Todd Murray

September 3, 2016

Todd MurrayTodd Murray brought a new iteration of his show “Croon” to The Triad for a few performances in August. It was both a cabaret show and a history lesson in American popular music. Between numbers, Murray talked about men’s approaches to romantic pop singing—beginning with Rudy Vallee in the 1920s; proceeding through the eras of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, and Elvis Presley; and concluding with more recent manifestations of the crooner’s art. At times, “Croon” reminded me of Jon Weber’s fascinating, Bistro Awards–honored show about American piano jazz, although Murray’s program wasn’t as packed with factual information as Weber’s.

The musical history covered by Murray runs parallel, of course, to the history of technology—specifically the development of radio transmission and of electronic amplification for live performance. At the top of the show, he sang completely “unplugged” for several moments, demonstrating what pre-microphone audiences would have experienced when hearing live pop music performed in public. He then contrasted that by singing into the mic, through which he was able to produce intimate, nuanced sounds: notes that could swell in volume and emotional intensity but still sound suave and effortless.

He spoke a bit about the sociological implications of crooning. He noted that radio broadcasts popularizing the sound were viewed by critics as audio invasions of hearth and home that awakened the hearts (and libidos) of young female listeners. Murray read aloud from a 1932 New York Times article in which Boston’s Cardinal O’Connell and the New York Singing Teachers’ Association railed against crooning as a “degenerate” musical phenomenon that provided “the basest appeal of sex emotions to the young.” (Copies of the article were placed on the Triad’s tables for audience members, allowing them to read the whole diatribe.)

It’s easy to laugh at Depression-era critics’ fears, which foreshadowed the panic that would come when rock-and-roll arrived on the scene in the 1950s. But were O’Connell and his cronies perhaps onto something? Was crooning, indeed, a kind of aural pheromone for female listeners? And did its popularity give young men tacit permission to reflect on and express their more vulnerable, lovesick-prone sides? Crooning sometimes seems to be the male equivalent of women’s torch singing—with the singer completely lost in love’s thrall. It’s not surprising that oldsters in the 1930s suspected the trend of transforming stouthearted men into whimpering Romeos.

Murray pointed out that Bing Crosby, arguably the most famous American crooner of all, had a bass-baritone voice. That’s something Murray shares. His voice is rich, smooth, and powerful. And there is indeed something remarkable about hearing a deep, virile voice cowed by that thing called love. (With tenors, perhaps emotional vulnerability goes with the territory.) His masculine appearance and demeanor only highlight the contrast. He is a handsomely square-jawed fellow, looking not unlike a youthful Charlton Heston. But when singing romantic ballads in the Triad show, his eyelids would often go slack and dreamy as though they’d been dabbed by a love potion from Shakespeare’s Puck.

He sang beautifully—often stirringly. And he seemed to be emotionally connected to the sentiments he presented from moment to moment. But he didn’t give each number a markedly distinct interpretation. Fortunately, his pianist and musical director, Alex Rybeck—gloriously supported by guitarist (and ukulelist) Sean Harkness and bassist Steve Doyle—provided the singer with a diverse array of arrangements. The varying tempos, rhythms and instrumental shadings buoyed Murray, helping him sound fresh throughout the set. The musicians also added harmonic resonance by singing backup on several songs.

Among the standout numbers in the early part of the set was a rendition of “The Nearness of You” (Hoagy Carmichael, Ned Washington) that glowed like a steadily burning candle. Murray’s “You’ll Never Know” (Harry Warren, Mack Gordon), illustrating World War II–era crooning, had an appropriately melancholy cast. On the other hand, Lerner and Loewe’s “If Ever I Would Leave You” was sung playfully up-tempo, to a beguine-ish rhythm. It was a pleasure to hear the Camelot favorite freed completely from the bombast that has become attached to it over the decades.

The nicest surprise of the evening was “And I’m Leaving Today,” a song with lyrics by Murray and music by Rybeck. The composition (which earned the pair a MAC nomination in 2011) has fetching rhythms, a pleasingly sprawling melody, and irresistible chord progressions. It called to mind the bracing songwriting of Burt Bacharach and Hal David in their heyday, and it made me wish for future Murray-Rybeck collaborations.

“Croon”
The Triad  –  August 16, 18, 23, 25


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About the Author

Mark Dundas Wood is an arts/entertainment journalist and dramaturg. He began writing reviews for BistroAwards.com in 2011. More recently he has contributed "Cabaret Setlist" articles about cabaret repertoire. Other reviews and articles have appeared in theaterscene.net and clydefitchreport.com, as well as in American Theatre and Back Stage. As a dramaturg, he has worked with New Professional Theatre and the New York Musical Theatre Festival. He is currently literary manager for Broad Horizons Theatre Company.