Melody Gardot, Aladdin Theater, Portland, Oregon (Friday June 18, 2010)
The Aladdin is one of those charming stage theatres built in the earlier half of the twentieth century which many larger cities saw disappear during the construction expansion of the 1980s and ’90s, but which Portland has managed to cling to in several of its neighborhood villages. The seating capacity is limited (just over 600 at the Aladdin), the seats harder and more narrow than modern Americans are accustomed to, the ornate chandeliers obviously difficult to dust. Rococo flourishes grace the plaster, reinforced with thick pastel paint and rounded apertures and drawn velvet curtains over the (faux?) wing boxes. Since the 1920s, the Aladdin in all its shabby fabulousness has served as a vaudeville house, a family movie joint, a porn theater, and, beginning in the 1990s, a live music venue. Last night it hosted jazz songstress Melody Gardot, and I have three words: awesome, awesome, awesome.
Gardot herself is a charismatic character in whom the artistic and the everyday seem inexorably linked. At the age of eighteen, Gardot suffered serious physical trauma when a Jeep ran a red light and struck her as she rode her bicycle. Severe spinal, head, pelvic and other injuries left her in a hospital bed for a year. She was forced to relearn tasks like walking and brushing her teeth. Of herself, she says: “I see myself in this way: ‘I am able to do some things and unable to do others.’ That’s all. The technicalities are just as important as you make them. All you need to know is why I need the things you see me with, as most people do not need them: CITIZEN CANE – Stability and Balance; DARK GLASSES – Photosensitivity (can’t tolerate light); EARPLUGS – severe Hyperacusis/Tinnitus; NICE SHOES – What can I say, I like my shoes . . . ”
And her music. Oh lord, her music.
Her recorded music is pleasing and eloquent and sometimes Really Good; her live music, at least what I experienced of it last night at the Aladdin, is spectacular. She has the imperfect perfectitude of a Chet Baker, the vocal dynamicism of a Blossom Dearie or a Dinah Washington, the stage presence of an Edith Piaf or an Ella Fitzgerald. Her versatility allows her to perform via piano, guitar (two! Gardot says every woman should have two guitars just as she has two men — in her case, one American and one European; guitars, that is), and of course voice.
What a voice. When Gardot sings, you’re with her. All the way. Wherever she goes, you’ll follow, even if it’s not where you were expecting. There’s a brassy, fragile strength and tenacity to her music, buoyed by exuberance, pain, sensuality — a hundred other things you didn’t know you were looking for in a performer. I say yes, yes, go buy her CDs. They’re lovely and satisfying and can withstand endless replays without giving a listener tune fatigue. But don’t pass up an opportunity to hear her sing in person. Do. Not.
And yes — her shoes were pretty freaking nice.
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