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In the coming weeks, I plan to bring to you a column about cabaret and jazz CDs, the good and the ugly, the new and the old. But it seems polite (having been raised by a mother who was a cross between Julia Sugarbaker and Scarlett O'Hara and a father who was one of the last true gentlemen, I was raised on polite) to begin this discourse by explaining who I am and how I grew to love the art of cabaret.
First of all, let me be absolutely clear about one thing: I have absolutely no musical ability. My singing has been known to make strong men scream in fear and head for the nearest exit. A futile and fleeting attempt to learn the saxophone in high school, led to the teacher remarking he hoped I could paint because he'd hate for me to ruin two art forms (obviously, an unfit teacher for many reasons, but not a poor judge of musical talent – and no, I cannot paint, either). None of which has ever interfered with a literal life long passion for music. I grew up in a household where music was playing constantly: classical (the choice of both my parents), jazz (my Mom loved Dixieland), vocalists (my Dad had a weakness for The Andrews Sisters and Polly Bergen) and Broadway cast recordings (which quickly grew to be my major passion).
At six, my prize possession was a small set of 78s (yes, I'm dating myself, but these days no one else will) of Rodgers and Hammerstein recordings for children with a message from Mary Rodgers on the side of the box about playing the records for her own children – I can't help wondering if Adam Guettel listened to these too. When I eventually donated the collection to the Rodgers and Hammerstein Organization, I was told that Ms. Rodgers got teary-eyed when she saw the note, evidently in a sudden burst of nostalgia. By 10, I had graduated to Rodgers and Hart and Cole Porter. I doubt I got half the references in their lyrics, but their sheer glamour and perceived naughtiness completely appealed to me. (I suppose this all should have alerted my parents to the possibility that they would have other issues to deal with me down the line, but we lived in more innocent times.)
While my older brother branched out into popular music of the 60s, I never developed a taste for the Beatles, the Stones or the Monkees, though, for some reason, I was a fleeting fan of Herman's Hermits. "I'm Henry the Eighth, I am" had a brief vogue as a back seat song to be sung loudly, if not well, during long car trips, replacing The Chipmunk's "Witch Doctor Song." Of course, my nonconformity made me a bit of an outcast at school, but I would have been an outcast for other reasons (being Jewish, being Gay, well, you know) so at least I was developing my taste in music and my identity at the same time.
Jumping ahead, life found me working at Tower Records – Lincoln Center (not so affectionately renamed "Terror Records" by my partner) as a buyer in the "soundtrack" department. During the period when the company was rapidly sending itself into bankruptcy, weekly redefinitions of job titles turned me into not much more than a glorified stock clerk with little to occupy myself creatively. In a mix of desperation and whimsy, I came up with the concept of doing a weekly cabaret concert within the store featuring a different singer each week. My husband suggested the name, "Any Wednesday," borrowing it from a 60s Broadway sex comedy whose slim connection to the cabaret world was that Barbara Cook had replaced Sandy Dennis in the leading role. With great courage, I hid behind the inner-store e-mail program to propose the idea to our new store manager, mentioning that the only financial cost to the company would be to provide me with a piano. Surprisingly, my boss wrote back within a few hours, loving the idea with only two conditions: each performer had to have a new CD to promote, and I had to kick the series off with a major name.
Mentally running through my very brief list of celebrities that I knew or had access to, was one performer who had made a point of thanking me for displaying her new releases. Getting contact info for her publicist, I reached out to her. The response was that she would be in Australia that week, but if I would wait until the following Wednesday she would be lucky to launch the series. And that is how Ann Hampton Callaway became the official fairy godmother of Any Wednesday.
The series began to gain some attention, and I soon was introduced to a wide range of performers. Many of them had friends they recommended to me, or recommended me to. And I began to learn of the many styles and song selections included in cabaret shows. I discovered what I liked, what audiences liked, and what drew attention. Along the way, I was also introduced to those who had more guts and money than talent. Before long, I also learned the hard lesson of how to say "no." But the thing I gained most from all this, was the beginning of the understanding of what a wonderful, warm community the cabaret and jazz musicians in New York formed. Oh sure, there were feuds and egos and certain "don't inviteums" included, but it was a welcoming and supportive world nonetheless. And it was becoming my world. The first that I truly felt I belonged in. I was finding my home.
When Tower crumbled, Barnes & Noble rescued me like a shining knight (well, I never said I wasn't a romantic – you can read how much of a salvation it really was when my memoir is completed and published, says the optimist – yes, romantic and optimist, a dangerous combination). A bigger performance space, more publicity, a better sound system. A lot more support from the company.
For just four years, hosting the cabaret series, and then a jazz series as well, along with various Broadway cast recording debuts, gave me the best job of my life. It brought me in contact with a wide range of talented performers from newcomers to legends, a word I don't use lightly, but when we are speaking of Carol Channing, Leslie Caron and Chita Rivera, what other word can you use? And I discovered just how wonderful the music community was, even for someone who is really just an enthusiastic, and hopefully knowledgeable, fan. I hope to bring the same qualities to this new role as columnist.
Next week, I promise some actual reviews. In the meantime, if any performers or their representative are reading this and would like to submit new or newish (or Brian Gari suggested Jewish, but I'm really very egalitarian) CDs for consideration for inclusion in my column, please send them to me along with information on their release date and availability.
c/o Scobar Entertainment
attn: Bart Greenberg
Park West Station
New York, NY 10025
Until the next time, enjoy the music.
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