to-the show once in a while
. . . no . . . never . . . never let
me go to a show. Clean your
room; get you lessons . . . any ol'
thing but never go to a show."
. He remembered his fruitless
plan—to go to the show he must
be very good. He ate all of his
breakfast, even the oatmeal. He
hated oatmeal. He helped with
the dishes—
"Well, what would mother ever
do without her little helper!"
"I like 4 to help you, mommy,
cause you're the best mommy in
the whole, big world."
She liked to hear that. He said
it often.
1 At mid-morning the rain be-
gan. Sheets of angry water beat
against the roof, making gurg-
ling noises in the drain. He wait-
ed .. . much later the rain slowed
and drizzled itself out.
He thought of the western
showing at the movie and hasten-
ed towards his mother's sanctu-
ary. He seldom went in there be-
cause that was the "big folk's
room."
Dorfn the long hall he crept,
fighting off imaginary Indians
froin the silent doorways.
"That's all for you, Injun. . .
ya can't fool ol Wild Bill."
He stopped at the door, com-
posed himself, and entered. His
mother was putting the final
touches to her make-up.
"Gosh, mom, there's a plenty
good show on today. Yathinka. ."
"Roddy," she said, interrupting
him, "mother has to pick up the
working man because ..."
, ."That'll what she always calls
daddy," he thought, not hearing
the rest of her excuses.
. . so why don't you be
mother's big boy and guard the
house? And if Mrs. Tellepsen
calls tell her 111 be right back."
"Then I guess I don't go to the
show today, huh?"
(Continued on Page 4)
A Medium
Of Expression
This is the second time the
Thresher has published stu-
dents' creative writing. Five
years ago the Thresher car-
ried a literary supplement
each month. The repetition of
this project depends entirely
on student interest.
BY TOM BELL
Dave Brubeck and Jay & Kai
at Newport-Columbia CL
For those that missed the mo-
tion picture High Society, New-
port, R.I., is the scene of an an-
nual Jazz Festival that out-festi-
vates all other Jazz Festivals.
For a week each year the popula-
tion of Rhode Island is upped
considerably as cats and chicks
stream in to pick up on the
largest gathering of jazz musi-
cians in the world.
This year Columbia records
was on the spot to record the do-
ings of their stable of artists.
Now on one record are the Dave
Brubeck Quartet and the J. J.
Johnson—Kai Winding Quintet.
These two groups are'among the
most popular of modern jazz
combos and the material issued
on this disc illustrates why they
are at the top.
New Releases
Four of the seven pieces on the
disc are by the Brubeck quartet.
Only one of the numbers—Take
the "A" Train—has been released
on record before and the two ver-
sions are similar only in the be-
ginning' and ending measures.
Two Part Contention is a Bru-
beck original that involves some
slick tempo changes, excellent
bass work by Joe Dodge and the
ever present alto sax of Des-
mond. In Your Own Sweet Way
is Brubeck in a reflective mood—
thinking with the ends of his
fingers.
In the last number, I'm in a
Dancing Mood, "We decided to
thuew our whole life into one
tune. Fast, slow, tempos mixed
together, tempos changing; a
real spectacular like on TV."
Kai & Jay come on strong with
three numbers^ This is their last
time to appear on record together
but they swing like they were
never j^oing to split up.
In Lover Come Back" to . Me
they play the close harmony that
has made them famous in their
duets.
True Blue Trombonium is a
swing blues bit by Winding.
Nwpt is an original by J.J.
Josh Sings at Midnight
Elektra EKL-102
Gutbucket blues—the best of
them on record. Placed as only
one man can play them—Josh
White. Two hands, a guitar, and
a voice. This )s Josh at his best.
A race that had no other way to
express itself turned to music.
Josh has kept their musical heri-
tage. Here it is on record. Ex-
pressive, rhythmic, sometimes
happy, most often sad. Play St.
James Infirmary; you'll see what
I mean.
S'Wonderful Columbia CL-925
. A collection of old standards
with a solid beat. The band ia. a
new one and it has the fullest
sound since Les Elgart started
cutting records. The leader of
the band is Ray Coniff and he
does an excellent job of serving
up in a new distinctive style.
The seldom used "open vocal"
touch is brought into action
along with liberal sprinkling of
some strange and exotic Chinese
chimes and gongs.
The Man
A STORY
BY MARCUS SMITH
He had been drinking all morning, without even eat-
ing breakfast, and by eleven o'clock he was stinking drunk.
He was sitting on the screen porch dressed in an old dirty,
tee-shirt, khakis, and his old marine boots, puffing deeply
on a cigarette. I knew I had better work hard or he would
jump on me. I was in the pe-
can tree in the back yard,
beating on the branches with
the thick bamboo pole; the
pecans thudded as they hit the
ground. I heard the screen door
slam, and instantly redoubled
my efforts. Wham! Wham!
Leaves and branches fell amidst
the shower of green-clad nuts.
It was autumn, cool and arid.
The dust made my nose and
throat dry and sensitive. Daddy
walked under the tree, groping
on the ground for some pecans,
stumbling. He picked up two,
broke the shells in his hand, and
ate the meat.
"Where in hell's Peter?"
"I don't know, daddy. He went
to the Fun Club. Its not out
until eleven thirty."
He turned and started back to
the house."
"Hurry up with that job; I've
got plenty more for you, boy."
Every Saturday, work, work,
do this, do that. "Buddy, next
Saturday, you and I have got
some jobs to do." Only 'you and
I' always turned out to be 'me'
while he supervised.
I clambered to the ground and
(Continued on Page 5)
WE KNOW NOW
A POEM
We
BY WESLEY HIGHT
know, now, with our one-
world view of things
That time is a great tide that
'equalizes,
Spreading the flow of glory and
stilled ruins
Diversely among annals. You can
see
In all the latest archives how a
Crete
Basked splendid in her mid-sea
domicile,
In Mediterranean sunlight, and
warm wind
Reckoning both her riches and
decline
Unconsciously. And if the heart
of it
Cduld tell the casual wonder of a
day
Passed in Cnossus, and if you
could hear,
You would be certain that no
power had force
Sufficient to put Crete into the
pfest,
A majesty for archeologists.
But we who sit, now, by the flow-
ing waters
That once made Egypt ripe, and
Babylon
The temple of the harvest dieties,
Can see the changing currents,
on the tide—
Which wells up from the foun-
tains of the fortunes—•
Ebbing from our beaches, where
we find
The leavings of an empire long
asleep,
And combings for the wonderer
to espy
As stupidly as one in the museum
Looks on a meaningless Grecian
figurine.
We jiggle on the wires they
thought for us
And these attachments are as
reasonable
As any governed by the bounds
of choice,
From which we know to use what
things we have
After a fashion. But the fact that
holds,
And mocks the whims rof usage,
is the one
That shows an empire utterly
gone by,
An Angor Thom, an Hittite race,
or tales
Of Daedelus or Midas. And
Greece passed.
And someday here the snoopers
will carouse
And pick at this and that, and
get no grasp
Of all the Veiy glory that has
been
The" grandeur of these failures, or
the twist
That sluffed off the glory to new
temples,
But may at least perceive the in-
ner secret
That all of this, and theirs, if
plastic stuff
Formed by the phantom, hands of
gods and men.
The Red Book
A STORY
By BILL HOLT
The soft ticking of the brass
clock became obnoxious. I look-
ed up and scanned the room,
adjusting my eyes to the semi-
darkness. A single lamp burned
behind my left shoulder spread-
ing its hot light into the sha-
dows. The yellow beams dwindled
as they reached into the dark
corners. I leaned and squinted
at the clocjc. which had been in
the shadow of my head.
"Two thirty and a hundred and
fifty-three pages to go," I mum-
bled to myself.
I laid the book „ on the long,
squatty coffee (table. I stood up
yawning and stretching. My
hands were red; the cover had
faded from contact with per-
spiration. The lines on my palms
were dark red. I wiped them on
my pants and walked to the
door. The metal knob was cool.
I turned it quickly and stepped
onto the balcony.
The city was sleeping. For a
moment I could hear nothing.
I was the only person in the
world. Then a d9g barked. Auto-
mobile tires screamed in the dis-
tance. I lit my last cigarette
and leaned heavily on the black
wooden rail. The cigarette tasted
good. The white smoke floated
away in the cool air, air that
was content to merely roll slow-
ly by and die against the walls,
air that was too weak to push
the curtairts from the window
sill. I threw the empty, crumpled
package to the ground and walk-
ed lightly down the iron stairs.
The movie billboard across the
street was in partial darkness.
The dim illumination from a
nearby streetlight made the let-
ters visible; B-U-S-T-O-P. I
spelled out the incorrect title and
laughed. Stupid movie, I thought.
I walked toward the corner. My
footsteps sounded as though
they shuffled along ahead, and
when I turned at the corner,
they echoed into the street and
had to overtake me. I decided to
buy some cigarettes in the Tod-
dle Hoyse. I took a last drag
and threw my old cigarette in
the gutter. The street cleaner
hadn't been by yet.
Inside, two men were sitting
on stools. They looked over their
shoulders when I walked in, and
went on talking. I stepped to the
cigarette machine. A quarter, a
nickel, and a pull, and a pack
of Chesterfields dropped into a
dirty chrome tray. I picked
them up and walked back out-
side. I unwrapped the package
and stuffed it into my shirt
(Continued on Page 6)
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The Rice Thresher (Houston, Tex.), Vol. 44, No. 12, Ed. 1 Wednesday, November 28, 1956, newspaper, November 28, 1956; Houston, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth231042/m1/3/: accessed June 23, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Rice University Woodson Research Center.