Snazzy!

I used to do stuff. I used to go places. Then came the pandemic and an accumulation of birthdays that encircled me like rings on an ancient oak. Except for the opera, which I attended en masque, nights on the town existed only as memories. I’d begun to think of them as a chapter in my life that was lovely but closed.

Happily, I’ve been jolted into the present by a concert at which I had the time of my life. I’d never heard of Max Raabe until last week, on an NPR interview. His band, the Palast Orchester, brings to life the popular music of Berlin in the late 20’s and early 30’s, the smart, frisky melodies with droll lyrics that Hitler would soon condemn as degenerate – music that I love but can seldom hear.

I was extolling Max to Steve and Johnnie, and remarked that I’d give anything to see him if he ever came to Chicago. Steve summoned the band’s version of “You’re the Cream in my Coffee,” and before it finished, Johnnie showed me her phone and said, “He’ll be at Orchestra Hall Friday.” Holy stompin’ serendipity, Batman! Tickets were going fast, but Johnnie snagged a pair, and I was giddy with anticipation.

Of course, I would take Ann. Who better to share an evening of nostalgic sophistication? The two of us had recently bemoaned the absence of just such evenings in our lives. We agreed to meet at Remington’s, where I had an excellent pre-St. Patrick’s Day corned beef sandwich. I wasn’t driving, but I limited myself to a single glass of cabernet. I wanted a clear head for the proceedings.

And what proceedings they were! Max appeared in white tie and tails, the groom figure on a wedding cake come to life, but with a dry sense of humor. The twelve piece orchestra were just as impeccably outfitted, and they performed with the precision of a Swiss watch.

Max Raabe & Palast Orchester

This is, for the most part, peppy, syncopated music, sung in German. There was a bit of Cole Porter, and some Irving Berlin and Kurt Weill, but the bulk of the evening was unfamiliar but delightful German cabaret songs of the Weimar period. Max would briefly explain the nature of each untranslated song beforehand, with wry commentary. “These are songs of romance. How do we find our lovers? How do we get to know them? How do we get rid of them?”

Max’s face is boyishly mischievous. His singing style is deadpan. His voice is a treasure, ranging from Crosby like low baritone notes to high falsetto, sometimes at lightning speed. He made it easy to get lost in such vivid evocation of a brave, dazzling, and short lived era. I imagined myself sitting with Ann at the edge of a dance floor in pre-war Berlin.

The lighting effects were a key part of the performance, and just as precise as every other aspect of it. Max was lit only when he sang, and with his last syllable, he’d vanish again into darkness. Like Sinatra, he named the composers of each song, along with the year in which it was written. Some of these artists would not escape destruction at the hands of the Nazis. He also gave each member of the orchestra opportunities to shine in solos and be recognized. Some of them were friends from college, and had been with the band ever since.

When he tried to say goodnight, the entire crowd moaned, “Noooo,” after which he did three encores to, for once deserved, standing ovations.

I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time. Thank you, Max Raabe, for reminding me that I still have memories to make.