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I Love the Nightlife by Carla Ridge What good IS sitting alone in your room? Okay, I can think of one or two reasons, but really, one simply must emerge sooner than later to take in life's rich pageant. Speaking of cabarets, we were recently treated to an evening with Maureen Mahon And The Vicious Circle at an elegantly appointed Sunset and Vine nightspot called 360 (named for its splendid, panoramic vistas of Los Angeles). Our own circle included the vivacious J. and precocious C., a callow Net millionaire and dancing fool whose cell phone has apparently become one with his comely head. We settled at a large round table, where I proceeded to shed boa feathers in an alarming quantity (best to leave one's mark, I rationalized). We dined and drank lavishly (many mashed potatoes were consumed) and were rewarded for our pleasant time-killing with a swingin' instrumental intro from The Vicious Circle. Representing The Circle that evening were pianist/former punk rocker (!) Gere Fenellie (whose stride playing especially delighted this reporter), stand-up bassist Jon Button and drummer Dave Allen (the latter two also provide thundering rhythms to rock band Itch, so it was particularly thrilling to see Button expertly assaying the upright). Ideally, such performances are presented in dark, smoky boîtes where dissipated artists sipping absinthe slouch in musty corners. The 360 was a bit too large and well-lit for that, but the first notes from Maureen Mahon's ruby throat would announce loud and clear: THIS IS CABARET. The magnificent MM was met by enthusiastic applause from the sizable crowd, suggesting many had previously sampled her wares and found them sterling. Indeed, the show quickly became standing-room only. An utterly ravishing blue-eyed brunette possessed of that classic vavoom rarely seen since the golden era of pinups, Mahon took the mic clad in a sexy little red cocktail dress with translucent pailletes sparkling along its hem, her lovely feet shod in what I understand the coarser crowd is calling "fuck me" shoes (those ankle straps do inspire a host of prurient longings). Martini in hand, she addressed her admirers with easy grace before launching into Nina Simone's "My Baby Just Cares For Me," the first of several go-cat-go standards rendered anything but standard by Miss Mahon. She swooped effortlessly from this to "Men," a sizzling number with noirish overtones written by local songwriter James Albright. In fact, the singer's wonderfully varied material (rife with surprises) frequently suggested the heyday of hard-boiled detective fiction. The mood was jazzy, sassy, bluesy, blowsy. If only today's strippers took it off to this stuff (one of Carla's perennial laments). The many standouts in this generous set included the impossibly sultry "My Love Is" (recorded by Diana Krall); Elvis Costello's timeless torch song "Almost Blue"; the maliciously delicious "I Want To Be Evil" (Eartha Kitt); a devilish reading of "Thirteen Women," interpreted here as "13 Men" (the original was the b-side to Bill Haley's "Rock Around The Clock"; it was later recorded by Ann-Margret); and a medley of "Fever" and "You Don't Know" (both Peggy Lee), during which the audience snapped along (O! how my dainty fingers ached - wouldn't have had it any other way). Mahon is the rare singer who understands the power of a whisper; confident in her chops - distinguished by an exquisite vibrato, highly emotive phrasing and subtly shaded tonal range - she did not need to rely on breast-beating theatrics. Clearly, her audiences are pleased to be teased. No distant diva, Mahon mingled with her faithful after the show, sharing in toasts and graciously accepting a steady stream of compliments. Alas, I developed a cramp in my hand from patting myself on the back for selecting the evening's enchanting entertainment, for which I was also roundly praised by my fellows. Remember, kittens, there's more to life than rock 'n' roll, so straighten your seams and make like Sally Bowles! Ta, |
