Goodnight to Bobby Short

Last week we lost cabaret singer, bon vivant and all-around class act Bobby Short. He was synonymous with the Cafe Carlyle, a very "la-dee-da" cabaret room in New York's Carlyle Hotel. I actually didn't know that the Cafe was in a hotel for the longest time. The Carlyle Hotel is super nice and I doubt I would ever find myself in one of its rooms. Tres Swank.

But I was lucky enough to see Bobby Short perform in that club not once but twice, the second time with my now-wife. I wonder what she thought when I brought her there and just gushed about how cool it was going to be. The reason why it's odd is that the Cafe Carlyle, partly because of its Upper-East Side address and also because of it's high price tag, has the reputation (deservedly, I guess) of being a very white-bread, borderline stuffy sort of old money hangout. The thing is that Bobby Short had soul. He really did. I mean the soul that comes from Cole Porter and George Gershwin tunes being played and sung with gusto. And when they were slower, well they were really romantic. At least to me.

We were also lucky enough to see him out here on the West Coast at Yoshi's in Jack London Square. My lovely wife surprised me with tickets, one of the better surprises of all time, quite honestly. It wasn't even full, but that was great because we sat right up close. He was in his late seventies then and his voice was strained, but what a great performer. I guess he and Mick Jagger drink from the same fountain.

Anyway, I will always remember Bobby Short as my idea of the elegance of New York. Elegance in a Woody Allen's Manhattan, dry martini, wearing shoes with a great shine, really big flower arrangements, play now-pay later kind of way.

New York has lost a piece of her mosaic and there is nobody who can fill that void.