Wesla Whitfield is an indoor landmark. Every great city deserves a
signature chanteuse, and San Francisco is fortunate to have Whitfield as its
resident voice. Much like the city itself, Whitfield keeps an amused and
affectionate eye on the glories of the past, while living entirely in the present.
On Tuesday, the opening-night crowd for Whitfield's yearly monthlong stand
at the York Hotel came gratefully out of the cold rain into the low-lit and
glowing Plush Room, with its dark wood paneling and red velvet drapes and
stained-glass ceiling, and ordered Irish coffees and other warming cocktails.
Whitfield's arrival onstage warmed things up even further. A vivid,
energetic presence with silvery pixie-cut hair, Whitfield was seated center
stage and made eye contact with the audience as she began with a lyrical "But Beautiful."
A brief recap, for those who haven't heard her story: Whitfield set out to
be an opera soprano, but moonlighted in piano bars singing her beloved pop
standards and finally veered toward a full-time cabaret career. In 1977, a
seemingly random street shooting left her paralyzed from the waist down.
She returned to singing after extensive therapy and began her collaboration
with pianist-arranger Mike Greensill, who would become her husband. She now
splits her time between San Francisco and New York.
With an air of playful defiance, Whitfield has titled her latest show "Why
Shouldn't I?," drawing songs from a list of 20-odd not-so-standards, most
of them from the 1930s. Several of the tunes appear on her latest CD, "September Songs: The Music of Wilder, Weill and Warren," and if there's a
story line here, it's love remembered from the vantage point of a certain
age. But as Whitfield sings them, there's nothing regretful or even
nostalgic about this material.
A witty, creative interpreter with an easy charisma, Whitfield specializes
in blowing the dust off songs that have suffered from overexposure and
rough handling. She makes them glow again. She linked "I Only Have Eyes for
You" and "Jeepers Creepers" with a wry bit of optical allusion. And where
else are you likely to hear novelty numbers like "Lydia," (that would be the
tattooed lady) and the giddy "Girlfriend of the Whirling Dervish"? (The
latter includes the eternal rhyme "which of course she doesn't deservish.")
A secondary theme of Whitfield's song selection is a delight in sheer
songwriterly cleverness. Singing with conversational clarity, adding little
jazz flourishes, Whitfield reveled in a rush of wit and wordplay and made
sure we caught every darn nuance and laugh line. A particular gem was Dave
Frishberg's "Sports Pages" (the youngest song of this bunch, written in
1984), a paean to a section of the newspaper as a balm of certainty in
uncertain times.
As usual, she's perfectly partnered with Greensill and bassist John
Wiitala. Greensill, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, is a
subtle, economical pianist, with a crisp, rhythmic, even frisky style, and
the piano he's using at the Plush has a wonderful tone. Wiitala has a
fluid, melodic way with the stand-up bass, and added a particularly lovely
bowed conclusion to "I See Your Face Before Me."
Late in the show, Whitfield acknowledged her friend Paula West, another of
this city's incandescent voices, who was sitting in the corner of the club. "Paula will be coming in (to the Plush Room) for a very long run after me," Whitfield said. "I'm just kind of a warm-up act for her."
That's something to look forward to. Meanwhile, a cabaret evening spent
with Whitfield reclaims the tarnished phrase "adult entertainment." This is
smart, sophisticated fun for grown-ups who appreciate the finer things, who
get it.
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