Word: feinstein
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Elvis and the Beatles passed him by, and so did hard rock, soft rock, punk, heavy metal and all their noisy alloys. That makes Michael Feinstein, 30, either the oldest young singer of the '80s or the youngest old singer. Or perhaps both. What does he like? Just sit back and listen to the first number on his enchanting album, Live at the Algonquin (Parnassus Records): "Wanna sing a show tune,/ Good old Broadway show tune,/ Nothing that has no tune,/ Something that has heart./ Something you can hum, or can strum by the hour...
Fortunately for Feinstein (sounds like Einstein), a lot of other people want to hear those old show tunes too. In the past year, since he opened at Manhattan's venerable Algonquin Hotel, he has become the brightest, newest star on the high-class cabaret circuit. He made a cameo appearance in February on NBC's The Two Mrs. Grenvilles -- as a nightclub singer of the '40s -- and he has performed at the White House; the current tenant is a fan. "Hey, Nancy," Ronald Reagan said when he first heard Feinstein at a Palm Springs party, "you've got to hear...
Last week Feinstein finished an SRO engagement at the Plush Room in San Francisco's York Hotel; on May 5 he will open at the Ritz-Carlton in Washington. In the fall he will tour Europe with Liza Minnelli, who is, aside from his mother Mazie, perhaps his biggest fan of all. "We're joined at the hip," says Minnelli. "Michael has real affection for the material. He's romantic in a way that so few people are nowadays...
...fact, there is no other singer quite like Feinstein. Bobby Short is better singing Cole Porter -- Feinstein feels a bit uncomfortable with Porter's witty and often cynical lyrics -- and Steve Ross has a wider repertoire. But no one better understands the romantic moods of Irving Berlin and the Brothers Gershwin. Most singers today would not even bother with Berlin's ancient Alexander's Ragtime Band, for instance; or if they did, it would most likely sound like a Sousa march. Caressing it seductively, Feinstein, occasionally improvising as he sings, transforms it into a love song...
That ability to turn old into new is the secret of Feinstein's appeal. His baritone voice is pleasant, if unmemorable, a little nasal when he reaches for high notes. But he has an unexampled way with old lyrics: he not only understands them but makes them sound as if they were being sung for the first time. "Some singers get in the way of the song," he says. "I never want to be more important than what I'm singing. I'm simply the instrument through which that song is sung...