Ute
I went to a performance last night by Ute Lemper, the German-born chanteuse, famed for her interpretations of songs from the Weill-Brecht collaborations like The Threepenny Opera.
I cannot do her justice here. Wiki her for more. I had really been exposed to her only from a CD from my late friend who wanted to sell me on her. I own only one of her CDs, that one, and love it. It is Ute Lemper Sings Kurt Weill.
She sang a great deal of other music (I went expecting more Weill, actually) including French songs that little-sparrow Edith Piaf had carved into a domain of her own, and the amazing thing is that Lemper never comes across as a cheap imitation. She deepens what she borrows, glorifies, often transmogrifies.
The evening wasn't a recital. It was an adventure in four languages that formed a peripatetic song experience, often filled with pungency and desperation, from several cultures...French, German, Yiddish, American, and the whole thing came across as a riveting tour-de-force. There were times I felt I was witnessing an almost demented Germanic version of Judy Garland. Ute in concert is about Ute. I loved her. The audience reacted in a paroxysm of ecstasy. In a way I had wanted something else, like more Brecht-Weill. Trite me. But though she paid distinct tribute, she soared well beyond, accompanied by her four instrumental players on piano, bass, drums, and guitar.
I was close to the front of the hall at Berklee, entranced like all the rest. I had an hour to kill after it all and used it to walk the two miles to Boston's South Station, stopping en route at the elegant rest room of the Four Seasons Hotel, where an attendant handed me a soft towelette after I had washed my hands. Elegant concert, luxurious toilet. What an evening!