By Nicki Escudero
By Amy Silverman
By Brian Palmer
By Chris Parker
By Troy Farah
By Lauren Wise
By Lauren Wise
The biggest surprise of the night came from Vancouver's Zumpano, the latest addition to Sub Pop's roster. Singer Carl Newman was constantly apologizing for the band not being grunge, only "out of style." Not since the late-Sixties Kinks sang about sipping afternoon tea and preserving antique tables and billiards has there been a band so delightfully out of vogue. It's no coincidence that the group performed a note-perfect rendition of the Kinks' classic "Shangri-La," even if Newman had to employ a cheat sheet to remember all the words.
Zumpano's matching black suits, keyboard flourishes, brainy guitar runs and slavish devotion to songwriter Jimmy Webb caused quite a few barflies to bolt to the front of the stage to stare approvingly. Later, Zumpano's guitarist Mike Ledwidge confided that the band has played "MacArthur Park" completely straight and in its entirety several times on this first tour. They skipped it this night because "it tends to dominate our set."
Instead, the band offered another Webb tune--"Orange Hair." This obscurity, the B-side of the group's current seven-inch, first saw active duty as a track on the Fifth Dimension's Magic Garden album. Yet this is no kitschy aberration. Zumpano played it full throttle, not for laughs. You've got to love a band that reveals an original tune was influenced by Burt Bacharach, a band willing to crawl around dusty bins at Goodwill to dig up pop music no 20-year-old in his right mind is expected to know. If you need a sign that '95 is going to be a year worth rolling outta bed for, watch for Zumpano's debut album, Look What the Rookie Did, scheduled for release in January.--Serene Dominic
November 8, 1994
There were no massive inflatable animals, no smoke machines, no lasers or explosions, not even a complement of multiracial, back-up-singing babes swaying like sirens.
What there was on the barren stage of Symphony Hall was this: a three-piece jazz band and a 68-year-old Italian-American man with one of the best voices in American popular song. (If not the best voice, now that age has left Sinatra's pipes a raspy shadow of their former selves.)
But that voice is all Tony Bennett needed to turn in a mesmerizing performance, that and the 40-plus years of simply standing there and singing that have turned him into a master. From the minute Bennett strode briskly onstage to a standing ovation--after a brief warm-up from the consummate Ralph Sharon Trio--the ex-singing waiter from Astoria was in command. The man was charm incarnate, his face locked in a tight smile that rarely changed throughout the night. He grabbed a mike lying on the Steinway and flowed into "Old Devil Moon."
And from there it was a swingin' tour through the American popular songbook, guided by a man who was personally responsible for making many standards standards. Bennett zipped through Irving Berlin's "I Love the Piano" and into a slow/fast take on Gershwin's "The Girl I Love" that became a perfect vehicle for the color and phrasing of his baritone. Always attendant with the sheer upscale dignity of his voice was Bennett's radiant stage presence, centered on the body language of a man who can fill the stage while hardly moving.
At times he was leaning back on the piano, legs crossed, hand in pocket as if he was propped against a streetlight, crooning to the stars. Then he was reaching to the spotlight, turning the final note of a song into a drawn-out, dramatic experience unto itself. The guy seemed genuinely thrilled, touched and tickled to be on the boards in Phoenix, belting it out for an audience hell-bent on offering him no reaction short of worship. After more than a few songs during the set, he stuck the mike under his arm, clasped his hands together and bowed delicately with almost incredulous gratitude at the waves of applause washing over him.
After an effortless version of "Stranger in Paradise," Bennett announced that he "was the Madonna of my day, and I didn't have to take my clothes off, either!" But don't get the wrong idea, Ol' Tone wasn't dissing his fellow Italian-American, or the MTV generation that has recently become enamored of him, too. "Hey, I don't mind what she does," he said. "I like to look at her!"
After a short intermission, the inevitable happened: For probably the millionth time since he first emoted it in 1962, Bennett sang "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." And--guess what--everybody loved it. The members of the Ralph Sharon Trio each took turns proving why they were playing onstage with Mr. Bennett, turning in extensive and impressive piano, bass and drum solos as the boss stood respectfully aside, digging it with everyone else.
Perhaps the high point--at least an amazing display of sheer lung power--came at the end of the show when Bennett put down the mike and, accompanied only by the piano, belted out a couple of naked-voice numbers into the cavernous hall. After two ovations, he returned to close the night with a stellar "Fly Me to the Moon (in Other Words)." To steal a line from a beer commercial, it just doesn't get much better than this.