Let it be recorded that Barbara Nell Cook, born in Atlanta on Oct.  25,
1927, produced a clear, blazing high B natural during the opening of her
"Mostly Sondheim" show in the Curran Theater, on Nov.  27, 2002.

True, the music was not Verdi or Wagner, but even in "Dear Friend," from
the Bock-Harnick "She Loves Me," just how many opera singers could hit
(and hold) that high B a month after their 75th birthday?

Cook, well pleased with her performance, confessed that she's been asking
a close friend to consider recording high notes for her, but the friend
- Kiri Te Kanawa, 58 - demurred.

Cook, whose high tessitura has been legendary over the years, doesn't
sing "Glitter and Be Gay" anymore, and when approaching a high note now
("they used to just pop out"), she "visualizes it like a pole-vaulter
or hurdles-runner would at the Olympics."

All this is interesting, but not really important.  What makes Cook great
is not the Yma Sumac shtick, but rather the kind of singer she is.

If this country added cultural imperialism to the brave new world of
political-military imposition of its other values, the Cook phenomenon
may turn that into a good thing.

As one of the few surviving members of the uniquely American line of
clearly-communicating great singers (Mercer-Sinatra-Crosby-Clooney),
Cook's crystalline diction, dead-on accuracy, her ability to engage the
listener in a personal way, and her unvarying loyalty to text and music
would make a far more felicitous model than the currently prevailing
school of trench-coat-clad figures, smeared with blood, convulsing on
the stage.

There is no doubt about the permanent smile on your face and warmth
in your heart when you listen to Cook, but is it Art?  Yes, a hundred
times yes.  The smile is not a painted-on Disney variety, the warmth
changes in temperature and intensity.  Her greatness is not in just being
"pleasant" (which she is), but in her ability to engage, to move, to
make the listener grieve, cry, find catharsis.  The effortless high notes
may not be there, but the voice is now even richer in the lower register,
the non-stop legato is even more masterful.

As with Cook, of course, so is with Stephen Sondheim, and when they meet,
as in this show, the result is hard to describe.  Cook's accuracy,
diction, projection, communication make "I am so happy" and "Loving you"
from "Passion" heartbreaking.  Stacked against literally hundreds of
versions of "Send in the clowns" from "A Little Night Music," Cook's
ultra-simple rendition is unparalleled.  Songs from "Anyone Can Whistle,"
"Company" and "Follies" have lieder-like focus and intensity.

A lesser artist would milk the "Ain't the way I used to be" portion of
"True love" from "Annie Get Your Gun," Cook just sings it so that you
get the full impact without verbalizing or even recognizing the "subtext."

It's just Cook up there - looking very well, standing through
the 90-minute show - with her wonderful pianist/music director, the
ever-youthful Wally Harper, and Jon Burr on bass.  Harper put together
a fascinating show of "Sondheim and what Sondheim wished he had written"
- building on Sondheim's own programming for his 70th birthday celebration.
There is Arlen, of course, and she "dares" to sing the Garland standard
"The Trolley Song," but something really strange happened with a little
number written by Bronislaw Kaper and Walter Jurman, with lyrics by Gus
Kahn.

At the end of a sublime "San Francisco," I noticed that Harper was
rubbing his eyes.  He was late starting the next song and that's when
Cook realized that she really "got" him - for real, no matter how many
times they performed the song together.  Harper tried to get on with the
show, but Cook stopped him to tell the story how Sondheim when he first
attended this show "cried like a baby" over the song.  (Was this an
attempt to play to the local yokels?  I don't think so.) Let's face it:
the title song from the 1936 MGM movie is not "great music." But Cook
is a great singer, without the quotation marks.  It takes a special
talent to make the audience, a veteran pianist and Sondheim all cry over
a little old pop song.

Janos Gereben/SF
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