OCR Text |
Show Wingovers All the news that's fit to print from the Delta Airport by Dick Morrison Fuel Low Delta's excellent landing field proved a life ' saver for 'another AF plane last week. Major W. H. Holt, flying an F-51 from Great 1 Falls to Las Vegas set down here ' Friday with only four gallons of 1 gas in his tank. At the rate his i ship was burning it, this would have turned his engine only a few thousand more revolutions. Major Holt spent Friday .night and part of Saturday tuning up his engine with the help of Leo Burraston, slract idea, provided art impression impres-sion is conveyed that an intelligent intelli-gent person can grasp. I can't believe it intellectually or artistically artist-ically 'honest to portray the world in Daliesque manner. The other day in Salt Lake I bought a new record, sound unheard, un-heard, just because the advertising blurb caught my fancy. The City of Glass, by Bob Graettinger. A fascinating contribution to contemporary con-temporary American music, it was supposed to be. I couldn't wait to get home to play it. And then what a let-down I got. Of all the cacophonous jangles! ' The composition com-position was claimed to suggest a city whose structures were stapes of musical sound, transparent and in constant motion, so that one . . , j , ., then tok off for Hill Field. By coincidence, I happened to be in the INSAC house Sunday evening talking to Don Bothwell, when Holt was heard reporting to Salt Lake radio at 1726, estimating his time over Delta at 1759, in flight to Las Vegas two days delayed. Searle Dept. (Cont.) If the Searle brothers step up their flying activities much more, it may be necessary for this column col-umn to run a special Searle depart ment. Last week Archie reportedly bought the club Champ, unless I've lost count, makes the third airplane in the family, and Tex took some dual instruction in night landings in his Cessna. Hot Shots could be seen through the outlines of others, a city of moving glasslike glass-like edifices. I guess I expected a modern bit of musical description like the Moudau, or an intricate structure of thematic material like Franck's D-Minor Symphony. But it wasn't what I got. Mostly I found it unintelligible. At times, it was almost las "harmonious" "har-monious" as Stravinsky's Infernal Dance of the Firebird; other passages pass-ages suggested Shostakovitch at his worst. (And right here I feel impelled to add that I don't like Shostakovitch). I think his American Ameri-can build-up stemmed from the efforts of Russophiles to exalt all things Russian. I know of no more disgraceful episode in the history of music than his apologizing to Stalin for not composing music more in keeping with proletarian revolution, and I think the poor sap is more to be pitied than scored. Of the City of Glass, the ad ;puff said its fresh new sound almost al-most defies teohnical explanation. . broken rhythmic lines vibrant vib-rant imagination .... unhibited spirit. Somehow those words look different now that I've heard the music. To any record collector who may be tempted to buy the City of Glass, all I want to say is, don't pay over your money until you hear it. After having been grounded the week before on account of snow, sleet, mud and poor visibility, the Odd Fellows annual turkey shoot finally got off the ground last Saturday and Sunday. The weather weat-her was clear, wind was cold from NNW, and visibility was unlimited except that it was pretty hard to see some of the turkey's heads. No trouble was reported except the icing-up of some of the patrons. Under the able stewardship of Ray Steele, who doubles as Noble Grand when not climbing Packard's Pack-ard's Peak to fix the beacon, Les Welton, Owen Holt, Speed Riding, Herman Munster, Dick Hunsaker, and others too numerous to mention, men-tion, the affair went off very well. The Chronicle's business manager, man-ager, Frank S. Beckwith, did himself him-self proud as a. marksman, but unfortunately, un-fortunately, the Editor, Athena Cook, proved she couldn't hit the wall of barn shooting from the inside. However, her better half, Bill, turned out to be a marksman par excellence. It was my misfortune misfor-tune to be in a target shoot group which inrlnded "Rill Cook and La Var Owens. I didn't get the turkey, tur-key, naturally. A ladies target shoot was organized, or-ganized, and it is said one of the gals actually hit the target, but the report was not verified. I don't think Marianne Knox hit it, in any oase. Marianne told me she had never shot a gun before. Glen Christensen bagged a turkey, tur-key, but then Glen was once the best shot in the Nephi National Guard unit, and also he claims to have been the best shot in Korea while he was there. So the turkey (he shot at didn't have any more chance than a Chinese Red. I had hoped to see what Fred Clayton could do in a trap shot, butt they took so long to get Fred's unit organozed that I practically froze to death and left too soon to enjoy Fred's ballistic antics. Don and Dorothy Bothwell were observed ob-served at the scene, but if they copped a turkey they sure kept quiet about it. Some may object that the annual turkey shoot is rather hard on the turkeys, hut for me, I can't see any difference in killing them that way than some other. All turkeys wind up on a platter, and that certain preliminary is essential. essent-ial. After all, the question of whether whe-ther Thanksgiving day is a time of joy or something else would seem to depend on whether one sees it from the viewpoint of a 'human, a turkeys, or, for that matter, a cranberry. Chaoticism If I may coin a word, and no one seems to be raising any objection, ob-jection, I think chaoticism would be a good name for the thing a lot of our modern creative artists represent. Call them the devotees of chaoticism, or the high priests of the cult of chaoticism. If they were to try deliberately to bring chaos out of order, they could hardly do differently than they do. Of course it may be that I'm just not ready for their stuff yet. Maybe it's over my head. Still I can't forget that it was not so long ago that the prize winning picture at an exhibit of modern paintings turned out to have been hung upside up-side down, and the judges didn't know it until after they awarded the prize. I never did see that picture, and while it may have been ultra terrific, I can't help thinking it must not have conveyed any idea very clearly, even an abstract one if they couldn't tell top from bottom. The kind of pictures I like are the ones that are of something, of a landscape, for instance, in which the sky plainly belongs on top, or even of an ab- |