The doorman bounced a little dance from one foot to the other. His mouth pressed to his cupped hands, his warm breath made a puff of vapor that quickly vanished in the cold night air. His long red overcoat looked like something borrowed from a Beefeater's bottle. The elaborate trim of gold braiding and epaulets had nothing to do with keeping him warm, but he cut a handsome figure under the full moon on a New York City winter's evening. He courteously opened the taxi door as he raised his left hand to his hat brim and tipped it in greeting. A friendly "good evening" assured him of a handsome tip as he opened the black studded leather door to the club.

Stepping inside from the crisp cold air, we checked our coats. The coat check girl was petite and our coats seemed to overpower her small frame as she hung them over wooden hangers. I could visualize her in an entirely different setting, wearing an old chenille bathrobe inside her tiny apartment. She was mousy and pale and feigned a small smile as she handed us our claim tickets.

We approached the Maitre'd. In the subdued light his face was illuminated only by the tiny light mounted on the reception stand he stood behind. It shadowed the hollow in his cheeks against his thin face. "Aaah, right this way," he exhaled as we handed him our reservation.

Turning to see if we were still following him, he walked briskly through the bustle of waiters. He paused to seat us at a table near the dance floor. "Enjoy your dinner," he announced holding his head aloofly.

This was New York City at its best; dark wood walls ornately trimmed with large cornices and mouldings, stunning white tablecloths and crystal gleaming by candlelight. The room cast a pale peach glow that transformed it into a wonderland where everyone and everything seemed mellow and perfect. Large potted palms added to the atmosphere. Lighting from the bar across the room spilled glass blue reflections onto the ceiling.

The opening trio played during our light, but magnificent meal. They were local artists who were well received in the area, but never really made it to the big time jazz circuit. Their music was traditional and blended well with the dinner crowd.

After everyone had finished eating and had their after-dinner drinks before them, the lights dimmed and a spotlight illuminated a tall stool next to a great looking Steinway. The anticipation was exciting. A small figure in a pale blue suit appeared from the shadows. The applause began and Mel Tormé took a seat on the stool and picked up the microphone. The dimly lit orchestra behind him began a perfectly timed intro and his husky velvet fog filled the room with Moonlight Becomes You. A hush fell over the audience like snowflakes silencing a country landscape.

A personable Mel welcomed the audience and imparted stories about the making of his Columbia recordings with Bob Mersey during the sixties. He sang a medley of songs from that period beginning with The Folks Who Live on the Hill and ended with Haven't We Met. His voice was pure, the lyrical interpretation was distinctly his alone and his timing was impeccable. From a Jerome Kern or Gershwin ballad to an upbeat swinging arrangement of All That Jazz, Mel Torme stood apart as one of the purest singers/arrangers of his time. He had a knack of using the lyrics in such a way, it made us think he was singing from personal experience. Using the lead-in verse was also quite characteristic of his style and rarely used by other singers. It set up the song and gave fuller meaning to the emotion of the ballads he sang. His scat was smooth and flowing and he didn't miss a beat. It was an evening's snapshot into the life of a truly gifted singer's singer and an unforgettable memory.

As we climbed into our taxi and headed toward Central Park to our hotel, a soft snow began to fall. We were filled with the notes to The Christmas Song that Mel sang at the end of his performance. Mel Tormé, the moon through the snowflakes, Christmas fast approaching and New York City, all in one fantastic evening. . .magical!

Photos © Jos Knaepen, 1999.