Spring is Here

What can we possibly say about the remarkable Marilyn Maye that we haven't told you before? We could tell you (again) that she's an octogenarian dynamo who looks, shimmies and sounds at least two decades younger. We could tell you (again) that she has a seemingly inexhaustible set of pipes that put most singers half her age to shame. We could tell you (again) about her bawdy sense of humor, her sharp wit, and the mass adoration she inspires from her audience.

But the most helpful thing we could tell you about Ms. Maye, and her new show at Feinstein's at the Regency, It's Maye in May, is to simply buy your tickets now. It is an absolute do-not-miss event.

At first glance (or hearing), this program didn't seem to have the same structure as some of Maye's other, now-legendary shows, i.e. devoted to a single composer (Johnny Mercer the Maye Way) or a story arc (Love on the Rocks, dedicated to mostly torch songs). Then, going over the set list once our dizzying state of euphoria lifted, we realized that this breakneck show was light on the ballads, and jam-packed with zingy, springy arrangements -- Maye in May, indeed.

Ms. Maye -- glittering in sequined black -- broke us in gently, with a lightly swinging medley of "You Make Me Feel So Young" and "Young and Heart." But the number of rafter-ringing showstoppers which followed was astonishing: not only for Maye's vocal stamina, but for their clever pace and placement. In lesser hands, so many Big Numbers would have been overwhelming for the audience. A savvy pro like Marilyn Maye cooks up medleys which begin at a moderate tempo, and then gradually build to a wild climax ("Honeysuckle Rose," which capped off a brilliant Fats Waller medley, had the room practically standing on their chairs, cheering); while standalone gems like her incredible arrangements of "Get Me to the Church on Time," "On the Street Where You Live," "Blues in the Night" and "Come Rain or Come Shine," are bookended by slower and/or lighter moments.

It must also be mentioned that Ms. Maye's virtuosity is more than well-served by her flawless trio: her unflappable drummer Jim Ekloff, who has been with Maye for almost 50 years; the always-dignified Tom Hubbard, superbly supplying bass; and the whiz kid, Tedd Firth, musical director and pianist par excellence, whose jaw-dropping playing matches Maye's vocal flights of fancy to a tee.

By the time we get to the 11 o'clock torch number, "I'm Still Here" from Follies, it seems almost anti-climactic, essentially putting the brakes on suddenly after so many scorching, sizzling-hot highlights. But there's no denying Maye's well-won right to perform this warhorse, especially after her incendiary performance of it at composer Stephen Sondheim's birthday celebration at Carnegie Hall last year. And, of course, she absolutely nails it, wringing every last drop of wry wit and bemusement from the lyric.

We've often mentioned our dislike for this particular venue; its shortcomings almost always color our experience, no matter how good the performer. When Marilyn Maye made her Feinstein's debut last year, even her magic couldn't make us completely overlook the charmless setting. But this show is too darn hot to miss, and Marilyn Maye, if you'll forgive a cliche, has never been better. We've been twice since she opened this past Tuesday, and will be back two or three times before her run ends on June 4.

If you want a perfect evening, we can think of none better than this: start with dinner at Le Veau d'Or on East 60th and Lexington -- another all-time classic which just keeps going. Order the vichyssoise and the poussin, baby roast chicken; or maybe the celeri rémoulade and the divine monkfish special. After you polish off your Pêche Melba or œufs à la neige, walk one block west to Feinstein's at East 61st and Park. Bask in the younger than springtime glow of Maye. Then, if you're anything like us, repeat.

Buy tickets HERE.

Amayezing

Marvelous Marilyn Maye and her brilliant musical director, Tedd Firth

What do you get when you perfectly blend Kay Thompson's wildly clever wordplay and tempo-changing fearlessness; Peggy Lee's precise attention to every detail of lighting and presentation; Julie Wilson's sly rapport with the audience; the interpretive wisdom of Sylvia Syms; the chiffon-and-shot-silk huskiness of Rosemary Clooney; Doris Day's immediacy, Ella Fitzgerald's swing, and Judy Garland's throb? You get the complete nightclub performer, one who ultimately renders all comparisons moot because she is uniquely Miss Marilyn Maye.

Having witnessed Miss Maye's triumphant closing night performance at The Metropolitan Room yesterday (read our recap of her Sunday night show here), we are now sated but weary: from chafing our hands raw from clapping; from running our vocal cords ragged from cheering.

Never one to rest on her laurels, Miss Maye continually delights and astounds. We've seen this current show, "Her Kind of Broadway," four times -- and each experience is a surprise. The four songs which form the emotional core of a show with a higher ratio of upbeat swingers are the radiantly hopeful "Ribbons Down My Back," the bruised "I'm Thru with Love," the wistful "Joey, Joey, Joey" and the naked "Losing My Mind." Miss Maye devastates the audience with these numbers each and every time, but the interpretation is constantly evolving. One night, "Losing My Mind" might seem rueful, the next painfully desperate. "Joey, Joey, Joey" might evoke the title character's wandering soul one night; another, the quiet longing of one special "lady in the neighborhood" who cannot tie him down. "Ribbons" and "I'm Thru with Love" seem to always come from the same place in Maye's interpretive soul, but a flick of a phrase here, a switch in emphasis there, and the same song sounds entirely different from the previous performance.

We realize that we're cheerleading here, but Marilyn Maye is the one ticket in town which we will always vouch for with the utmost confidence. She's making an rare, unscheduled return on December 13, again at The Metropolitan Room, in a one night only holiday-themed show. If you haven't seen her yet, we can think of no better Christmas present to give yourself!

Maye in December

The unsinkable Marilyn Maye is back in New York with a show called "Her Kind of Broadway," chock-a-block with emphatically upbeat Broadway show stoppers, performed with a trio of musicians at the very intimate Metropolitan Room cabaret. It shouldn't work, but it does.

Broadway and cabaret have an uneasy alliance -- although some of the material may overlap, traditionally, the Broadway-style performer is all about razzle dazzle showmanship, brassy belting and the full frontal attack; whereas cabaret is more intimate, sometimes precious, and allows the singer to delve deeper into the subtext of a song.

It's this essential difference in approach that causes most Broadway-themed cabaret acts to misfire: either the arrangements and the playing of the musicians can't compensate for the lack of the 40-piece orchestra that many of these songs seem to require, or the singer belts as if playing to the balcony -- which may work at the Shubert, but when the tiny room doesn't even have a balcony, the audience is simply flattened against the wall. Miss Maye's trio (led by the ever-astonishing Tedd Firth) made the Metropolitan swing so hard that even a full brass and string section couldn't possibly have been anything more than superfluous; and while Miss Maye herself let loose with the kind of belting that made every show tune queen in the house alternately turn green with envy and start swooning with delight, it was never at the sacrifice of her warm, intimate connection with the audience. We can think of no other performer who can bridge the gap between Broadway and cabaret so seamlessly, satisfying both crowds equally.

This 82 year old dynamo comes on like a tornado right from the start, opening with a sizzling arrangement of "Put on a Happy Face" from Bye Bye Birdie. As performed in the show, it's a cute, perky number which comes perilously close to taking its lyrics so literally that it can sound like a nursery rhyme. In Marilyn Maye's hands, it's almost defiantly upbeat, raucous, intense -- a command, rather than a suggestion. If the power of positive thinking will result in our looking, sounding and high-kicking as spectacular as Miss Maye when we're in our eighth decade, we'll gladly follow any directions she gives us.

Maye's hearty optimism and full-throated style are ideally suited to the music of Jerry Herman, so it's no surprise that she has essayed the role of Dolly Levi countless times on stage -- although, as she admits, never actually on Broadway. Listening to her poignant take on "Ribbons Down My Back," or watching her slyly camp her way through "Elegance," one wonders how the Great White Way powers-that-be possibly overlooked Maye for a starring vehicle on Broadway.

Frank Loesser, who would have celebrated his centennial this year, is treated to a lengthy clutch of songs from Guys and Dolls and The Most Happy Fella. "Luck Be a Lady," from the former, is effectively wrenched from Sinatra's singular hold -- no mean feat, that! From the latter, a haunting "Joey, Joey, Joey" was a master class in painting pictures through words: as Maye sang, you could positively smell the Oregon cherries, Texas avocado, and Arizona sugar beets.

Nearly every number was a bona fide crowd pleaser, but perhaps no segment was more disarming and delightful than a string of songs which Maye recorded for RCA in the 1960's, before the Broadway shows they were written for had opened. "Cabaret" was a major Adult Contemporary hit for Maye back in 1966, not only before the show opened, but long before you-know-who starred in the film version. "She knows it's really mine," Maye wryly remarked; and you got the feeling she was only half-joking! Similarly, "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" was written for the score of Burt Bacharach and Hal David's Broadway bow, Promises, Promises, before becoming a hit for "that Warwick girl," as Maye commented dismissively in jest; and, yes, Maye got there first. "Sherry" was the title song to an ill-fated musical version of The Man Who Came to Dinner; the show was a flop, but the single was another turntable hit for Maye, and an utterly charming one, at that. Capping things off was the flag-waving "Step to the Rear," an unrelentingly celebratory number from another obscure show, How Now, Dow Jones; it was another Adult Contemporary hit for Maye, but more important, was picked up as a commercial for Lincoln-Mercury for four, lucrative, residual-earning years! Maye began the song straight, then treated us to the re-written jingle lyrics.

The emotional highlight of the program was undoubtedly Maye's gut-wrenching interpretation of Sondheim's "Losing My Mind" from Follies. For all of her sunny optimism, Maye is no Pollyanna; her determination to focus on the positive comes from understanding the reality of life, not being blind to it. And when she sings of loss and heartbreak, the effect is absolutely devastating. Also from Follies, albeit from a completely different character and motivation, is the warhorse, "I'm Still Here" -- de rigeur in any cabaret act performed by a female of A Certain Age. Frankly, we thought we could live another hundred years without ever hearing anyone try to tackle this song again; it's become such a cliche. When Bea Arthur did her one woman show on Broadway a few years back, she pointedly informed the audience that she would not be singing "I'm Still Here"! But, ah, the magic of Maye -- she can make almost any song not only sound better than ever, but also fresh and new and exciting. Marilyn Maye can now claim to completely own "I'm Still Here" -- just as she owned it at Stephen Sondheim's 80th birthday celebration at Carnegie Hall a few weeks back, when Maye brought the house down and was received ecstatically by the audience with a thunderous ovation.

Of course, the final number was another Jerry Herman chestnut, "It's Today" from Mame, which finds Maye not only exhorting the crowd to "live life all the way," but also indulging in high kicks that a Rockette would envy. It was a thrilling, 90 minute whirlwind of an evening, and better than most of the actual shows on Broadway today! Adding to our excitement was being seated next to one of Miss Maye's most loyal fans, Freeman Gunter, who has been following the great lady's career since the mid-1960's. Freeman was kind enough to share this utterly fabulous photo, taken backstage during Marilyn's engagement at the Shoreham Hotel in Washington, D.C., circa 1967. We want his tie, and her caftan!


And, coming full circle, last night at the Metropolitan, Miss Maye gave a slightly-less-hirsute Freeman the souvenir of a lifetime:


The marvelous Marilyn Maye is packing them in for just one more night, December 7, at 7:00 p.m. We hope we'll see you there!

Mad About the Birthday Boy

We're mad about Toby Worthington, who had a birthday this past weekend. In a perfect world, we'd be gadding about a bygone Manhattan with Mr. Worthington in celebration, sipping martinis in smart nightclubs, taking in every sophisticated chanteuse and diseuse in town -- and we would have remembered on the exact date. But it is not, alas, a perfect world; and we are far, far from perfect -- so we hope that this little tribute will suffice. Mr. Worthington has long been a staunch friend and supporter of SSUWAT, and we wish him many more years of wit, style, and unflappable good taste.

Andy Hardy Meets His Match

There is, we are sure, a special place in hell for nasty curmudgeons who would give a 90 year old legend a negative review; but we'll take our chances, as that special place couldn't be more hellish than Feinstein's at the Regency was this past Sunday.

It needn't have been so, which is the saddest part of all. When a still-impish, still-energetic Mickey Rooney took the stage, gamely "belting" out "Nothing Can Stop Me Now" from The Roar of the Greasepant, the Smell of the Crowd, it seemed that, indeed, nothing - not dropped lyrics, not a heavily-miked band which completely drowned the star out at points, not even the obvious effects of age - could stop this indefatigable charmer from putting on a show.

When Rooney eased into a medley of songs associated with his halcyon days as MGM's number one box office superstar ("How About You," "Nice Work if You Can Get It" and "But Not for Me"), all was right with the world. Rooney was never the world's greatest singer, but he could certainly get a lyric across, and that gift was fully intact on Sunday night, even as 90 hard-lived years occasionally lent a wobble or a rasp to his delivery. A tribute to his erstwhile film partner, Judy Garland, was heartfelt and touching. A brief comedy interlude, complete with rim shots from the drummer, was corny, but oh-so-effective: bad jokes made laugh-out-loud funny by the sheer magnetism of Rooney's out sized charisma, his easy professionalism, and his twinkling charm.

And then: disaster. Rooney introduced his wife, Jan, to the stage. A big, blowsy, badly-permed blonde strode into the spotlight, her voluminous, turquoise sequined-and-fringed pantsuit causing poor Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick, seated squarely in front of the stage, to go slack-jawed. And then Mrs. Rooney sang. And sang. And sang.

She sang "Makin' Whoopee." She sang "Moon River." She sang "Walkin' After Midnight." She sang "Crazy." God help us, she sang "Take Me Home, Country Roads"!

Jan Rooney doesn't have a bad voice; but she certainly doesn't have the voice, talent or presence to give what amounted to a solo cabaret performance at an esteemed New York nightclub, before a very prominent audience. Everything, from her appearance, to her phrasing, to her repertoire, smelled cheap and obvious and tacky. It wasn't even Vegas; it was a bowling alley in Reno. And it played like an attempt to grandstand and outshine one of the greatest of Hollywood legends, which made the aftertaste even more bitter.

Things went from bad to worse when Jan finally wound up her solo spot, and she and Mickey engaged in a series of duets. Their Steve and Eydie-style put-down patter fell completely flat; Steve and Eydie's loving barbs are only funny because the two are equals in terms of talent and celebrity status. When Jan Rooney belittles Mickey Rooney's age, or height, or anything else, even in jest, it's painful. A particularly cringe worthy moment wasn't scripted: mid-song, Jan scolded Mickey for supposedly dropping a lyric; it turned out he hadn't.

This dizzying train wreck finally came to a haphazard halt as Mickey played a rambling solo piano piece, and then was feted by Nathan Lane, Donald Trump and Michael Feinstein, each of whom paid tribute to the entertainer, with salutatory messages read from President Obama and Liza Minnelli (surely, the only time you'll ever see those two names linked together).

In the space of about 80 minutes, we'd seen and heard Mickey sing five songs by himself, three of which were part of a medley. For the remainder, we'd been subjected to his "better" half for nearly an excruciating hour. Even at Feinstein's premium prices, we would have been happier just seeing Mickey work his magic for 20 minutes, receive his telegrams, citations and cake, and then take his bows. Stretching the program out as a vanity showcase for his wife was a bait-and-switch of the most ear-splitting kind.

The Unsinkable Tammy Grimes

Tammy Grimes is nothing if not a fascinating mass of contradictions: with her affected, pseudo-British rasp and highly theatrical looks, she has always seemed the epitome of camp; yet her total belief in the persona that she has created for herself lends gravitas and weight to everything that she does. She's elegant, bawdy, ethereal, gutsy, imperious, earthy, vampy, sophisticated, brash and vulnerable in equal, wonderful measures.

In her new show at The Metropolitan Room, "Miss Tammy Grimes: Favorite Songs and Stories," the emphasis, albeit not necessarily intentionally, is on the vulnerable side of Miss Grimes' outsized personality. At 76, Grimes' famously throaty voice is no longer the flexible instrument it once was; and the still-imposing diva, in spite of her patrician profile, upswept blonde locks, and diaphanous Chanel gown, displays an oddly endearing case of stage jitters, nervously fingering her pearls one second, shaking madly the next.

It could have been a train wreck: dropped lyrics; "stories" which were literally read from a script - and which a somewhat-addled Grimes sometimes put before or after the wrong accompanying song; and those aforementioned stage jitters preventing Grimes from making eye contact with the audience from The Metropolitan's almost painfully intimate stage.

And yet, as a whole, the evening worked - sometimes beautifully. After a shaky opening of "Rose of Washington Square" (which was featured on her eponymous debut album in 1962), Grimes kicked things into high gear with an expert "Ring Them Bells," on which her comic timing truly shone, and made you forget all about Liza Minnelli. A surprise offering was Tom Waits' "Martha," which Grimes turned into a spellbinding tour de force of regret, longing and quiet desperation. It was easily the best performance of the evening.

Other highlights included a poignant reading of "How Deep is the Ocean," dedicated to her late husband, composer Richard Bell, who passed away in 2005; the very funny parable "The Snake"; Cole Porter's hilarious "Tale of the Oyster," perfectly suited to Grimes' madcap personality; "More Than One Man in My Life," from Grimes' Obie-winning performance in the off-Broadway Mademoiselle Colombe; and heart-wrenching interpretations of Noel Coward's "Someday I'll Find You," "I'll See You Again" and "If Love Were All." Of course, the number which elicited the greatest applause was "Home Sweet Heaven," Grimes' show stopper from High Spirits - the musical version of Coward's Blithe Spirit, which he directed.

But the song which pointed up both the tragedy and triumph of this uneven, yet moving and ultimately wonderful evening, was Kurt Weill's "Pirate Jenny" from The Threepenny Opera. During this complex, lengthy, demanding song, Grimes repeatedly either went up in her lyrics or blanked out completely, becoming visibly upset and disoriented, murmuring her apologies to the audience; and, still, she soldiered through the entire song, and when she got it right, the effect was hair-raising, thrilling, brilliant. It was the cabaret equivalent of watching an aging prima ballerina called upon to execute an impossibly tricky Pièce de résistance, barely making her landings, but somehow still conveying all of her grace and dignity and artistry.

By the time Grimes finished roaring through a purposefully defiant "I Ain't Down Yet" (from her Tony-winning turn in The Unsinkable Molly Brown), it was clear that this indomitable survivor wasn't going to let a few muffed lyrics or a case of stage fright keep her from performing. Tammy Grimes is one of the last of the true show-must-go-on troupers from the golden age of Broadway and cabaret - and when she and her few still-standing peers are gone, there will be no one to take their place. Frankly, we'd rather see a few flashes of true brilliance from a legend than a thoroughly competent, completely ineffectual night of warbling by an American Idol-honed novice. As Miss Grimes herself sang in another number from High Spirits: "Tomorrow I may disappear." So if you think fondly of her, you'd better love her while you may, warts and all.

Miss Tammy Grimes performs at The Metropolitan Room through Wednesday evening.

Some Enchanted Evening?

We came out of Mitzi Gaynor's opening night at Feinstein's at the Regency on May 18 liking her so much, we wish we could give her one woman show, Razzle Dazzle: My Life Behind the Sequins, an unqualified rave - especially since it marks the veteran star's New York nightclub debut. Ain't that a kick in the head? After sixty-plus years in films, on television, and on nightclub and casino stages across the globe, La Gaynor has never taken a bite out of the Big Apple.

So when the still-curvaceous, glamorous Gaynor made her grand entrance on Tuesday evening, she was greeted with an ovation that can only be described as tumultuous. It was the climax of a steady hum of delicious tension and expectation which had charged the air with electricity as the audience awaited the start of a hotly-anticipated engagement.

90 minutes later, we exited the ballroom at Feinstein's curiously elated, but a little baffled and wondering what had just happened. Gaynor's song selections were wildly random (ranging from the expected South Pacific medley to a relatively new number from now-defunct Broadway hit The Drowsy Chaperone), and, we're sorry to report, largely forgettable. Gaynor's greatest assets during her heyday were her charm, vivacity, glamour, great gams, and her sparkling dancing ability. Today, she has charm and vivacity in spades; her glamour, especially as presented in six outrageous Bob Mackie confections, is as potent as ever; and her gams still look splendid. But whether it was because of the confines of the small-ish, awkwardly set up stage in the ballroom of the Regency, or Gaynor's own reluctance to shake her booty at age 78 ("I don't wanna show off no more," she sang, perhaps tellingly, in that number from Chaperone), there were few of the terpsichorean fireworks she once displayed on her legendary television specials. Gaynor's voice was never a prime strength, and now that she relies on it much more than her leggy high-kicking, its limitations are brought sharply into focus.

What kept the audience rapt with attention, then (besides the flouncy entrances with each new Mackie gown), was Gaynor's warmth, piss elegant humor, and magnetic storytelling abilities. She told more than a few howlers; we were in stitches, but her anecdotes, hysterical as they were, tended to ramble and lasted longer than her musical numbers. Which leads us to this conclusion: Mitzeleh (as her friend The Merm used to call her) would be best served nowadays by a touring Q&A program, rather than a full-scale nightclub act. If, as she sang, she doesn't want to "show off no more" - and one left Feinstein's feeling that all Mitzi really wants to do is tell salty stories and look glamorous - then she could sit down on stages with, say, Charles Busch or Bruce Vilanch or Rex Reed; reminisce, tell her tales, and show her vintage clips (which she does screen in her Feinstein's act, and which only serves to remind you of what you're not seeing in the current show). Gaynor did a program like this, in fact, a few years back in Los Angeles, we believe, with great success.

If, however, she truly does still have the urge to get up there and sing her heart out, Gaynor would be wise to eschew the overblown arrangements (her thin, wobbly voice had to compete with the synthesized strings and horns), trim the fat (a few, well-chosen, well-placed anecdotes), and tighten up the program with a carefully selected repertoire of songs which suit her style and range.

Mitzi's at Feinstein's through May 27th. Do we recommend that you go see her? Yes, so long as you know what you're getting into. It may not be the best nightclub act you've ever seen, but you'll have a hell of a good time.

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.

Spring in Manhattan

Lest you think that we were idle during our hiatus, darlings, let us assure you that we were not. In addition to tending to our familial duties (and we thank you, sincerely, for your public and private messages of support, inquiries of concern, and all-around sweetness), March flew by in a whirl of nightclubs, theaters, restaurants and cocktail dens. Lunch at The Modern! Drinks at King Cole Bar! Dinner at "21"! Late night cabaret at The Oak Room at the Algonquin! It's a glamorous job, but somebody has to do it.

TJB and escort paint the town pink.

We kicked off the month by catching Marilyn Maye in her debut at Feinstein's at the Regency. Let us preface this by admitting that Feinstein's is our least favorite room in town, and, in all honesty, we've seen and heard the marvelous Marilyn do much better shows, and in better voice.

MARILYN MAYE: Still marvelous.

It's a testament to her brilliance, then, that even when fighting against an awkwardly-arranged room; a crowd for whom "hip" is usually associated with "replacement," rather than being "in the know"; and the unusual-for-Maye occasional misstep in song choice; this 82-year-young dynamo still puts across an act which is better than any other cabaret or nightclub performance you're likely to see by any other performer in this lifetime.

THEN AND NOW: Hair and lashes, still fabulous.

The Maye faithful have religiously followed her annual appearances at The Metropolitan Room downtown, appearances hallmarked by not only Maye's now-legendary chops and professionalism, but also a brilliant, laser-like precision in sequencing, formatting and execution. Her programs are not only master classes in singing, but in song choice and placement. But even when gamely giving a "newbie" audience a greatest hits, throw-everything-at-'em-and-see-what-sticks repertoire, Maye, as always, has the ability to create magic. A deliciously sensual "Lazy Afternoon" was sublime, seguing into Blossom Dearie's sexy, soulful "Bye Bye Country Boy." The latter is quickly becoming a Maye signature, along the lines of Murray Grand's terrific soap operetta, "Guess Who I Saw Today." Maye has sung that song so often, she could probably do it in her sleep and still be effective; thankfully, she's the 100% committed pro that she is, and totally devastates the crowd each and every time.

Forever and always a showstopper.

Other highlights: Steve Allen's lovely, little-heard "I Love You Today" (from MM's 1965 debut album for RCA); the glorious roof-raiser "Golden Rainbow" (the title song from Steve and Eydie's infamous 1967 Broadway show, and another favorite from Maye's RCA catalog); Sondheim's "Being Alive" cleverly bookended by Schwartz and Dietz' "By Myself"; Maye's now-famous seven-song-strong Cole Porter medley; and Porter's exuberant "I'm in Love Again" interpolated with a gorgeously-sung "I've Got a Crush on You" by the brothers Gershwin. The incomparable trio of pianist Tedd Firth, drummer Jim Ekloff, and bassist Tom Hubbard played their buns off, and added greatly to the evening's musical high points.

Did we mention that we've MET the legend herself? TJB, MM and SSUWAT's dear friend, Drew.

"I Love You Today"? Even in a less-than-perfect room, and with a slightly flawed program, Marilyn Maye has our affection forever and a day. And, thanks to the auspices of our darling friend Drew, we managed to sneak backstage after the show; and La Maye even remembered meeting us a few months before, or was sweet enough to pretend same. We left floating on air, high on the scent of her perfume and the lingering deliciousness of her talent. Later this week: reportage on performances by Dame Edna and Michael Feinstein; KT Sullivan and Mark Nadler; and Joyce Breach and Sir Richard Rodney Bennett.

Life is a cabaret!

SSUWAT Endorses...

If, like us, you are a humble plebe who can't escape to the Hamptons or Fire Island or the country during the summer weekends, and are stuck for ideas on what to do in town, here are some of our favorite haunts.

Favorite Restaurant: Il Corso, 54 W. 55th St., (212) 957-1500.


Hands down, our absolute favorite Italian in the city, and possibly our favorite restaurant outside of Italy itself. Chef Andrea Giacomoni is absolutely brilliant at producing meals which are casually elegant yet homey, soul-satisfying, and above all, savory. Yes, you could have a fine meal if you stick within the safety zone of, say, a richly creamy burrata with prosciutto; a toothsome tangle of homemade fettucine a la bolognese; or a perfectly crisp-on-the-outside, moist-on-the-inside veal Milanese. But the specials are uniformly spectacular, and if Chef Andrea is offering braised, stewed, or pan-roasted lamb, veal or pork, it is not to be missed. We are not overstating our case when we say that some of our best, most richly rewarding meals have been at the hands of Chef Andrea. Our current favorite: an antipasti of delicately fried mushrooms (light and crackling good - the mark of a good chef, in our opinion, is their ability to fry properly; the result should be sprightly and crisp, not heavy and sodden) followed by Andrea's heroic pan seared double pork chop. This remarkable cut of meat is, without question, the juiciest, best-prepared pork we have ever had. Period. The quality/cost ratio is excellent; the staff will do backflips to please you; the ambiance is cozy and completely outside of trends; and regulars (like us) are there every single night. Oh, and Il Corso's coffee is the best and strongest in town.

Favorite Bar: The Modern at MOMA, 9 W. 53rd St., 212.333.1220.


When you want to avoid the model wannabe/hedge fund a**hole crowd, but still crave a chic, sleek scene, The Modern is the perfect destination. It's a truly adult experience, with a sophisticated, well-heeled, well-polished crowd who have better things to do than dance on banquettes and throw up in their town cars. As befits a bar/restaurant located in the Museum of Modern Art, the space is cutting-edge, but the service is friendly and unpretentious. Dinner in the Bar Room is casual, lively and cool; the Dining Room is a serene oasis from the glamorous chaos up front. And the bar itself serves up one hell of a martini: ice cold, generously proportioned (but not ridiculously so), crystal clear, expertly mixed. In addition, considering the quality and the scene factor, the price tag is low indeed: a top-shelf martini runs around $14, compared to the $20 and up that the King Cole Bar or Four Seasons will stick you for. Another plus: the "speciality cocktail" list isn't full of nauseatingly sweet concoctions aimed at Paris Hiltonettes.

Favorite Shop: Seigo Neckwear, 747 Third Ave., (212) 308-3008.


Without a doubt, Seigo is a bow tie lover's wet dream come true. The sheer amount of heart-stoppingly gorgeous, handmade, limited edition ties to choose from is staggering, and almost overwhelming. We've learned that one must enter Seigo with a purpose and a plan: a certain color scheme, say, or a specific pattern; simple browsing simply won't cut it, with all the choices available. Seigo also sells regular neckties, as well as simply beautiful pocket squares, handkerchiefs, and ascots. Seigo Katsuragawa handcrafts each piece from kimono silk, giving his ties a unique sheen and texture. The colors are mouth-watering, the charming Japanese salesgirls are unwaveringly polite and friendly, and the cost? Around $50 for a bow tie, $45 for a pocket square. Much less than what you'd spend at Paul Stuart, and about the same as what you'd pay for a factory-made, mass-produced product at Brooks Brothers. If only we'd discovered Seigo sooner...

Favorite Entertainment Venue: The Metropolitan Room, 34 W. 22nd St., (212) 206-0440.


With Bobby Short and Eartha Kitt returned to Fabulon, there is very little reason to sell a kidney in order to afford a night at the Cafe Carlyle. With few exceptions, Feinstein's is no better, and often (in terms of service) worse. Which makes The Metropolitan such a breath of fresh air. Showcasing top talent like Marilyn Maye, Julie Wilson, Tammy Grimes and Annie Ross, as well as the cream of the rising cabaret upstarts, The Metropolitan also boasts a truly music-savvy audience. Unlike the Carlyle and Feinstein's, where high rollers attend shows simply to flaunt their bankroll, The Metropolitan attracts a crowd who knows their stuff, and appreciates the performers. Seating can get cramped at the communal tables, but hey, you'll always make new friends with your neighbors. Service can sometimes be on the slow side, but invariably sweet and well-intentioned. Even better, the cover charge hovers around $25-45, depending on the star perfomer, with a two drink minimum. It's very possible to have a fabulous night of entertainment here for two, and spend only around $75 total.

Favorite Theatre: The Walter Reade Theatre, 165 W. 65th St. (upper level), (212) 875-5601.


The Film Society at Lincoln Center presents its movies in a spacious, comfortable, clean space, and on an absolutely gorgeous big screen. Many of their revivals are studio prints, all the better to revel in their Technicolor/CinemaScope glory. This summer alone, we've seen glorious screenings of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, The King and I, and Inside Daisy Clover; and we're seeing Gypsy and West Side Story this weekend. Frankly, that's our idea of a grand, gay time on the weekend, rather than X-ing it up with les boys out on the Pines.

Icon

We'll Love Ya Tomorrow

Maybe.

We saw Andrea (Annie) McArdle at the Metropolitan Room on Sunday night. It was an extremely sparse crowd, and the evening's program and execution made us envy those with the better sense to stay away.

That was rather unkind.

Ms. McArdle wasn't awful, she just wasn't particularly good. She still has the strong, crystalline voice of her Broadway halcyon days, but has not, in the 30-plus years since she rocketed to child stardom, acquired one whit of depth or nuance, which is the life's blood of cabaret - particularly in a room as intimate as the Metropolitan. Her repertoire was fairly hackneyed (a little Sondheim here, a little Karen Carpenter there) and her accompanist, bless his clueless heart, was a 20-something blond gay boi (spelling intentional) who played fairly adequately, but not spectacularly, and was given far more of the spotlight than he deserved.

Junior, the Kid, that is, soloed (vocally) on a painfully earnest, amateurish rendition of "The Rainbow Connection" from The Muppet Movie, and engaged in some truly annoying repartee with the "star." Listen, Princess Fire and Music, we're not a huge Sondheim fans, either, but at this point in your life and career, you have absolutely no legs to stand on when you decide to publicly make snarky comments about Sondheim and his lyrics. Okay? When you're as old and jaded as we are, we'll talk.

Speaking of bad decisions: McArdle's baffling choice to evoke the memory of her critically-reviled turn as Judy Garland in the disastrous TV biopic, Rainbow (1978). She then turned in a karaoke rendition of "Over the Rainbow," and a mirthless "Trolley Song." It almost made us long for Rufus Wainwright.

The whole evening (all 65 minutes of it, though it seemed to last at least 90) reminded us of an evening at a gay piano bar, watching an enthusiastic but irriating show tune queen and his Fag Hag Best Friend, the Most Talented Girl Musical Theater Class, hog the microphone. If you've been to Marie's Crisis or The Townhouse, you've heard pretty much the same thing (right down to the Sondheim, Karen Carpenter, Judy Garland, and so help us, "Beauty and the Beast") - only you probably had more fun, and certainly were able to get drunk for less.

The only genuine moment came at the very end, when McArdle (naturally) wound up her act with "Tomorrow." It's not a great song; it's become a total Star Search cliche; but it's the one lyric that actually seems to mean something to McArdle, and the one number she has some kind of emotional connect with. In those brief 2 1/2 minutes, you respected her as a legitimate Broadway vet.

It's the 62 1/2 other minutes of the act that got her and her Hostess snack friend into trouble.

The Greeks Had a Name For It

But then, the music of Pini Cohen undoubtedly crossed all barriers.

Found HERE.

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.

We Love a Cabaret

Make Someone Happy

Jayne Mansfield, giving her audience what they want.

Photos from the JAYNE MANSFIELD FORUM

MMMarvelous!

Is it any wonder that we adore Marilyn Maye? Secretly, if we had our druthers, we too would be a jazzy, sassy chanteuse in a sea green column gown, performing on a Hollywood Palace-style runway stage with our name spelled out in lights behind us. (And so would many of you - yes, we mean you.)


We'd also have a serious, wind-resistant bouffant flip...


...and, most crucially, we'd have a debut album entitled Meet ___________, featuring a snappily illustrated cover portrait and a Valley of the Dolls-esque mobile background.


Even better, at age 81, we'd still be going strong and sounding magnificent - and we'd have giddy gay bloggers absolutely wetting themselves with glee that they're seeing our newest show at The Metropolitan Room not once, but twice.

Marvelous Marilyn Maye performing recently at Jim Caruso's Cast Party at Birdland.

If you see us at The Metropolitan on Sunday the 14th or Sunday the 21st, do say hello. (If you buy us a drink, we'll be even more receptive.)