(Image of Euan Morton from this page)
We New Yorkers suck car and truck fumes, sleep to the sound of dumpsters and car alarms, and put up with sots wandering out of bars at 4 a.m. In addition, we pay extra for the privilege of residing on the wrong (or is it the right?) side of the Hudson River. In exchange, we get to live a mere subway ride away from not just art, but great art — of all kinds.
Last Saturday night, my husband and I splurged on dinner and a cabaret performance in the Oak Room of the Algonquin Hotel. Back in the 20s, the hotel hosted the famed luncheons of the “Vicious Circle,” a group of testy tastemakers that included the likes of Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Alexander Woollcott and Edna Ferber.
For the occasion, I put on my fanciest dress, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and my most precious jewels (the ones I didn’t buy on Canal Street). My husband wore a freshly ironed shirt with a sport coat and tie, all free of any mayonnaise stains. It cost us an arm and a leg for all of this (as Robert Benchley put it, “Dear Bank, having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Love to all. Bob”), but we were doing our duty. New York law requires its denizens, on punishment of having to move to the suburbs, to attend (at least twice a year) two very expensive, live performances of theater, dance, or music.
On our particular night of fulfilling our civic duty, Euan Morton, an actor and singer from Scotland who’s most famous for his role as Boy George in the musical Taboo, was finishing up a month-long run of singing at the Oak Room. With his boyish face, world-weary eyes and grungy Euro-stubble, and a skinny body clothed in a gray suit worn with a white rumpled shirt (open at the neck, with no tie, of course), Morton is my idea of a male cabaret singer. His physical presence sums up the peculiar mix of joy, optimism, disillusionment, and despair that marks the modern man.
More important, the guy has astonishing talent when it comes to singing songs. His eyes roaming the room, Euan sang directly to me — I swear this is true, although my husband insists he sang directly to him. (Ah, the mysterious power of cabaret.)
There were thirty or so people in the audience, sitting in the dim light, huddled at the small dinner tables that were arranged in a broad semi-circle around the singer and his backup trio — a piano player, a bassist, and a percussionist. From the moment Morton stepped into the spotlight, we were all riveted by his face, music, and words.
Morton’s repertoire ranged from Leonard Cohen’s belt-it-out “Hallelujah” to Noel Coward’s lovely “Matelot.” Afterward, we bought the CD (what’s an expensive night out on the town for, if not to spend as much money as possible?) and Euan cheerfully autographed it for us.
In the taxi on the way back home (subway uptown, saving time and money; taxi back home, draining the bank account down to zero), my husband and I kept talking about Morton’s talent.
We’re both painters, and know full well that most serious contemporary painting — the kind that strives for cultural impact — no longer requires drawing or painting talent in the traditional sense of those words. Since the 1960s, the most important contemporary art — of all kinds — has rested on ideas, not talent, and the smartest, wittiest, and shrewdest artists have commanded the most attention in the art world.
With cabaret, however — or any of the other performing arts — it’s entirely different. Talent rules.
