I should like more 
                of these settings than I do. Joan Morris 
                is, after all, the perfect Bolcom singer, 
                her voice poised between the swooping 
                and the resinous, between the trained 
                and the nicotine-stained supper club. 
                It’s an adept and able instrument for 
                playing out Weinstein’s lyrics and for 
                exploring Bolcom’s knowing melodic lines. 
              
 
              
So why my problem? 
                Is it to do with a lack of melodic memorability, 
                or is it to do with a certain archness, 
                the kind that Blossom Dearie drips all 
                over her routines? No, it’s not in the 
                Dearie scale of archness. The audience 
                at the Flea Theatre – not a flea pit 
                from the sound of it – certainly doesn’t 
                share my lack of, well, my lack of enthusiasm. 
                And the words and music are clever, 
                no doubt. But why was I drawn more to 
                the Ancient Cabaret settings where the 
                epigrammatic and condensed feelings 
                seem that much more powerfully targeted. 
                The Fourth of them, Timomarchus’s 
                Picture of Medea in Rome, is especially 
                dramatic and its piano part calls for 
                some power of its own. 
              
 
              
The four volumes of 
                Cabaret Songs are enjoyable and I wouldn’t 
                want to suggest that you’ll sit stony-faced 
                throughout. You won’t. There are little 
                touches of Latin Americana (Amor) 
                and overt fun (Fur – Murray the Furrier, 
                which come to think of it has a very 
                My Attorney Bernie ring 
                to the title, at least). Then there’s 
                Bolcom’s vamp piano in Song of Black 
                Max and the drunken frolic of Toothbrush 
                Time. If you want cross-dressing 
                try George and for hip jazz references 
                try the Radical Chic of Radical Sally.
               
              
 
              
              
So, with all these 
                pleasurable and well-loved Bolcom songs 
                studded throughout this near-hour long 
                recital I am doubtless a killjoy. My 
                loss, doubtless, but in the end this 
                recital didn’t quite hit the spot for 
                me. Centaur print the texts, a good 
                thing as the translations from the Greek 
                deserve scrutiny and if you happen to 
                miss one line from a Bolcom song you 
                tend to miss them all. 
              
 
              
              
Jonathan Woolf