Last week the sedate lights of Manhattan's Carnegie Hall shone on a well-polished bald head, which bobbed and weaved over the assorted pates of the New York Philharmonic-Symphony Orchestra. Now & then the glabrous dome would shake like a furiously boiling egg, starting a corporeal tremolo through the whole lean, ascetic body. Long arms and clenched fists flailed high & low. It was a sight to see. And from the Philharmonic this flailing and shaking drew the most satisfactory and exciting sounds since the days of Arturo Toscanini.
Dimitri Mitropoulos thus went through the second week of a month's spell as guest...
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