 |
 |
EDMONTON - Michael Buble never said he was the "new Sinatra."
No one from his record company ever said it. His producer David Foster might have said it, but he was too smart to say it to the press.
No, the Buble-as-new-Sinatra phenomenon is completely a media creation - one that was followed closely by angry pronouncements within the media that "Michael Buble ain't no Sinatra."
Some critics even say this fresh-faced kid from Vancouver isn't fit to shine the Chairman's shoes, were he still alive and needing shoes to shine.
Let's look at this closely.
On stage for a soldout show at Rexall Place last night, Buble doesn't have any mob connections that we know of, never threatened to give anyone a knuckle sandwich and was never quoted referring to a woman as a "skirt."
|
Both Frank and Michael plundered the ever-expanding great American songbook, brought lounge music to a wider audience and both are/were greatly appealing to women, and it remains to be seen if Buble is going to coast on his legend for the last 20 years of his career like Sinatra did, but Buble also writes some of his own material.
Now I'm not here to diss Frank and risk chin music from the heavens, but let's just put this in perspective. This style of music is not going to go away.
There will always be a new version of Fever, a revised take on Come Fly With Me, a fresh approach to Summertime.
Every generation has a designated crooner and Michael Buble just happens to be this generation's. I'm sorry. But that's just the way it is. If you're going to complain, complain about the generation.
Moving on, there is no denying Buble's God-given gift in the vocal department. His voice is aural silk. His smoky glances are capable of unhooking a woman's bra from 100 metres. He is so cute you just want to pinch his cheeks.
I could go on, but you get the idea.
The man has it all.
Backed by a small, very tight orchestra, the show was an effortless demonstration of vocal perfection balanced with Buble's rakish sense of humour.
Being of quick wit and ironic mind, the singer treads a fine line between having fun with the lounge jazz idiom and making fun of it, as if three minutes is the longest he can stand being sincere.
Some of the songs were practically cliches themselves - Fever, Call Me Irresponsible, Always on My Mind, Me and Mrs. Jones, the latter stealing thunder from area crooner Alfie Zappacosta, who did his jazz version of the tune years ago.
Doing songs like this in a suit like that, maudlin is never far away.
Buble did his best to keep the mawk at bay with frequent pranks and pratfalls.
For example, following his performance of the big, gooey hit Home - one for the ladies, by the response - Buble sent one out to the men.
Cue campy Elvis impersonation on That's Alright, Mama and a spirited rendition of Y.M.C.A. by the Village People.
The guys in the horn section doing the moves was a nice touch.
Then it was back to wowing the audience with another heartbreaking ballad or swinging romp.
Buble worked the crowd like a master.
No, I have no problem with Michael Buble being called the new Sinatra. If he keeps this up, we'll be talking about the new Michael Buble in 40 years or so.
It takes a real mensch to bring an opening act who might upstage you - so Buble brought seven singers who can each sing circles around him, an a capella group from Brooklyn, N.Y., called Naturally 7.
This was a weird one.
Slightly precious, but unbelievably skilled, the singers called what they do "vocal play," which doesn't begin to describe the remarkable array of sounds they generated - including uncanny reproductions of drums, bass, electric guitar, Hammond organ, DJ, you name it.
Taking time to prove it was all human voices with detailed demonstrations kind of brought the show to a grinding halt, but it's preferable to having people think there was a real band behind the curtain, or worse, that they were lip-syncing.
Material was a surprise, too, tending towards artfully mangled Simon and Garfunkel and Mr. Mister, believe it or not, along with a gospel number on which the Almighty sounds a bit needy: "Say that you love me, that there's no one above me."
The climax of the set was a mind-blowing version of In the Air Tonight. Seven black guys in white suits making Phil Collins sound sublime - there's something you don't hear every day.