He's been called the Ambassador of the Great American Songbook, but Michael Feinstein--an internationally acclaimed performing and recording artist, archivist and historian--now has a new title: Television Pioneer.
My father, the songwriter Carl Sigman, was a rational man and his anti-rock screeds had their own internal logic: "It's noise," therefore "it's not music." Ipso facto, "they should call it something else." QED.
As a fan of non-amplified solo recitals, the sound environment of this recording is like sitting in down-center Orchestra in a world class concert hall and having eye-to-eye contact with an artist whose big guns vocals penetrate clear to the soul.
To hear Tony Bennett sing in person is to be transported; to be connected with a golden era of music that dances ever further from reach with each passing year. They don't write songs like that anymore, and they don't make folks like Tony Bennett to sing them, either.
When I decided to take in the late set of Marilyn Maye's recent New York City appearance, I assumed that I could slip in and out quickly and call it a night. Boy, was I surprised upon arrival to see the swelling crowd on Broadway, milling around the door of the Iridium Jazz Club.
How did Debby Boone travel such a road to top billing in one of Manhattan's classiest cabaret rooms -- and with material that, at first glance, would seem to be at odds with the bulk of her musical career?
At age 97, more than eight decades into his remarkable career, Irving Fields is the last of the original generation of cocktail pianists who tickled the ivories in Manhattan's swankiest nightspots in the 1930s and '40s.
We owe Lincoln Center's annual festival focusing on the works of Mozart in part to Sinatra. It all goes back over 40 years to a time when Philharmonic Hall (as it was then called) was new and prestigious.