Spring 1965 • Vol. XXVII No. 2 Nonfiction |

In That Solitary Room

The only group of any note to be seen in Bloomsbury these days is an occasional guitar-beating band of vocalists from the north, bound for the Soho recording studios and agents' offices. It might be the Kinks or the Pretty Things or the Rolling Stones—and God alone knows what Virginia Woolf would make of them if she were to return to the streets and squares she haunted when alive. Perhaps, though, she wouldn't be too severe in her strictures. After all, there's something about them that is uniquely British, they stick close together, and they have a way of attracting animated attention to themselves. But at first she would probably be too busy investigating the district's broader physical changes to notice the strange shift of cultural emphasis that makes the scribblings of a youth calling himself a Beatle a serious topic at literary cocktail parties. Groups may come and groups may go, but what's this on the doorway at 46 Gordon Square, early home of Virginia and the other orp

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Rhythm and Blues

By Wallace Hildick

The only group of any note to be seen in Bloomsbury these days is an occasional guitar-beating band of vocalists from the north, bound for the Soho recording studios and […]

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