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If your
vision of Manhattan nightlife has been
shaped by black-and-white photographs of
swanky clubs shimmering in candlelight,
women in gloves, men in black tie, then you
might be forgiven for thinking you arrived
after the party ended. Ah, but not if you
are fortunate enough to find yourself seated
in the Allen Room on a chilly January night,
listening to the music of John Bucchino sung
by a toothsome quintet of talented Broadway
performers. The lights of Central Park South
dancing up and down the eastward-facing
glass wall, apartments and their inhabitants
visible, and then not, as lamps flicker on
and off, and you’re warm and cozy in leather
seats, candlelight flickering at the tables,
and Bucchino himself at the Steinway, and
suddenly, it hits you: this is the New York
you moved here for – and you are home.
And it’s all the better for having Gavin
Creel, his arms outstretched, singing in
front of you. You’ve followed his career
since he first arrived in town, fresh-faced
from Michigan, and now, here he is, a
Broadway ingenue singing Bucchino’s
articulate and heartfelt songs. It’s a
lovely match: Creel’s earnestly romantic
persona conveying the inherent yearning in
Bucchino’s lyrics.
Bucchino writes songs which capture
perfectly the life well-lived – that is to
say, the considered life – amidst the
awe-inspiring grandeur of Manhattan’s towers
and endless possibilities. The parties, the
connections, the meetings with the rich and
powerful, the mornings-after, the misgivings
– the full gamut of Manhattan’s emotional
terrain is registered in Bucchino’s
anecdotal songs. Just as it’s possible to
read an entire life in a painting by
Vermeer, so does Bucchino enable you to see
the life, the relationship, the reasons why
and why not, and the lessons learned, all
perfectly-shaped in a four-minute song. With
titles such as “Painting My Kitchen,” “When
You’re Here,” “I’m Not Waiting,” and “I’ve
Learned to Let Things Go,” the characters in
Bucchino’s songs are smart enough to carry
on, even when confronting life’s existential
crises. And in hearing these songs, you
can’t help but be reminded of Stephen
Sondheim’s work, particularly “Company,”
with its tales of young sophisticates in
search of connection in the big city.
Then, late into the program, Brooks
Ashmanskas takes hold of “If I Ever Say I’m
Over You,” a song so hauntingly beautiful in
its rendering of loss as to make such a
state almost desirable, and with sublime
control, offers it up to the one no longer
there. This is the ineffable sadness of life
made palpable. How any of us go on is a
wonder, when we know what awaits us – and
yet, it is exactly that acuteness of feeling
which makes life bearable. To feel, and to
feel so intensely, and to love, and to love
well, and to let go when need be – these are
the emotions with which Bucchino’s
characters wrestle. And as shown in songs
such as “Grateful” and “This Moment,”
Bucchino makes it clear that in the face of
life’s confusions and disappointments, the
wise are those who recognize this life’s
many blessings.
And to find yourself sitting in the Allen
Room, surrounded by such beauty and
serenaded by such talent, such evocative and
sensitive performances, the kind that linger
long into the night and well into sleep,
becoming the stuff of dreams, is to realize
all at once, you’re living it, the glamour
and the romance, no longer just a fantasy,
and this is your true Manhattan life.
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