Roy Sander's commentary

The first question is whether cabaret shows need to have a director. An analysis of the thousands of shows I have attended yields no simple, single answer. In the terrific-show category, I have probably seen just as many offerings that were director-free as shows that carried a directorial credit. The same can be said for mediocre shows and, for that matter, for perfectly dreadful enterprises. I have seen people whose work showed considerable improvement when they began working with a director, and I have seen performers whose work suffered when they changed directors. (The person who raised this issue noted that she has been working with a director for the past year and has found that it made an enormous difference for her.)

I'm delighted to have been asked to comment on encores. If I can help put an end to this silly convention, my life—or at least this afternoon—will have been worthwhile.

I long to return to the days when encores were reserved for those very special occasions when audience applause is so extraordinary that it would be ungracious for performers not to give their adoring public yet one more. I remember a concert many years ago in which Beverly Sills told an audience that would not stop cheering that she honestly did not have another number, then proceeded to repeat an aria from the first half of her program. Now, that was an encore. Over the last several years, alas, the encore has become an all-too-predictable ritual devoid of any meaning.

Frequently, it is clear that the performer has not thought about what (s)he's singing. With "Anyplace I Hang My Hat Is Home," one recently sang "howdy neighbor, so long friend" instead of "howdy stranger, so long friend." The song is about not remaining in one place for very long, so the changed lyric makes no sense. In doing "Losing My Mind," another sang "…not going left, not knowing right." Where did that come from? Was he trying to improve on Sondheim? Singing "Gigi," someone sang "was I out yonder blinking somewhere at a star?" Of course, the lyric is "was I out yonder somewhere blinking at a star?", with blink rhyming with brink in the preceding line, "while you were trembling on the brink." The singer had obviously never listened to what he was doing.

By medley, I refer to any combination of more than one song. Let's start at the numerically low end: a pairing of two songs. This comes in a few flavors. The tastiest—i.e., most satisfying to the audience—is a performance of two complete, or nearly complete, songs in which one segues to the other without an applause break. The first song not only delivers its own message and rewards, it also establishes a context for the second, imbuing it with a subtext that enables the listener to hear the song in a particular, and perhaps new, light, thereby enjoying a richer experience. By not significantly truncating the songs, each can be given its full due, and the combination can pack a greater wallop than if the songs had been performed separately.

Now that the 2006 MAC Awards are behind us, I would like to voice some opinions on the subject. Not about this year's show, but about the Awards process, which is a much more fundamental matter.

Problems

In writing about the Awards in Back Stage in 1994, I made a few points that remain pertinent twelve years later—but I see that I did not go far enough. In that column I acknowledged the undue role popularity, as distinct from merit, played in the Awards process. I attributed the phenomenon to two factors:

To the Editor:

At the close of his recent review of Brandon Cutrell (New York Times, July 10) Stephen Holden characterized Mr. Cutrell as "typical of the dozens of second-tier cabaret performers who, misled by fawning trade reviews and awards from the Manhattan Association of Cabarets [MAC], toil year after year, imagining they are on the verge of a breakthrough into the big-time that 99 times out of 100 will never come." I take strong exception to these remarks.

A singer in Australia who is preparing to do her first solo cabaret show sent me an e-mail asking a few basic questions. I answered her directly—but it occurred to me that the issues she raised might be of more general interest, so I thought I'd address them in this column, somewhat more expansively than in my e-mail response.

How long should the evening be?
The answer depends on a few factors; key among them are local convention and venue constraints. Cabaret shows in Berlin , for example, typically go on for two to three hours, whereas in New York , they generally run an hour, give or take. If it's less than 50 minutes, the audience might feel cheated. (They made an effort to get to the club, forewent other things they might have done that evening, they're probably being made to order two drinks, then they have to pay the tab. 

It's one thing when performers miss their mark because of a shortage of talent—that is, of course, regrettable. But it is especially frustrating to see talented artists come a cropper because of having made unfortunate choices or taken bad advice. I'll address a few all-too-common mistakes.

Guest Spots
When you are asked to do a guest spot in someone's show, perform at a benefit, or, the pinnacle, sing at the Cabaret Convention, you're being given an opportunity to show what you can do to a potentially large number of people who may not have seen you before. How often have I seen gifted performers completely muck up this splendid opportunity by choosing the wrong material!

I was honored to have been asked to be one of the permanent judges at the Metrostar Competition at the Metropolitan Room. Before I talk about my assessment of the competition and present lessons that can be learned from some of the performances, I should give you more information about the event, itself.

The competition was produced by Chris and Steve Mazzilli, owners of the Metropolitan Room, and put together by Lennie Watts, the club’s booking manager, who doubled as emcee. It was open to any performer who had not yet played a major engagement at the Metropolitan Room. Over one hundred artists applied. Before the competition began, Lennie whittled the number of contestants down to just over sixty, all vying for the grand prize: a week-long prime-time engagement at the Metropolitan Room, with the club providing an artistic team (music director, stage director, graphics designer), publicity, and a multi-track recording of the show. The first- and second-runners-up were to be invited to open for the winner, and they would receive demo recordings of their appearances.