Bobby Short, the irrepressible entertainer who sang and played the standards at the Cafe Carlyle, died at age 80 yesterday from leukemia. While Gothamist never got to see him perform in person, we always equated him with a beautiful, serene and, yes, very Woody Allen version of New York where people would just sit and listen to wonderful renditions of the old standards. The NY Times' Stephen Holden wrote in an appreciation:
At the keyboard, Mr. Short refined his own personal brand of stride piano. Vigorous and sophisticated but devoid of fuss and frills, it was as distinctive as his voice, to which it was inextricably wedded. Over the years, his sound evolved from that of a caroling choirboy into a huskier baritone whose timbre varied from fogbound to clear, depending on the night and sometimes on the moment. As his voice acquired deeper shades and rougher textures, he made adroit, expressive use of each new facet.And in Holden's audio slide show, he said that Short was the "quintessential and greatest American cabaret singer," and that he "was New York."
The Cafe Carlyle went dark last night in honor of Short. Another appreciation of Short from NPR. And Short's two books, Bobby Short, The Life and Times of a Saloon Singer and Black and White Baby, and some of his CDs - Celebrating 30 Years at Cafe Carlyle, Bobby Short Loves Cole Porter, Bobby Short Celebrates Rodgers & Hart and the Songs of Bobby Short.





(Cole Porter by way of Bobby Short:)
I happen to like New York.
I happen to like this town.
I like the city air I like to drink of it.
The more I know New York the more I think of it.
I like the sight and the sound and even the stink of it.
I happen to like New York.
I like to go to Battery Park
And watch those liners looming in.
I often ask myself why should it be
They should come so far from across the sea?
I suppose it’s because they all agree with me.
They happen to like New York.
On Sunday afternoon
I took a trip across to Hackensack.
But when I gave Hackensack the once-over
I took the next train back.
I happen to like this burg.
I happen to like this town.
And when I have to give the world my last farewell
And the undertaker starts to ring my funeral bell
I don’t want to go to heaven
Don’t want to go to hell
I happen to like New York
I happen to love New York
Farewell to a real New Yorker
Shameful that Gothamist waited this long to post about the late Mr. Short -- a true story of "Gotham" substance about the kind of legends that just don't exist anymore, certainly not among the folks who usually make the Gothamist shortlist -- Mr. Short's passing was indisputably the biggest NYC story on Monday yet it's warmed-over hash on this blog -- telling.
Methinks you would not have been tardy about addressing if you had any true appreciation for the man aside from his Woody Allen pic cameos. Again, shameful.