Steve Lipman's Hats Off

Steve Lipman seems like the kind of guy who'd walk up to you on the street and just start talking to you like he's known you forever. He's got that extroverted energy, a fast talking kind of swagger, that's perfect for a jazz singer who is invoking the Age of Crooners while on stage. Lipman's new album, Hats Off, is obviously crafted as a tribute to those guys, the ones with snazzy suits and fedoras who would get up in front of a post-war audience and project confidence, cool and talent. It's also meant as a general homage to the Great American Songbook, with Lipman covering songs that have meant something to him--"You Make Me Feel So Young," "Night and Day," "The Way You Look Tonight" and on and on.

Lipman has a rather direct delivery, typical of a guy who's mining this particular jazz genre, but there's an authenticity to it that seems plucked from the past. There's something about his voice that reminds me so much of Depression-era recordings, the plaintive delivery that masks the inner struggle, the insistence that we keep our chins up while making that journey to the end of another tough day.

The liner notes speak of Lipman's early days as a vocalist, and how he "yearned to emulate the greats." Hats Off is an effort to step into a new arena, to become a storyteller instead of a mere vocalist. He went back to the starting board and studied voice and music theory so that he could honestly say he was "no longer an imitator." While there's a familiarity to his voice, as well as his overall approach to these tunes, I find it challenging to describe his voice in terms of other singers. He's not a smooth crooner, a Bing or a Perry, and while he obviously loves Sinatra he's not going after those fans. Instead, Lipman balances a full-throated delivery against a modesty that's genuine. He's a storyteller first, and he just wants you to listen all the way to the end.

Lipman has surrounded himself with a lot of talent--each song is focused on a unique arrangement and depends on a variety of ensembles. He's obviously thought a lot about this album, and what he wanted to say through these classic songs. But here's a remarkable detail I've left out until now--Lipman has a day job as a dentist. There's something about this that I find uniquely charming--I imagine being one of his patients, sitting in The Chair, when he suddenly decides to break out into song. Why not? Life is short, but there's always room for singing dentists when they're this well-versed in our musical heritage.

Roch Lockyer's When Frank Met Django

I don't normally stoop to poking fun at people's names, but Roch Lockyer reminds me of a certain B-52s song. ("Oh yeah," Roch will say with an epic roll of the eyes, "I've never heard that one before.") But it's safe to say that Lockyer's music is the polar opposite of New Wave dance music. While his earlier work focused on both modern jazz and be-bop, this jazz guitarist has tackled a novel and thoroughly successful blending of two jazz sounds--or, as he suggests in his title, what if Frank Sinatra met Django Reinhardt and they cut an album together?

Just imagine Reinhardt's hot Parisian jazz guitar complementing great Sinatra standards as "Summer Wind," "Embraceable You" and "Just One of Those Things," and you'll have a fair idea of what this album is all about--except for one thing. Lockyer's singing voice is also nothing like Sinatra's. His voice is that of a crooner from the Great Depression, earnest and slightly fragile and head over heels in love. It's Lockyer's way of saying "I'm going to combine the stunning guitar sound of Django with famous Frank tunes, but I'm going to make them mine, all mine."

I have to tell you a little bit about my feelings toward "hot Parisian jazz." Down deep, I like it. I think Django is amazing, and I own a couple of original pressings that cost me a boatload of money. But if I hear too much of it, I start to feel like some guy sitting on his balcony off Central Park West, reading The Times while my law professor wife solves the crossword puzzle. We'd be playing either hot Parisian jazz or Mozart violin concertos, and we'd be drinking coffee that was shipped overnight straight from a plantation in Kona. Lockyer grounds this urbane, civilized tone with guitar playing that is downright stupendous. It's one thing to copy Reinhardt, and quite another to play as an imagined contemporary--which Lockyer does. Reinhardt was incredibly melodic but he was also lightning fast when he needed to be. Lockyer, in turn, imbues his playing with less technique and more feeling. He's on the nose in his tribute, of course, but he's also bringing something new to the table--himself.

For me, that's what makes this album stand out on its own. You can love Reinhardt or Sinatra of hot Parisian jazz, but it takes considerable finesse to to execute this type of novelty and have listeners walk away with one thought--"What a guitar player!" Lame B-52s jokes aside, that's the reason to love this album.