The World of Charles Aznavour. He
looks preshrunk, forlorn, anonymous, an obsequious undertaker in a tight black suitexcept that dark eyes of mourning seem to have been burned into his head with a blowtorch. He is pale, wary, jumpy, an urban night monkey traveling in the jungle of cities from Paris to New York. The combo behind him breaks into a jazz beat, and he punctuates the air around him with staccato jabs of his hand mike. Nervously he whips the mike cord, and it coils and undulates like a black snake. At the end of it, his slight body stiffens in...
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