Is That All There Is?

Once again, darlings, we've been plunged into a whirlwind of activity, most of it centered around that will-o-the-wisp so many of us unceasingly chase: live performance; more specifically, cabaret and musical theater. These are maddening and elusive mistresses to be in thrall of; it's a crap shoot every time one takes a chance, and when a performer or production misses, boy, there's nothing more excruciating or frustrating than to be witnessing such failure first hand. But when something or someone hits the bull's eye, nothing could be more thrilling than to be in that audience, live, in the moment, rejoicing at experiencing something that can never be exactly duplicated ever again.

Marilyn Maye and Bucky Pizzarelli at The Iridium: the looks on their faces say it all.

A prime example of the latter type of experience was the four-show run celebrated chanteuse Marilyn Maye had with the legendary jazz guitarist Bucky Pizzarelli at The Iridium jazz club on November 5 and 6. To say that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience each and every performance would be an understatement. Devoted SSUWAT readers know that we have applauded Marilyn Maye's remarkable talents from these virtual pages frequently, loudly, and enthusiastically; when we say that the added challenge and joy of sharing the stage with another performer at the absolute pinnacle of his field took her to a whole different level of performance, we do so without a trace of hyperbole. These concerts were happenings.

Storming the stage with a medley of the 1950's pop classic "Let There Be Love" and "It's Love" from Wonderful Town, Maye never let up for a second, tearing through her signature medleys like a lioness devouring a particularly delicious prey. Her crack trio of drummer Ray Marcheca, bassist Tom Hubbard, and pianist/director Tedd Firth seemed to spur Maye on to even jazzier flights of fancy. Once the dapper and ebullient Mr. Pizzarelli joined her onstage, the mood turned even friskier, as these two pros playfully played off of one another -- with all due respect to Mrs. Pizzarelli, and Maye's oft-quoted line that she's survived "three husbands and one meaningful love affair" only to find her most meaningful relationship with her adoring audiences -- we couldn't help but picture these two amazing artists riding off cinematically into the sunset together. They romped like colts in a field through such sunny, upbeat tunes as "'Deed I Do" and "Just in Time" before slowing things down for a beautiful, voice-and-guitar rendition of Johnny Mercer's "Skylark." Mr. Pizzarelli's solos -- "This Nearly Was Mine" from South Pacific and the sadly underperformed Burke/Van Heusen classic, "Darn That Dream" -- were stunningly beautiful, as he made his guitar sound as eloquent as any singer actually performing the lyrics. This remarkable engagement was the sort that one dreams about, and rarely does the reality live up to the fantasy. Thankfully, as long as we have performers like Marilyn Maye and Bucky Pizzarelli still "doing their thing," we have at least a few sure bets.

Miss Peggy Lee

The odds were considerably less favorable when we headed downtown on November 10 to see "Downtown Sings Peggy Lee: A Book Launch Celebration" at Joe's Pub. The event was to celebrate the publication of James Gavin's much-talked about new biography, Is That All There Is?: The Strange Life of Peggy Lee. And, as befits the title of the tome (which is quite excellent, by the way, and one which we recommend), the evening was...strange. The curious roster (accompanied by The New Standards, who provided some pleasingly cool-to-hot playing) consisted of cabaret stalwarts like Baby Jane Dexter and Carol Fredette; quirky neo-jazz/cabaret chanteuses like Barb Jungr and Nellie McKay; cult artists Tammy Faye and Justin Vivian Bond; comparatively newer, more mainstream talent like Jane Monheit and Spencer Day; and, most thrillingly, authentic jazz royalty in the form of Andy Bey and, as a surprise, unannounced guest, Helen Merrill. Merrill was undoubtedly the highlight of the evening, although her throaty, emotive "Wild is the Wind" still kept the meter firmly pointed towards the "strange" reading: Peggy Lee had never performed that particular song!

It was all wildly uneven, with Fredette's simple, classy piping of Jerome Kern's "Remind Me," Jungr's supremely sexy but sophisticated "Some Cats Know," and even Dexter's primal roar interpretation of "I'm a Woman" coming from a seemingly different planet than Tammy Faye's absurd, borderline-offensive burlesque of "Big Spender," one of Lee's later signature tunes. Making her entrance in Peggy Lee-cum-flasher drag -- long, white pageboy wig; round sunglasses; and a trench coat, which was quickly doffed, stripper-style -- Tammy Faye then proceeded to sing in a tuneless and charmless voice, give unsolicited lap dances to embarrassed ringsiders, and in what had to constitute the nadir of this or any evening, straddle and hump a stairway railing while announcing, "My vagina hurts!" Surely, Miss Peggy Lee -- described by Gavin is his book as seductive but intensely "proper" -- would have been aghast.

If Tammy Faye was vulgar, then Justin Vivian Bond was merely unprofessional. The transgendered performer's long-established "demented diva" persona could have lent a certain zany, camp humor to Bond's selection -- "Black Coffee," one of the great torch numbers of all time, and a certified Peggy Lee classic -- but instead, Bond's obvious incapacitation (due to what, we hesitate to speculate) was painful to behold. False stops and starts, muffed lyrics, disorientation and seeming obliviousness; if Bond's intent was to satirize an infamous incident where Peggy Lee herself had disastrously performed under the influence at the White House, it was performance "art" in the most egregiously bad taste imaginable. If Bond was merely under the influence as well, it was pathetic.

The cast of Show Boat at the New York Philharmonic.

Some SSUWAT devotees are surely familiar with the famous critic's quip regarding Tallulah Bankhead's legendary failure, Antony and Cleopatra: "Tallulah Bankhead barged down the Nile last night -- and sank." We had a similar reaction to the much-ballyhooed New York Philharmonic production of Show Boat: it felt more as if we were aboard the Titanic. Miscasting, bad acting, ludicrous staging, and the costuming, oh! the costuming! Unlike the Philharmonic's "semi-staged" productions of Carousel and Sweeney Todd over the past year, which were presented with some sets and full costuming, Show Boat was inexplicably done as neither concert version nor staged, but some frustrating purgatory in between. Skeletal sets consisting mostly of a few rickety tables and chairs were clumsily carried on and off stage by the ensemble, some of whom were "sort of" in period, with the majority in tuxes and modern cocktail dresses.

So you had Vanessa Williams in evening gowns which, if you narrowed your eyes, might pass for period, but just as easily might have been sitting in her closet since she did Kiss of the Spider Woman on Broadway several years back, particularly the inappropriately vampy, sexy black stunner she wore to sing what should have been the second act showstopper, "Bill." In what is intended as the lowest emotional and physical ebb in her character's life, Williams instead looked as if she were waiting for some chorus boys to twirl her around in a 1940's-style nightclub number.

Vanessa Williams as Julie in Show Boat.

Similarly, "Ol' Man River" should never be sung by an actor and chorus in tuxedos -- and staged exactly thus, as sung adequately but dispassionately by Norm Lewis, this river was more a stream, devoid of any dramatic context or power. Lewis is unquestionably talented and has a beautiful voice, but his tone and range were all wrong (a deep bass in the ensemble who had a brief snippet of a solo would have been the better choice!), and he seemed to be sleep walking through it. Magnolia, the fresh faced ingenue at the core of the story (and what a terrific story it is...yet mercilessly and unnecessarily bowdlerized to make room for subpar songs which had originally been cut), was portrayed by Lauren Worsham; her ne'er-do-well swain, Gaylord, by Julian Ovenden, most recently of Downton Abbey fame. As glorious as their duets were musically, they were dramatically undercut by the incongruous sight of Ovenden looking dapper and dandy in his period-correct suit, while Worsham was "costumed" in a flouncy, short dress and high heels. She was a walking article from Seventeen magazine on how to "get the look for less"; and unfortunately, she played Magnolia as not only seventeen-ish, but 21st century seventeen-ish, to boot. It was all wrong. Ovenden, however, played his part beautifully and sang like an angel.

Lauren Worsham as Magnolia and Julian Ovenden as Gaylord in Show Boat.

More anachronisms: Magnolia and Gaylord's young daughter, Kim, is away at a convent school, where she makes her entrance, led by a "nun" with cleavage, while Kim is wearing sequins and tulle! How the director (who was also the conductor -- perhaps a case of spreading oneself far too thin?) couldn't see that such "choices" were madness is beyond our comprehension -- but then, this is the same director who felt comfortable allowing Jane Alexander to play Parthy, Magnolia's starchy, permanently exasperated mother, while wearing a glittering blue evening gown which made her look not like a work-hardened show boat denizen, but rather, Dame Helen Mirren on the red carpet. Nothing in this production made much sense, frankly, and it was a thoroughly dispiriting experience. With music as glorious as the score by Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein, and Hammerstein's rock solid book, it takes concerted effort to screw up Show Boat. In that case, a bouquet of dead roses to the brain trust behind this production: we congratulate you.

The cast of Encore!'s The Band Wagon.

Similarly, it takes a certain amount of nerve to attempt to reinvent one of the most beloved movie musicals of all time with a comparatively drastically new book, especially when the source material was written by the formidable Comden and Green. Oh, on the surface, the bare bones of The Band Wagon as it was presented at Encores! is more or less the same as it was in the classic 1953 MGM film, starring the incomparable Fred Astaire. But look closer, and in Douglas Carter Beane's revision of the nearly peerless Comden and Green screenplay, he seems hell-bent on this newfangled determination to insert darkness and conflict wherever possible, presumably to appeal to more cynical, modern tastes. The fact that Beane is doing so in a show-about-a-show which fails miserably precisely because of these needless "modernizations" of the classic musical format is an irony seemingly lost on him -- but, unfortunately, not the audience. Not one of the changes made to inject drama or conflict to the story actually propels the plot along one iota; in fact, they detract from it.

In the film, it's a rather simple story of two temperamental artists -- Tony, a former stage hoofer turned has-been film star, and Gaby, a rising prima ballerina -- who meet nasty, and then fall gradually in love while working on a show together, thus bridging the gap between their two worlds. That's it. Yes, the comic Broadway songwriting couple and the egomaniacal Orson Welles doppelgänger are brilliant supporting characters, but the bare bones of the plot couldn't be simpler than the age-old boy meets girl. In this The Band Wagon 2014, the romance between Tony and Gaby takes a back seat to a completely contrived backstory romance between Tony and the female half of the writing team behind his comeback musical, Lil (and subsequent rivalry between Tony and Lester, Lil's husband and partner). It adds nothing to the basic story, yet adds tons of unnecessary stage time and dialogue, not to mention layers of angst to what should be a lighthearted romp.

And that's where The Band Wagon fails most miserably. Where it should fizz, it fizzles. The pace is leaden, with nearly everyone, from leading man Brian Stokes Mitchell to the ensemble, seemingly just going through the paces. As Lil, Tracey Ullman displays a few flashes of inspiration, although they come in fits and starts. Only Tony Sheldon, as the delightfully egomaniacal Jeffrey Cordova, the theatrical wunderkind who puts the first ill-fated show-within-a-show together, throws himself completely into his role and easily walks away with the entire production. When he made his exits, one could almost hear the entire audience sigh with regret. Tellingly, Sheldon's interpretation of the role is a wicked imitation of Jack Buchanan's peerless performance in the film; and the character is the only one which Beane saw fit to more or less keep intact with Comden and Green's original vision. He's the only one that works.

One of Broadway's few true leading men, Mitchell seems like a natural choice to play Tony Hunter, the former star fallen on lean times; but the role was conceived for Astaire, one of the most elegant and eloquent dancers to ever grace the stage or screen. Mitchell, by contrast, is blessed with one of the great theater voices, but his dancing is merely competent, not transporting. And with all of the seemingly arbitrary revisions Beane made to the book, the one he inexplicably didn't make was to turn Tony Hunter into a singer instead of a dancer. So instead we have Mitchell seeming determined yet grim, and slightly awkward, as he hoofs, taps, and soft shoes. More distressingly, Mitchell plays Hunter with an abrasive edge which alienates the audience before the end of the first act; it's particularly grating when nearly all of the other male characters are also abrasive in varying degrees, from Sheldon's flamboyant control freak to Michael McKean's soused, jealous composer to Michael Barresse's smug villain. Amidst all these neuroses, Tony needs to be played as even-keeled and charming. Mitchell plays him as slightly out of control and volatile. His Tony Hunter is not someone you feel like rooting for.

You may have noticed that we have yet to mention the role of Gaby, who was portrayed by the incredible dancer Cyd Charisse in the film. On stage, the part is essayed by Laura Osnes, a seemingly very nice girl who, unlike Charisse, has a beautiful voice; but, also unlike Charisse, not a whit of glamour or personality. She's so colorless, it's perhaps no wonder that her part has been relegated nearly to that of a featured player, rather than co-star (Osnes is fifth billed, beneath Stokes, Ullman, McKean, and Sheldon).

Yes, live performances can be thrilling. They can also be deadly dull, or maddening. Is that all there is to a deal with the devil? Is that...all there is?

Break Out the Booze and Have a Ball!

ELLA FITZGERALD

April 25, 1917 - June 15, 1996

JERRY LEIBER

April 25, 1933 - August 22, 2011

We and Mr. Jones

Distilling the 60 year career of the perennially cool Quincy Jones down to a brief list of highlights would probably read something like this: was the first African-American vice president of a major record label (Mercury); released a string of successful instrumental albums under his own name for Mercury, one of which spawned the worldwide hit, "Soul Bossa Nova" (1962); composed for such motion pictures as The Pawnbroker (1965), In the Heat of the Night (1967), and The Color Purple (1985); produced Michael Jackson's Off the Wall (1979) and Thriller (1983); organized and produced the We Are the World project (1985). This, of course, leaves a lot of his work as composer, performer, conductor, arranger and producer unmentioned. To honor the man's 80th birthday, we offer some of our personal favorites from our favorite decade, the 1960's.

1966 E.P. re-issue of 1956 recordings by Dinah Washington, arranged and conducted by Quincy Jones

Jones had his background in jazz, fronting his own acclaimed band, as well as arranging and conducting for Mercury Records' jazz subsidiary, EmArcy. One of his most felicitous pairings was with the legendary Dinah Washington. She was hailed as "Queen of the Blues"; and while La Washington always (correctly) protested that she could sing anything, "anything at all," she still cherished her royal title, quite often taking it a bit too literally for some! Everything about Dinah was big: her talent, her personality, and her voice, and she found the perfect partner in Jones, who stroked her queenly ego, but also matched her toe to toe in the studio, both in terms of his control of the sessions, and the muscular, yet sympathetic arrangements he created around her magnificently lusty voice. 

Quincy and the Queen made four proper albums together, as well as collaborating on a number of sessions which found their way onto various singles and compilation albums. All have their merits, but their first pairing, For Those in Love (1955), is one of the few true "jazz" albums in Washington's catalog, and arguably the best. The eight tracks are split between Tin Pan Alley standards like Rodgers and Hart's "This Can't Be Love" and Cole Porter's "I Get a Kick Out of You," and more contemporary Broadway and film fare of the highest quality. "You Don't Know What Love Is" has since been recorded to death by nearly every chanteuse of all stripes, but it was new to most ears when the Queen recorded it for this album. In true regal fashion, hers is the definitive version. (For the record, the subsequent Washington/Jones albums were The Swingin' Miss D [1956], Tears and Laughter [1961] and I Wanna Be Loved [1962]. All four are available on individual CD's/downloads, with the exception of Tears and Laughter, the songs from which are available on the final installment of the massive The Complete Dinah Washington on Mercury.)

Also benefitting from Jones' deft hand was the the rococo diva of jazz, the empress of embellishment, Sarah Vaughan. If Dinah earned her sovereignty, then Sassy was due her appellation of "The Divine One," thanks to her astonishing range, which she exuberantly displayed from basso rumblings to operatic trills. Like Washington, Vaughan's album output during her long stay at Mercury was curiously spotty; the other jazz divas -- Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday on Verve, Carmen McRae on Decca/Kapp, even Gloria Lynne on Everest -- all seemed to have better luck. Unlike Washington, however, Vaughan's collaboration with Quincy Jones didn't result in her jazziest album -- as the title Vaughan and Violins suggests, it is lush, plush, and decidedly pop-oriented. However, unlike many other Sassy-plus-strings recordings from the era, which bathed the already rich chocolate mousse Vaughan voice in so much whipped cream, Vaughan and Violins was once again a triumph of Jones' innate good taste and restraint. The strings gently accent the make-out mood without overwhelming it, and the Divine One reels her luxurious instrument in just enough to make her occasional embellishments, when she employs them, thrilling rather than overbearing. The "hit" from these sessions was "Misty," but to our ears, the real gem is a truly haunting rendition of "The Thrill is Gone." We love the amount of reverb Jones adds to the final "gone," as Sassy slides down the note to shattering silence. (There were four more Vaughan/Jones studio collaborations: You're Mine You [1962], Vaughan and Voices [1964], Viva Vaughan [1964], and Sarah Vaughan Sings the Mancini Songbook [1965], plus one live recording, Sassy Swings the Tivoli [1963]. The latter is considered one of the classic live jazz albums; the rest contain some good, some bad, and some ugly. Vaughan and Voices is particularly to be avoided; Viva Vaughan and Sings Mancini [which contains overlap material from Voices and Viva] are mostly harmless 1960's camp with a few gems among the rhinestones. You're Mine You is the best of the bunch, although the strings, and Sassy's needs-to-be-heard-to-be-believed rendition of "Maria" from West Side Story, may have jazz purists running for the hills.)

Way over on the other side of the musical spectrum, perhaps Jones' biggest commercial success of the 1960's came from a little story about a girl with a louse of a boyfriend named Johnny, who dumped her for a witch named Judy -- but it's her party, and she'll cry if she wants to. That's right, Quincy "Thriller" Jones also discovered and produced the Tenafly teen queen, Lesley Gore.

Left to right: Quincy Jones, Millie "My Boy Lollipop" Small, Lesley Gore, 1964.

With the aid of arranger Claus Ogerman and his trademark "big" pop sound (Jones stayed strictly in the production booth for these sessions), Jones helped the 17 year old Gore become an overnight superstar. Her remarkable run of hits in 1963-64 all benefitted from the unmistakable mark of quality that Jones no doubt insisted upon. Not only was the song craft of "It's My Party," "She's a Fool," "That's the Way Boys Are" and "Maybe I Know" impeccable (Jones would help Gore cherry pick only the best), but hold these spit-polished-to-a-gleam productions up to much of the slapdash claptrap that too many would-be Lesley Gores were forced to endure, and there's simply no comparison. Although other factors certainly had a part in the result, the fact that the very talented Gore only managed one more Top 40 hit after she and Jones parted ways in 1965 speaks volumes. Here's our absolute favorite  Gore/Jones collaboration: the legendary "sleigh bells" single mix of "Look of Love," from the pens of the extraordinary Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich, with the fabulous Miss Ellie helping out on background duty with session queens Jean Thomas and Miki Harris.

Lesley Gore wasn't the only bouffant blonde to benefit from Quincy Jones' finesse in the 1960's, however. Peggy Lee also swung under his baton, although despite their professional and personal respect for one another, they strangely only recorded two full albums, If You Go (1961) and Blues Cross Country (1962). Even more strangely, these two albums don't even really constitute essential listening for either Lee or Jones fans. The latter, with its punchy big band arrangements, and cute concept and song selection (from "Kansas City" to "St. Louis Blues" to "I Left My Sugar in Salt Lake City"...get it?), is the better of the two, tapping into both singer and arranger's jazzy, swinging side. If You Go has an impeccable track listing, but the purple prose of the liner notes ("...Magnificent misty-eyed performances of beautiful love songs...") is unfortunately matched by Jones' unusually precious backings, while Lee sometimes seems less misty than hazy. Five years later, however, Lee would provide lyrics to a song Jones had written for the score to Walk, Don't Run (1966), Cary Grant's final film. This tender bossa nova became a minor standard, and its poignancy, and the fact that it resulted in a direct writing collaboration between the two, speaks far more eloquently than their actual recorded teaming. (That same year, Peggy Lee co-wrote [with composer Johnny Mandel] and recorded one of her all-time finest songs, "The Shining Sea," which many have interpreted as a love letter to Jones: "...his strong, brown hands..."). Here, Peggy sings her collaboration with Jones, "Stay with Me," as a duet with Andy Williams; the song only appeared on one of her Capitol singles, paired with "Happy Feet," also from Walk, Don't Run, and also written with Jones.

As noted previously, Jones was a hit recording artist under his own name, and the string of instrumental albums he and his orchestra released from 1962 through 1966 are all perfect examples of early-to-mid Sixties cool. "Soul Bossa Nova," from Big Band Bossa Nova (1962), is the best known "hit" from this period, an original composition from an album otherwise comprised of either legitimate Brazilian songs "souled up," or American pop hits given similar treatment. It was later used and rediscovered, for better or worse, on the soundtrack of Mike Myer's Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997). Camp contrivance and lounge lizards aside, all of Jones' subsequent 1960's albums are worth rediscovering, but our absolute favorite is Quincy Plays For Pussycats (1965), which features an insanely groovy treatment of Ramsey Lewis' too-cool-for-school "The In Crowd." If this doesn't make you want to slip on some go-go boots and Pony all night long, you're probably reading the wrong blog.

Jones' groundbreaking work for movie scores deserves an entire blog (or book) of its own; and of course, his monumental successes in the prevailing decades are for someone else to write about. We hope we've shed a little light on what perhaps may be more neglected nuggets from an exhaustive and commendable lifetime of achievement. 

QUINCY JONES

March 14, 1933

Miss Peggy Lee

Diamonds, furs, falls, and a Vaseline-covered lens are a girl's best friend.

Over the Golden Rainbow

This seemingly random medley of songs not immediately associated with Baby Gumm may appear slapdash, but someone lovely who also shares this birthday will hopefully understand the method behind the madness. We wish him rainbows, jolly hours on the trolley, a merry little Christmas, and of course, the man who'll never get away.

JUDY GARLAND
June 10, 1922 - June 22, 1969

The Shadow of His Smile

JOHNNY MANDEL
November 23, 1925

As a musician, he played with Count Basie and Zoot Sims. As an arranger, he's won two Grammy Awards and worked with the likes of Peggy Lee, Tony Bennett and Barbra Streisand. As a composer, he's written some of the most gorgeous melodies of the post-Great American Songbook era (our favorites include "The Shining Sea," "A Time for Love," "Close Enough for Love" and "Quietly There"). But despite this accomplished list of achievements, it's for one single composition that Johnny Mandel will forever be remembered: "The Shadow of Your Smile."



Inarguably the best (and certainly the most tasteful) thing to come out of the bloated, would-be blockbuster The Sandpiper (1965), Mandel's haunting theme captured the hearts and imaginations of nearly everyone, becoming a massive hit even as the British Invasion, Motown and the early murmurings of psychedelia and acid rock were all but obliterating "middle of the road" pop from the charts and airwaves. Interestingly though, not one single version (and there were plenty to choose from, as we'll soon see) became the definitive, chart-topping rendition. Mandel's music had seduced the world, and such was the strength of the music, it seemed to matter little who was giving voice to it.


Still known as "Love Theme from The Sandpiper," the song first became a minor chart hit for Tony Bennett on Columbia - reportedly incensing Peggy Lee over at Capitol, who had recorded it months prior to Bennett; hers was probably the first cover of the theme, recorded literally days after the film's June 1965 premiere and rush-released soon after. (Lee's single didn't chart, but it made an appearance on her Then Was Then, Now is Now album a few months later.) Lou Rawls, La Lee's Capitol labelmate, recorded a souled-up version which first gained Mandel's ballad entrez to the R&B chart in early 1966. Perhaps sensing overkill (or not wanting to steal Bennett's thunder), the good folks at Columbia curiously withheld Barbra Streisand's uncharacteristically demure rendition as a single - except, of course, in Japan.





Unfortunately, the film itself didn't receive the same kind of rapturous reception as its swoonsome theme song (which ultimately won the Best Original Song Oscar, as well as the Song of the Year Grammy Award), though not for lack of trying. One of the many tie-in promotions featured co-star Eva Marie Saint with her smartly-matched American Tourister luggage - all ready for a chic yet quick getaway from the deadly reviews.


One of the more amusing promotional campaigns was a Saks Fifth Avenue collection "inspired by the "dramatic story and scenic beauty" of The Sandpiper. The youthful, chic clothing was indeed "very Saks Fifth Avenue," as the ads would say, and designed by Lynn Stuart; the sight of the increasingly zaftig Mrs. Burton in her Irene Sharaff painter's smocks in the actual film reminded one wag more of Lane Bryant.






Meanwhile, "The Shadow of Your Smile"'s juggernaut continued unabated, with new singles, and album tracks, and albums titled after the song hitting the shelves weekly. It became the one mandatory song for every Adult Contemporary vocalist of the generation to record, with one glaring exception: the Chairman of the Board never made a studio recording of it, although he did include a quick, two-minute performance on his Sinatra at the Sands (1966) live album.








And what would the creator of all this think? Surely, it must be gratifying to have one's work, albeit just a 3 minute portion of it, so celebrated and loved and universally known. On the flip side, what of all the other work (some of it far better), which has gone relatively unnoticed, consumed by the huge, looming Shadow? Since he's described as one of the nicest, most generous guys in the business, we'll assume that Johnny Mandel has taken it all in stride, and with typical graciousness. Happy Birthday, Mr. Mandel. And just between us, even though you call Diana Krall your favorite singer (well...even geniuses are entitled to inexplicable quirks), we'd love for you to revisit a 1982 album by one SSUWAT's favorites, Miss Sue Raney. She's as lovely as your music, and the match is one made in heaven.

Close Enough For Love - Sue Raney With The Bob Florence Group

Kinky A La Lee

Miss Peggy Lee fingers Dino's pie hole.

And we honestly never thought we'd ever type that.

Miss Peggy Lee

May 26, 1920 - January 21, 2002

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THANKS

Black Magic Women

The Devil in Miss Peggy Lee, Lauren Bacall and Carol Channing.