Cabaret Chanteuse

At Chanteuse, old creatives rule the roost

Old pros Kilgore, Flower, Duffy Bishop and friends light up the night at Tony Starlight's

To Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, and all of you teenage manufactured hopefuls on all of those manufactured television musical-contest shows: Take two shots of bourbon and call me in the morning. Thirty years from now.

No, I’m not trying to contribute to the delinquency of minors. Minors can do that very well on their own, although the Bieb seems to get a lot of help from his entourage. What I’m suggesting is that good pipes are a dime a dozen. It’s what you learn to do with them that counts. And learning it can take a good long time. It means not only learning how to use your pipes well technically (a singing voice is like a sports car: it responds best to those who’ve figured out how to drive it) but also getting some miles on the tires. Live a little. Hit the side roads. Forget about the arena shows and TV specials and giant paydays. Do some clubs and dives. Fall in and out of and back into love. Miss the rent. Be a short-order cook or a waitress in a diner. Check out some curious corners. Get bruised. Develop calluses. Dive deep inside yourself. Get out of your own head. Be more interested in making music than being famous. Listen and learn. Find out what you want to sing ABOUT.

Kilgore at the cabaret. Photo: Laura Grimes

Kilgore at the cabaret. Photo: Laura Grimes

The talent onstage Thursday night at Cabaret Chanteuse, the monthly gathering of club singers at Tony Starlight’s Supperclub & Lounge in Portland’s Hollywood district, had more collective miles on it than a tramp steamer in a Humphrey Bogart movie. And let’s just say, the old engine was chugging beautifully. Joining hosts Gretchen Rumbaugh and Darcy White was a powerhouse and deeply veteran lineup that included blues belter Duffy Bishop, jazz stylist Rebecca Kilgore (her ruefully comic version of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s uncharacteristically jazzy “The Gentleman Is a Dope” was a highlight of the evening), singer/guitarist Mary Flower, and big-band singer Claudia Knauer. Uncredited, but hovering like a guardian angel dispensing bawdy blessings, was the spirit of Mae West, with her winks and grinds and multiple entendres. How can a singer in her 60s be sultrier than a vamped-up 18-year-old doing the corporately calibrated music-industry grind? Easy. Suggestion, slyness, wit, knowing the territory.

This was an exceptionally good lineup of chantoozies (as Rumbaugh and White like to style their guests), exploring a broad range of Americana from Delta and Chicago blues to nightclub scorchers to Broadway tunes to mountain music and offbeat jazz standards. It was, all in all, a splendid rummage through the treasure chest of American popular song, mostly from the 1920s through the 1970s, borrowing and rearranging bits from the likes of Bessie Smith and Jo Stafford and even Storm Large (something academic about the geographical dimensions of anatomical objects, which inspired an unlikely audience singalong). The normally tight stage in the pie-wedge Tony Starlight’s was even more crowded than usual for Chanteuse nights, because pianist and musical director White was joined by the attentive and inventive rhythm section of drummer Sam Foulger and bassist Fletcher Nemeth. Sometimes the elegant electric guitarist Chris Carlson (Bishop’s husband and bandmate) would join the fray, or Flower would take a seat and play slack-key guitar. And sometimes a couple of these genuine headliners would squeeze in to do a little backup harmony for one of the other singers.

Rumbaugh and White. Photo: Kevin Paul Clark

Rumbaugh and White. Photo: Kevin Paul Clark

The astonishing thing was how well these very different singers meshed. Bishop can sing soft and throaty or blow the roof off the joint, and sometimes she stomps around the stage like she’s got an irregular army of ants in her pants. Flower is straightforward and restrained, paying attention to her six-string or her slack-key and letting her fingers and the music speak for themselves. Knauer is big and booming and bawdy, like a trombone soloist or the whole darned horn section. Kilgore, a frequent partner of the sophisticated-jazz pianist and songwriter Dave Frishberg, is wry and elegant and Champagne-y, a connoisseur’s delight. Partly they mesh because they fold naturally into the encompassing atmosphere nurtured by Rumbaugh and White, who are a crack comedy duo as well as being fine musicians. (At one point, White slipped deftly and delightfully into “Popsicle Toes,” teasing out the song’s sly and not-so-hidden double meanings.) And partly the singers mesh because, as different as their individual styles are, they share musical traits: wit, comfort, self-confidence, a willingness to step outside of ordinary bounds. They’re all storytellers, and they pay attention to lyrics, enunciating clearly and knowing what to stress for what effect. They like to play around with rhythm, pushing the beat or lazing around behind it before rushing to catch up, and generally upending the applecart of easy expectation. They’re all pros, and they’ve been at the game long enough to know what they do well. Bishop can shatter glass, metaphorically, and doesn’t care how much stemware she takes out. Kilgore’s voice isn’t big, but it’s nuanced and cultivated and perfectly calibrated, capable of little dips and dives and shifts and trailings and surprise landings.

The big talk these days in economic and artistic circles is about young creatives, and sure enough, some of them are shaping the future in bold and interesting ways. But if there’s no business like show business, there’s also no substitute for experience; and on this night, at least, the old creatives ruled the roost. No Biebers or Simon Cowells were in evidence, and who needed ’em? – this night was about music and life, not records and ratings. Check back in 2043, Justin. Let’s see what you’ve learned.

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Tony Starlight’s features an eclectic-to-outrageous lineup of music, from Neil Diamond and Dean Martin tributes to big-band blowouts and ’70s pop nights. Coming up soon:

  •  Friday, Nov. 15: “The Tony Starlight Show.” Musical variety and parody with Tony and the Reece Marshburn Trio.
  •  Saturday, Nov. 16: “Tony Starlight’s AM Gold Show.” Elton John, Carol King, Neil Diamond, Jim Croce, and other soft-rock sounds from the ’70s.
  •  Monday, Nov. 18: An evening with musical-theater singer Chrisse Roccaro.
  • Tuesday, Nov. 19: Piano bar with Bo Ayars, who’s backed Elvis, Streisand, Bob Hope, and Bill Cosby, and played a dozen years in Liberace’s band.

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Go to pop central, then veer to the left

Off the pop mainstream, Cabaret Chanteuse and Tony Starlight's keep the sound sultry and smart

 

White and Rumbaugh, laughing it up. Kevin Paul Clark Photography

White and Rumbaugh, laughing it up. Kevin Paul Clark Photography

“I like to sing oddball songs, but tonight I thought it’d be fun to sing some standards,” singer-actor Gretchen Rumbaugh said casually in the pre-show glow of a recent Thursday evening.

Then pianist and musical director Darcy White banged an attention-getting chord, and Rumbaugh, suddenly resplendent and bigger than life atop a stage on the port side of the prow-shaped room at Tony Starlight’s Supper Club & Lounge, riffed into Dave Frishberg’s comic and slightly demented “Peel Me a Grape.”

Well, fly me to the moon. It struck me, as Rumbaugh shifted into a suggestive and slightly intimidating low-gear growl, that (a) maybe I’d better peel the damned thing for her; and (b) anyplace where a Frishberg tune’s considered both a standard and not an oddball song must be in an alternate and probably superior universe to our own.

The universe of Cabaret Chanteuse, the evening of song that Rumbaugh’s hosted for the past three years with the talented and congenial White by her side, enters the orbit of our own just once a moon, on the second Thursday of each month. In a town with hundreds of singers but very few cabaret spaces, it’s attracted a glittering parade of torch singers, musical-theater belters and assorted other vocalists, most but not all of them women.

This month’s, a Mother’s Day special on May 9, will feature three “Hot Mamas” (Liz Bacon, Erin Charles, and Wendy Westerwelle, creator of the Sophie Tucker musical “Soph: Last of the Red Hot Mamas”) and one “Hot Papa” (Nick O’Donnell). The list of past performers reads like a who’s-who of Portland’s musical-theater, club, and even operatic stages: Sara Catherine Wheatley, Mary Flower, Duffy Bishop, Angela Niederloh, Susannah Mars, Marilyn Keller, Cherie Price, Steven Nash, Emily Beleele, Rick Lewis, Vin Shambry, and many others.

The appeal of the music, a sort of anti-pop popular music that ranges from the Great American Songbook to jazz and blues and contemporary show tunes, is both intellectual and biological: it can tickle your imagination and get you in the gut. It emphasizes personal style and improvisation, but often also has an element of rediscovery, of sifting through the archaeological sands of popular music to find the stuff that isn’t quite obvious. Unlike most mainstream popular music, it feels like adults at play.

Rumbaugh, a big-bone gal who’s lived a fruitful theatrical life on the outskirts of mainstream town, seems an ideal host for this sort of evening, the kind of embracing personality who can pull together a musical variety show and make it move with the proper combination of intimacy, humor, and quick pacing. One of the original Angry Housewives from Seattle’s premiere production of the long-running cult musical, she’s also put in stints at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, played such outrageous real-life characters as Ann Landers, Leona Helmsley, and Mae West, and starred as the vivacious and slatternly cat in the vastly underrated musical-comedy adaptation of  “Archy & Mehitabel,” Don Marquis’ classic free-verse newspaper tales about a cockroach with the soul of a poet. Portland theater audiences might remember her most recently as Mrs. Lovett, the daffily nefarious peddler of people pies in last fall’s hit Portland Center Stage production of “Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.”  She moved to Portland half a dozen years ago, and started Cabaret Chanteuse partly to give herself some work. “My mother’s milk was jazz music,” she says. “My father was a jazz musician. He was a bebop player. I mean, for real, when bebop was being invented.”

Holding court at Tony Starlight's. Kevin Paul Clark Photography

Holding court at Tony Starlight’s. Kevin Paul Clark Photography

Tony Starlight’s itself provides part of the Cabaret Chanteuse charm. The club is in an odd little building in an odd part of town, and it can feel like an odd little church, with shrines to the great gods Sinatra and Diamond and various packs of holy rats. It’s a pie wedge at the gateway to Portland’s throwback Hollywood District, squeezed between the rumble of Sandy Boulevard and the roar of a busy freeway interchange, and it looks like Manhattan’s fabled Flatiron Building lopped off at the ankles. Cabaret Chanteuse isn’t the only off-the-American-Idol-track offering here. Tony Starlight’s own shows are like little slicked-back prayers to dreams of Vegas past. Other acts range from piano-bar jazz to big band to supper-club karaoke. “Divaville,” Christa Wessel’s show of jazz and pop oldies on KMHD jazz radio, has gatherings here, too. People who hang out at Tony’s tend to take their quirkiness the old-fashioned way, with a minor chord and maybe a splash of gin. The place doesn’t need to put a bird on it. It just exists, in a slightly altered reality, somewhere between a sepia postcard and a wink.

April’s Cabaret Chanteuse brought together four guest performers, each with her own twist on life in the limelight. Chrissy Kelly Pettit, currently playing Jackie Kennedy in Triangle Productions’ new musical “Ari-Maria,” about Aristotle Onassis and Maria Callas, emphasized songs by Portland composers, including Christopher Tabor’s “Little Things” and Michael Allen Harrison’s “You Alone” from his stage adaptation of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Barbara Richardson (“She’s bringing her wine to the stage,” Rumbaugh quipped. “It’s a good sign”) dipped into the musical “Spring Awakening” and brought the house down with a revenge lament about a shallow boyfriend, who’s brushed her off with a callous  “You’re just 15 pounds away from my love, baby.”

Darka Dusty (“I’m in an all-girl group called The Vulva Underground,” she introduced herself) is a onetime Ukrainian pop star who casually and entertainingly shatters American popular-music expectations. Singing and playing her own tune “Cheeky Bird,” she broke into a whistling solo: it was enchanting, like playing the accordion unironically. “Music is my religion, and this is the Church of Get-Down,” she announced huskily. Then she swung into a, well, dark and dusty version of “When I Was Seventeen.” Musical-theater regular Lisamarie Harrison, fresh from a stint in “The Great American Trailer Park Musical,” closed things out with a slightly bawdy and claws-extended purr. “I’m at the age when I should be eating bonbons and getting up at the crack of noon,” she declared airily, then launched into a two-minute singing summary of “Fifty Shades of Gray.” Like most of the evening’s singers, she reveled in the sort of lyrical wordplay that so often distinguishes cabaret from other forms of popular music, delivering a wryly knockout version of the Barbara Cook and Nancy Lamott favorite “Another Mr. Right Left.”

His loss. As Rumbaugh says, “I put on a long black glove and I feel like a chanteuse.” And don’t we all need a long black glove in our lives at least once a month?

NOTE:

This month’s Cabaret Chanteuse is at 7:30 p.m. Thursday, May 9, at Tony Starlight’s, 3728 Northeast Sandy Boulevard, Portland. Cover charge is $10, and reservations are recommended: 503-517-8584.

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