Kind Of Similar

9:30pm on Easter Night, at 54 Below. There's an elephant in the room, and her name is Barbra.

Although Roslyn Kind only made one, brief, passing mention of "my sister" during her entire 90 minute performance (and not by name), the virtual presence of Barbra Streisand still loomed large over the proceedings. Nearly everything about Ms. Kind's physical appearance seemed deliberately calculated to suggest her older sister: the meticulously-straightened honey blonde hair; the flawlessly manicured talons; the expertly extended Cleopatra eye makeup; the black pantsuit which recalled a more conservative, age appropriate version of Streisand's famous see-through Scassi pajamas; and the regal schnozz, often turned in profile. It's all the more unnerving when one realizes that this uncanny doppelganger bears very little resemblance to the Roslyn Kind who had been a fledgling RCA recording artist and nightclub singer in the 1960's and 1970's. When did this complete metamorphosis take place?

Even more disconcerting than the physical similarities were Ms. Kind's vocal mannerisms and performance tics, which also practically screamed, "I'm the greatest star!" It was like watching an extraordinarily talented Streisand impersonator. Kind's early RCA recordings reveal a slight vocal similarity, although Kind was a little more nasal and perhaps not as warmly burnished in tone as her sister. But now, whether by design, or with age, or perhaps both, Kind's deepened register has rendered her voice an almost exact replica of Streisand's. And Kind's phrasing and cadence have become eerily like that of her sibling, both in singing and speech.

There are differences, of course. For one thing, Kind is obviously a much more accessible artist than Streisand, willing to make direct contact with her audience. She's nice, and utterly likable. Down to earth. Homier. She takes her frequent sips of hot tea from a paper delicatessen cup, not Limoges. Frankly, one senses that the chief attraction for Kind's devoted cult of fans (many of whom peppered the performance with "Brava"'s and "Welcome home"'s) is that she is the warm, friendly, approachable flip-side-Streisand that they wish her imposing, forbidding sister could be. Making her entrance through the audience to the deliciously daffy "It's a Beautiful Day" (a tuneful late Sixties period piece from her debut album), Ms. Kind passed out daisies to delighted audience members. Ms. Streisand, had she even considered such a move, would no doubt have assigned the task to the ushers.

And while Streisand is (or at least, was) well-known for her kooky, quirky sense of humor, you can hardly imagine the almost frighteningly regal Streisand of today getting saucy, as Ms. Kind did, on "I Can Cook, Too" (from Comden and Green's On the Town); or camping it up on the special material "If He Was Straight (And I Were Young)," cleverly juxtaposed with "The Boy Next Door" from Meet Me in St. Louis (1944).

Interestingly, for all of her seemingly-conscious mimicking of her sister's physical and vocal traits, Ms. Kind studiously avoided performing any material which could be connected with Streisand, with the possible exception of that snippet of "The Boy Next Door," which Big Sis Babs had recorded on her 1967 Simply Streisand album; and Sergio Mendes' "So Many Stars," which Streisand included on her recent album of Alan and Marilyn Bergman lyrics, but is not particularly closely associated with her. Of course, Streisand has recorded so extensively, that this narrows the field somewhat for Ms. Kind. On the plus side, necessity being the mother of invention, Ms. Kind has unearthed some hidden treasures which are rarely heard; on the negative side of the ledger, some should have remained buried.

Which is not to say that there were any truly bad choices in Ms. Kind's repertoire, because there weren't; only some hackneyed ones. Her "signature" song, and first encore, for instance, was "Can You Read My Mind," the pretty-but-sappy love theme from Superman (1978), replete with outer space and flying metaphors shoehorned into the lyrics. We're fairly certain that even Maureen McGovern, who had the original hit with the soundtrack version, has dropped it from her act by now.

However, in another, quite welcome parallel to Streisand, Ms. Kind, like her sister, can make even the most awkward or trite lyric sound exponentially weightier by the innate gravitas in her delivery. And, unlike Streisand, whose approach to these lesser lyrics is sometimes akin to swatting a fly with an Oldsmobile, Kind's approach is somewhat more delicate. She performed a remarkably beautiful rendition of the little-known Burt Bacharach/Hal David tune, "I Just Have to Breathe," a lighter-than-air souffle of a song which could have collapsed under a more heavy handed interpretation.

Other highlights of the evening included a gossamer ballad penned by the wonderful Ann Hampton Callaway titled "Perfect"; a soaring "Kiss Her Now" from Jerry Herman's Dear World, combined rather brilliantly with his "It Only Takes a Moment" from Hello, Dolly (another Streisand drive-by, although her character doesn't sing it in the score); and Kind's final number of the night, "Come What May," which was one of Patti LaBelle's signature tunes in the 1970's. That she delivered it so beautifully, eradicating, at least for the moment, any memory of LaBelle's formidable performance, is praiseworthy. Even if it did still remind you of someone else.

It's Today!

 

 

MARILYN MAYE

April 10, 1928

Darling Liliane

She stalks the stage like a tigress, long, lean, lithe. Whippet thin and yet all woman -- not a hint of a waif-like urchin, or the trace of the athletic tomboy. Markedly French, deliciously feminine, intoxicatingly glamorous: we could only be describing Liliane Montevecchi, the feather boa-ed diva of MGM pictures; the Folies Bergère; the original Broadway production of Nine, which won her a Tony; and, now, a new one woman act entitled Hello, Darlings, which opened last night at 54 Below.

Taking the stage in all black, the left leg of her flowing pants slit and ruffled up the thigh to expose a leg to make Dietrich and Charisse sigh in envy, La Montevecchi held us all enthralled with her throaty, expressive voice and exquisite presence. The song program held few true surprises ("La Vie En Rose"? Check. "Les Feuilles Morte [Autumn Leaves]"? Check. "Ne Me Quitte Pas"? Check.), but what counted was the presentation. It was a master class in owning a stage, and commanding an audience. It was absolutely compelling. This sophisticated, New York audience banged tables, shouted anguished declarations of love, screamed and "Brava!"-ed. 

Liliane Montevecchi in the 1950's: the legs look even better today.

We are also happy to report that we can now add "made our nightclub debut" to our resume -- we were summoned with one of La Montevecchi's elegant, flawlessly lacquered fingers to the stage. Truth be told, we didn't have to do much -- in fact, "You just sort of stand there... Don't move!" as "our" number instructed. Yes, darlings, last night, we were Liliane Montevecchi's human prop for "A New Fangled Tango." When we first stepped into the spotlight, we looked out at the audience. "Don't look at them!" La Montevecchi said sharply, in a tone worthy of Gloria Swanson. "Only look at me!" Of course, we did as we were told. And it wasn't difficult to do, with those enormous, coal-black eyes of hers rooting us firmly in place.

When the song ended, we stood still for a moment as the crowd applauded. In what we imagined displayed crack comic timing, we stage whispered out of the corner of our mouth, "May I move now?" Exiting the nightclub some time later, we stopped by the table of Marilyn Maye, who just wrapped up her own triumphant, two-weeks-long-and-then-some-by-popular-demand run at 54 Below (read about it here). "Honey, a star is born!" she joked. It was only after we stepped outside and began our walk home that we suddenly went weak in the knees, and everything seemed a little blurry. My God, we realized. We had just been on stage with Liliane Montevecchi, in front of Marilyn Maye. And Tommy Tune. And Arlene Dahl. And heaven knows who else. (Ms. Montevecchi isn't big on celebrity introductions from the stage.) Oh, all we had to do was stand still and be a stooge, but what a great audience to be a stooge for! 

Arlene Dahl

Tommy Tune

Marvelous Marilyn Maye

It was a thrilling evening of stories, songs, and leg lifting (yes, she can still raise one above her head without hesitation) and Liliane Montevecchi is only performing one more show at 54 Below, tonight. See you on the stage!

Buy tickets here.

Her Personal Property

When the indefatigable Marilyn Maye sings that New York is "My Personal Property" (from Sweet Charity) in her current show at 54 Below, it's impossible not to agree with the statement. From the time this soon-to-be 85 years young phenomenon made her return to Manhattan night life in 2006, after a lengthy absence, she has inspired the kind of cultish devotion among savvy Gothamites which rivals that of any venerated diva you can think of, from Garland to Bassey. And, most certainly, if the rapt, adoring 54 Below audience could wrap up the Planetarium, the Aquarium and the Central Park Zoo, and present them at La Maye's bejeweled feet, they would.

Here at Stirred, Straight Up, we've sung the praises of Marilyn Maye so often, it's difficult to come up with fresh ways of stating, "Marilyn Maye has never been better." Quite simply, there is no one singing in the same realm as she who can be considered equal or greater. She is the total performer. She can create devastating intimacy ("Something Cool," that brilliant saloon-cum-art song); or she can be the original good time gal (a storming medley of "Get Happy," "I Want to Be Happy" and "Sometimes I'm Happy"). She's sophisticated (a six song Cole Porter medley), bawdy (a rip-roaring "Blues in the Night"); elegant ("My Ship"). She swings Dave Brubeck's "Take Five" like mad (it's apparently impossible for anyone else to sing, besides the late, great Carmen McRae) and is a luscious ballad singer, voluptuously caressing the lyrics of "Lazy Afternoon," pairing it with her show-stopping interpretation of Blossom Dearie's "Bye Bye, Country Boy." The latter is underperformed, as well, perhaps because no one could possibly make it work other than Marilyn Maye.

Another miracle: nearly 50 years (!) later, and live performances of material Marilyn recorded for RCA in the 1960's sound just as good, if not better, than what's preserved on vinyl. "Golden Rainbow," the title song to the ill-fated Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme musical, is one of the high points of Marilyn's recorded output; and it remains one of the highlights of her current show.

While Marilyn Maye could most probably stand on her head and sing the phone book to kazoo accompaniment and make it work, she also has the terrific fortune of having the tightest jazz trio in New York playing for her. Jim Eklof has been her drummer for over fifty years, and the two have the kind of rapport and near-telepathic musical communication borne of that kind of relationship. On bass, Tom Hubbard's seemingly deadpan demeanor belies impeccable timing, swing and versatility. And the absolutely brilliant Tedd Firth on piano is simply one of the most remarkable musicians around today. That these four work and blend so seamlessly is testament to the breadth and scope of their collective talents. (By contrast, the rag-tag assemblage of musicians "supporting" jazz singer Rebecca Kilgore at The Metropolitan Room last week was a glaring example of how badly the wrong combination can derail even a singer as very good as Kilgore.)

A particularly pleasing aspect to this program is the venue itself, which lends itself exceedingly well to the proceedings. The 54 Below stage is just large enough to allow Marilyn to freely move about (and execute her famous, flawless high kicks during her exhilarating finale, "It's Today" from Mame), whereas previous residencies at The Metropolitan Room and the now-shuttered Feinstein's gave her stages which were near postage stamp size. (As Marilyn notes, it is decidedly a nightclub, not a cabaret.) The communal tables, free standing tables and booths are all comfortable and provide excellent sight lines; and the staff is remarkably friendly and attentive. The only blights are the lack of a proper lobby for customers to wait in (as curtain time runs nearer, the line stretches up an uncomfortable staircase and spills onto the street), and a spotty lighting technician with perhaps too heavy a hand and not musical enough timing.

Neither of which should deter you from seeing marvelous Marilyn Maye, as she finishes her second week with shows from March 12-16. Go. Listen. Be a-Maye-zed. After all, New York, New York is a helluva town, she's a helluva woman, and we merely inhabit what is undoubtedly secured as her personal property.

Buy your tickets here.

Bazazz

KAY THOMPSON
November 9, 1909 - July 2, 1998

Hallelujah, Baby!

We can't think of any better reason for exultation than Leslie Uggams' fabulous one woman show at the Cafe Carlyle. Musically charting this Tony-winning veteran's journey from being a 6-year-old sensation at Harlem's famed Apollo Theater to becoming the toast of television, Broadway, Vegas and beyond, From Uptown to Downtown is a thrilling ride.

To say that Miss Uggams looks absolutely splendid would be gross understatement: poured into a slinky, low cut, tomato red gown, the soon-to-be-67-year-old stunner's cut glass cheekbones, flawless skin and dazzling smile would have been enough to charm and disarm the audience, even if all she did was stand stock still. Fortunately, Miss Uggams sounds even better than she looks, belting out one number after another with breathtaking elasticity, suppleness and range, in a warm, rich, powerful voice which betrays absolutely no sign of age - except, perhaps, the increased wisdom and interpretive skills which come with experience.

Indeed, this may be Miss Uggams at her absolute artistic peak: at the time of her greatest commercial success in the 1960's and 1970's, Uggams' voice was just as strong and pretty as it is now, but with a certain lack of depth. We never really felt what she was singing. But, boy, does she make you feel it now: when she bites into "My Own Morning," the big ballad number from her 1967 Tony-winning turn in Hallelujah, Baby!, she turns a relatively undistinguished piece of material into a masterpiece of self-affirmation. And while Uggams has never been a true jazz singer, she can now swing with the best of them, giving thoroughly enjoyable performances of Ella Fitzgerald's classic "A-Tisket, a-Tasket" and a wild, percussion-driven arrangement of "Hello, Young Lovers" which would have given Marni Nixon cramps. Dramatic ballads are her true forte, however, and the well-thought-out program gave Uggams a chance to get more than a few in, while not bogging down the pacing. A devastating "If He Walked into My Life" from Mame made one long to have Uggams star in a revival, right this very minute; while "Stormy Weather," sacrilege though it may be, now belongs to Miss Uggams, with apologies to Lena Horne and Ethel Waters.

Throughout her act, Miss Uggams managed to be both completely polished and professional, while also warm and engaging. The highest compliment we can give Uggams and her excellent team is that, although clearly a lot of thought and planning went into the conception and execution of this show, it still feels fresh and spontaneous. We really can't say enough about this show, so we simply urge you all to go. Miss Uggams is at the Carlyle through this Saturday.

Lamas Liked Leather?

Mrs. Lamas clues us in to what went on at Fernando's Hideaway.

The Maye Way

1967...



...and 2009:

What's so remarkable about this lady is that she sounds better now than she did in her youthful "prime." We attended the raucous, star-studded closing night performance of Marilyn Maye's tribute to Johnny Mercer on Sunday evening, and we're still reeling from it. Just as Dorian Gray had an aging portrait hidden away, we're convinced that Ms. Maye has a shriveled, croaky larynx tucked in a drawer somewhere. At 81 years young, she keeps getting better and better each time we see her, and that's not just hyperbolic gushing. Her reviews have been nothing short of rapturous, and her complete command and hypnotic hold on an audience is a thrilling spectacle unto itself. Marilyn returns to the Metropolitan in October; we're counting the minutes.

The Thrill of Them All

To appropriate a few lyrics from Johnny Mercer:

When the angels ask us to recall

the thrill of them all

we shall tell them,

We remember Marilyn Maye.

Simply put, there is no one on the nightclub, cabaret, concert or theater scene who can touch this 81 year old dynamo. No one. Her voice is a force of nature: as big as the Grand Canyon, deep as the Pacific, and warmer than July. She has consistently amazed and delighted us with her annual appearances at The Metropolitan Room; but we were honestly astonished by the magnificence of her latest triumph, a tribute to master lyricist Johnny Mercer.

To begin with, Ms. Maye looked splendid: svelte and chic in a very 1950's, Dior-esque belted satin jacket with a standaway collar, paired with trim black sequined slacks. She was clearly "on" from the moment she took to the stage, declaring that this would be "My Shining Hour." It was, and for the next hour and a half, she wove absolute magic.

Picking a highlight from an act filled with nothing but is as difficult as picking your favorite child or pet; but off the top of our heads, we'd have to mention stunning (and we mean stunning) renditions of "Blues in the Night," "When the World Was Young," "I Wanna Be Around," "I Remember You," "Something's Gotta Give," "Skylark" - oh, hell, the entire show. 

For the record, it takes a very special performer to tackle the signature songs of a bona fide legend and make them their own: but that's exactly what Marilyn Maye did with Sinatra's "One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)," delivered as a wry character study of  a down-but-not-out lady lush.

Special mention must be made of Maye's superb trio: pianist/leader Tedd Firth, whose virtuosity on the keys matches Maye's vocal feats of derring-do perfectly; charming bassist Tom Hubbard; and the man who has been with Ms. Maye longer than all of her husbands combined, her 40-year drummer man, Jim Eklof. Not only are these men excellent musicians, but they are clearly delighted to be performing with a singer who knows her stuff and can rise to any musical challenge.

The New York Times (and Ms. Maye herself) referred to the fact that her opening night on Friday had run a bit long: over two hours and encompassing 35 songs. When we saw her last night, she had trimmed back; and as much as we wish we had been there to see and hear everything, that's the hallmark of a great entertainer: leave 'em wanting more. 

We return to The Metropolitan next Sunday to see Marilyn Maye one more time before the end of her run; if you have the opportunity, do not miss her. She's the one fail-safe recommendation we can give you without any reservations. In a field littered with half-baked newcomers and tired veterans trading on past glories, Marilyn Maye is the genuine article. Like Mr. Mercer, she's just too marvelous for words.

Unsinkable?

You bet. If an act like the one she's proffering at the Carlyle can't sink that indefatigable MGM workhorse, Debbie Reynolds, nothing can.

An unusually subdued MISS DEBBIE REYNOLDS, courtesy of STARLET SHOWCASE. 

Debbie Reynolds. Oh. My. God. A train wreck, but an entertaining one. She was SO manic, we wanted to slap her at times. It's a hoary old act which Deb probably hasn't changed since 1973, and one obviously designed for bigger theaters in, say, Reno or Branson. It hasn't been scaled down for the intimate Carlyle at all, and the result is unnerving and uneasy. What's worse is that the star (admittedly resplendent in more red sequins than A Night Of 1000 Liza's) is clearly aware of the fact that she's playing a smaller-scale venue - she made several references to and jokes about it - but apparently didn't feel the need to alter her act accordingly.

The singing? Well, Miss Reynolds was always known more for her spunk than her voice, and age has not exactly refined her instrument. She had rather clever, re-written lyrics to "I'm Still Here" ("I survived Louis B. Mayer, and I'm here"), but if you weren't listening VERY closely, some of the in-jokes flew over your head because of her wobbly pitch, incredibly sloppy phrasing, and a maddening, consistent-through-the-show need to rush the tempo. 

For instance, what should have been the showpiece of the set (a medley of  songs from her MGM days) practically flew by as an afterthought - ONE sped-up verse each of "I Wanna Be Loved by You," "Abba-Dabba Honeymoon," "Singin' in the Rain" and "The Tender Trap," punctuated by hurried dialogue ("...and then I did this picture with Frank Sinatra at Metro"), and culminating with "I Ain't Down Yet" from Molly Brown. Miss Reynolds more or less sang this one complete, intending it to be a "showstopper," but this brassy, belting number showed off all the worst aspects of her voice. 

Known for her sometimes caustic, often raunchy humor, Reynolds' stage patter with the ringsiders was bizarre, overly familiar and "earthy" to a fault - it became downright embarrassing at times. "Eat, eat, it's expensive here - whatcha got there?" was a tired, repeated refrain throughout the evening. And one mention of her age and a joke about how no one under 50 in the room would recognize her was funny - it became strained and unfunny after the fourth or fifth crack.

The best part of the evening was a deadly, dead-on impersonation of Barbra Streisand. Oddly, Debbie's voice sounded pitch-perfect as Babs, albeit hidden under tons of reverb. She should have kept the reverb button on for the rest of the act. The Big Closing Number was a medley of Judy Garland songs ("My dear friend at MGM..."), which was OK and cute when she did "You Made Me Love You" and "For Me and My Gal" (both suited to her range and folksy, down home style), but turned mawkish and unintentionally funny when Little Debbie attempted to torch her way through a (thankfully) abbreviated "The Man That Got Away," which segued into a strained last chorus of "Over the Rainbow." The finale was a surprisingly tender, sweet, complete rendition of "Tammy," a song she used to denigrate and kid in her other acts - it was the best song of the night.

On the plus side: she's a trouper, Debbie Reynolds is, and she looked great. Despite the fact that it was a pretty bad show, she still had you rooting for her, and we (and the other handful of gay men in the sparse, second show audience) were one of the only ones who gave her a standing ovation. We shook her hand as she exited, and thanked her for coming back to New York. We were sincere, too; we just wish she had come back with better material.

Weekend at the Waldorf

Well, actually, it'll be a weekend at the Carlyle and the Metropolitan, but whatever - there we'll be. We probably won't be updating much, being in such a state of anticipation - we're all a-twitter that we'll be seeing Miss Debbie Reynolds' second performance on Saturday at 10:45; and Marvelous Marilyn Maye's Sunday evening show.



Hope to see some of you there! Look for the bow tie.

Make Someone Happy

Jayne Mansfield, giving her audience what they want.

Photos from the JAYNE MANSFIELD FORUM

We Love a Cabaret

Showgirls

Debbie's Back in Town...

...at the Cafe Carlyle. Her official website lists a "dancer" (yes, singular) among her accompanists, which gives us the slightly foolish hope that, when we see her on June 13, the Unsinkable Debbie Reynolds will be recreating her nightclub act, circa 1966.





Barring that, perhaps Miss Reynolds will persuade her bosom buddy Raquel Welch to share the stage for an impromptu Woman of the Year - Victor/Victoria medley.


Whatever the case may be, of this much we can be certain: Miss Reynolds will give her all to entertain us. Although, despite the lingering M-G-M stardust, there will still be the bittersweet sadness which now follows us whenever we now return to the Carlyle, realizing that its most fabulous occupant is well and truly gone.

Comfort Her With Apples

Preferably, The Golden Apple. Yes, friends, our last Mystery Guest was the star of stage, screen, nightclubs, and television, Miss Kaye Ballard. Belying the brash and brassy image she cultivated on such TV shows as The Doris Day Show and her own The Mothers-in-Law, La Ballard's early days found her talents alternating between broad comedy and sophisticated vocalese: in The Golden Apple, she introduced the gorgeous standard, "Lazy Afternoon," and (with apologies to other notable claimants Mabel Mercer and Portia Nelson) was the first to record Bart Howard's "In Other Words" -- better known by its alternate title, a little something called "Fly Me to the Moon."


In the 1970's, of course, Kaye became a familiar, funny fixture on the twin despositories for aging celebrities: Match Game and The Love Boat. Still going strong today, Kaye Ballard remains an amazing force of nature, and one of the few surviving links to the golden age of Broadway and New York cabaret.