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Singer-pianist Steven Lowenthal has been a highly-visible presence on the piano bar scene for over three-and-a-half decades, and yet has always been something of an enigma. Known not only for playing every song by ear but having a dazzlingly-vast repertoire of nearly any and every musical style and thousands of songs therein, Lowenthal as a musician has always displayed utter confidence and showmanship. But Lowenthal as a person has never, until now, been particularly forthcoming about his past, or what led him to the piano bars of New York.

 

Born and raised in the Long Island town of Commack (which also includes Rosie O’Donnell among its native entertainers), Lowenthal’s childhood was nothing if not eclectic, and he felt misunderstood at times. “I'd say I was the kind of a kid who thinks he's funny even when he's hurting somebody, and got straight A's to boot. Then you get to the wider world of grades seven through twelve, where corrections must happen, and you are now officially misunderstood. A kid could get spooked. If misunderstood means lonely, then I was. As in Simon & Garfunkel's 'Bookends.' The usual, in other words. But other kids were more impressed that I played show tunes and a few pop hits on the piano. It makes it a bit harder to dismiss someone, because piano's always a cool instrument.” And even though he was honing his varied musical tastes from an early age, becoming a professional musician was the furthest thing from his mind. “I had no idea of becoming a musician. I thought I was clever, maybe, but only for the living room, like President Nixon's playing. I'd had two years of home lessons and rudimentary skills, but virtually no reading of music; we've never gotten to the bottom of that. I never liked to study, I was bad at following directions, and not sure which came first. Anyway," he continues, “my teacher, Mr Furrer, was giving the standard classical lessons even though he was a terrific stride player. And at nine or ten, I had no patience for learning my lessons, and just wanted to play. One day, Mr Furrer walks up to the screen door while I'm sounding out 'The Siamese Cat Song,' and also he sees that I've been playing my pieces from memory. He tells my folks that I'm not reading music and he's sorry, and that was the end of that. But I sure am glad we kept the piano, and must thank my mother for not telling me to stop all that banging; my grandmother would put her hands over her ears. Still, when you do it long enough and you’re just enjoying it, you learn to put a few things together. As for my musical tastes, dad kept the radio tuned to WNEW-AM 1130, New York's pride, where Willam B. Williams and Ted Brown spun the standards. And 'The Ed Sullivan Show,' where you got a dose of Little Stevie Wonder while you waited for Eydie Gorme. Well, I did, anyway. Also, my aunts gave me all the hit show albums every birthday or Chanukah from 1964 on: Dolly, Fiddler, Funny Girl, Mame, Cabaret, Bajour and all that Rodgers & Hammerstein. That accounts for my time at Marie's Crisis; it's all their fault,”  he chuckles. "And of course, as much as I resisted anything written for teenagers, pop music gets into your head anyway. That was my 1960s; I was twelve when the Beatles got here, and when Louis Armstrong topped them on the charts with 'Hello Dolly.' You picked up every kind of music on the TV variety shows; it gave us all a very wide frame of reference, in contrast to that specialized, 'niche' mentality that exists now. It's a shame the way pop radio fragmented from all-inclusiveness to such narrow playlists, and finally to everyone's personal escape with earbuds; not conducive to ‘Dancin' in the Streets.’ I'm lucky to have been around back then; if I'd known what a great musical age I was living through, I'd have paid more attention,”  he concludes.

                                   Marie Blake at the Five oaks in 1985, singing her signature hit Ragg Mopp   

Lowenthal’s path into the Greenwich Village scene also included some most-unlikely highways and byways. “After graduating from Commack High School, I went off to school at the state college in Oswego, NY. I chose it because it's on the edge of Lake Ontario, and yes, as great a spot as any for your first acid trip. So, by connection with my friend Liz from Commack, I met her best friend Janet's guitar-playing, songwriting, baby-daddy Bobby, who heard me play a couple of Joni Mitchell tunes and insisted I had to play his songs, too. I was like, ‘I can play like this for money?’ So I dropped out of school, which was almost an 'in' thing to do, especially when you knew you were wasting Dad's money, and we eventually became a group call Br'er Fox. Bobby's stuff was an eclectic mix, bu mostly folk-rock because of a strong rhythm-guitar foundation. We lived in a bungalow on Sterling Creek, pronounced crick, and rehearsed and rehearsed, and smoked, and rehearsed, and were the most popular unseen band in two counties. I can't say how much I grew as a musician, exactly, because my bandmates all gave the piano too much deference and I don't think anyone knew what to ask me for or to try to teach me. But even though we played maybe three big shows in two years, I don't see this time as a waste. And we were avid music listeners, so I got to catch up on, and learn some of, the rest of the 1960s rock I'd nearly missed. I also developed an open-chord piano style that simulates guitar-picking; I've always based most of my piano lines on other instruments, including the human voice. I don't actually play that much piano, as such. Meanwhile, all of us hedonistic slackers took turns finding odd jobs to keep Bobby and Janet's little boy fed, and I played loud show tunes at a French restaurant in Oswego, for $10 a night, where they indulged me for a few months before needing to let me go. For the sake of their romantic room and for their sanity, I imagine. Still, it's a start,” he smiles. “Then we all moved down to NYC in 1973, mostly Rego Park and Forest Hills, where Bobby & Janet's parents lived, and jumped around for a few years, got involved with some city musicians, and also it was odd-job time once again. Bobby's cousin, I think, got a few of us into working the coat-check room at Infinity disco in SoHo, when it was nothing to see, but the neon fantasy that waited behind those ugly iron doors, my goodness. I took Bianca Jagger's coat, wore a paper Fiorucci jumpsuit (with long hair and thick aviator lenses), watched Margaux Hemingway--six feet plus in stiletto heels--dressed in mourning with veil, slowly rotating while a mostly bald fellow half her size revolved madly about her, on an empty dance floor after 3am. I also recall that Diana Ross' ‘Love Hangover’ was a big hit there. It was interesting, but it got boring, too. We hated disco. If we'd known how bad it would get, we'd have been kinder in funky 1974. By the time Studio 54 opened, I felt like ‘been there, done that, and the music's even worse,’ and I don't dig exclusivity, with the velvet rope. So I never saw 54, and didn't care.” He continues, “After about a month I left Infinity, babysat for awhile, and then I went looking for a place on Cornelia Street called Mona's Royal Roost, recommended to me by the probably-bipolar Wagnerian heldentenor who had introduced me to Marie's Crisis in 1972. Mona’s was a cozy neighborhood gay bar with red velvet walls; I came along pounding out show tunes and rock tunes and to this day I don't really know why Mona would hire me, but I lasted maybe six months, before she sold the joint to Jan Wallman, in 1975, I believe. Jan came by often, sometimes to meet up with her friend Gregory Moore, and there was always a pillow ready at the bar for her poodle, Gigi. I also met, and was awed by, Jan's favorite pianist, Wes McAfee. Mona also hired my songwriting buddy Bobby to run her kitchen (his father was French-Moroccan Chef Max Aben, late of Maxwell's Plum on 1st Avenue), and our patrons loved his food; poulet Basque, homemade French vanilla ice cream with dried apricots, lovely stuff. Mona Katz herself was a deadpan, drily-hilarious—think Frances Faye in 'Pretty Baby'--glamorous woman in middle-age; blonde, queen-bee, mock-nasty and much loved, especially by the general manager of the Beefsteak Charlie’s chain, Richard Hendrickson, who was maybe thirty at that time. Sometime in late ‘74, Richard proposed to Mona, and there was such a flurry of speculations! People who knew her for years would ask me, ‘Why would he? Why would she?’ as if I could possibly know. But,”  he says, “I'll say this much. In 1974, you didn't have to marry someone to get a nice apartment, and Richard was making his own good salary. He cared for Mona when she later became ill with cancer, would dress her and make her up to go for dinner at the Five Oaks. I would call that love, and neither I nor my counterculture friends ever questioned it the way many of her patrons did. I'm not judging them, I'm just noting all the chatter. Anyway, Mona's closed, and our band scene crashed  when we got  involved in a misconceived Halloween gig at the Commodore Hotel ballroom, with a crooked promoter who probably tried to stiff headliner Todd Rundgren as well as us, together with a sick, slovenly rock-n-roll hotel room scene. Or the audition where I was virtually forced to play Al Kooper's Hammond B3 organ, which was tuned a half-step lower than everyone else, but I couldn't hear that until the end; oh, the life-nausea. It was past time to move on. I was grinding on downward until I spent the summer of '76 drunk at my parents' house near Peekskill. That's called a passage. That fall, I got a gofer position at a travel office on West 57th St, back when a mere clerk could afford to stop for a half-dozen on the half shell at Grand Central, while delivering airline tickets to opera bigwigs. And during this time, I remembered among Mona's patrons a waiter and former dancer named Billy Mitchell, so I found my way to where he worked, the Five Oaks, to say hello.”

That night turned into the very beginning of the beginning for Lowenthal, who would play at the club for the next eleven years and garner an impressive following, bursting with special memories. He asks, “You remember the Baker's Wife in Into the Woods singing, ‘But if life were made of moments, then you'd never know you had one?’ I had so many moments in those eleven years. First there was how Marie Blake, having returned to work after a heart bypass, would call out ‘Hey, HONEEE!’ to where I was standing with a beer, she being satisfied that I could pound out the show tunes while she got used to the idea of taking breaks, as her new employers Jeremy Burrell and Tom Regan insisted she must. She handed me a short list of songs on my first night, and I forgot to play any of them; I didn't understand until later that I was being auditioned. And Jeremy said to me ‘You can do this.’ That man could tease you into the damnedest things, and you'd come out a a better person, with a work ethic to boot. To keep it short, Jeremy was my mentor, and his partner of over thirty years, Steven Griffiths, is so great to work with and my mentor-in-law. And as luck would have it, around the same time, two doors down at the Duplex, John Healy was mentoring a stunning gal named Karen Miller into piano bar. My first night playing cocktail hour,” he continues, “to leave after Marie's dinner break because I had a day job, was July 13th, 1977, the big blackout. Sounds, lights and coolers go out, Tom takes off his T-shirt and starts handing out free beer, all Bontemps-Roulez like he was raised. All I can tell you is, you've seen how a blackout or a blizzard can  lend a giddy charge to a room, and some terrific business as well. That's how I left it when I walked home to Independence Plaza, to climb twenty-one floors, flicking my Bic for the neighbors. And I have great memories of the Family Table, for assorted singles; old Bohemians, talented newbies and dishy queens. Oh, and the way anybody's mother was automatically royalty, and how my Dad said that the Oaks was the Village as he remembered it from the 30s and 40s. There are also, of course, the singers who helped me learn to accompany, and it didn't happen quickly; they were a mix of amateur and pro, and also it was my duty to accompany people who officially 'couldn't sing,' but wanted to serenade their sweetheart on a happy occasion. I am forever lucky to have been trained that way and by some of the best. Laurel Watson; holy cow! I'm grateful to Jeannie Dryver, with the dark looks and the smoky voice, firmly slowing me down time and again. Taught me to swing slower, and she was so patient. Bill Daugherty and Jack Shea, two virtually perfect performers who helped me discover new accompanying tools. Ray Curran, with his all-Judy-and-Liza repertoire and a complete lack of imitation or impersonation. He just sang 'em, that's all, and was, bless his soul, the perfect amateur. And I should say that by observing Marie each night, I learned even more about singing than about playing the piano. You pick a good song, and proceed to nail down what the lyricist wrote, on the beat. Everybody wants to be Billie Holiday, and we all have our moments, but if Irving Berlin had heard how Miss Blake could properly hammer out the songwriter's language, thereby riveting her audience, he'd have written for her the same as he did for Ethel Merman. And the more I know about singing, and what's in a song, the better I accompany. For me, Jerry Scott said it best, ‘We learn to breathe along with them.’ Good lyricists help everyone to breathe.


Marie Blake at the Five Oaks in 1985 singing "'Taint Nobody's Bizness"

“Then there was my first time watching and hearing Dennis 'The Cowboy' Berrigan. I didn't get it at all at first. The funny thing is, years later, we had a night without Marie and so it fell to me to accompany the famously-terrible Dennis. I'm sure we did his standard 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon,' and something else quieter which he did surprisingly well. I found him easy enough to play for, and I can't agree that he had no talent. Whether or not you liked the sound is a different matter. And there was one late-night rendition of ‘St Louis Blues.' Marie, being fairly well-oiled, slipped into the zone and slowly, heavily, inevitably hauled us into the darkest, most terrifying gaping emptiness, and then, time for the 'add-ditional lyrics,' as she would say. So she's ‘going to Chicago to get her hambone boiled,’ and it just gathered steam until we had to catch our breath at the dizziest height of hilarity. It was an epic rendition, just a miracle. Here’s another great memory; a young man from Texas named Billy Stritch was at a table with Jerry Scott, and Susan and Allan Armour. Such a sweet gentleman, then and now. He takes the piano, and wee Alice Gallacher--the waitress--and the rest of us are like ‘well, well, not bad, pretty good, and so young, you know.' Next time he turns up and plays, and we're like ‘Oh…My…God!!’ A little later it was Montgomery, Mayes and Stritch, with Sharon Montgomery and Sally Mayes, later replaced by Rebecca Plant, which was another ‘OMG’ moment. It was always just such a parade of characters there. Hostess Sandee Conley, Black with fierce Native American cheekbones, at the mike purring the complete ‘Roxie.’ Bartender Lois Sage spending her break times tearing the house down with Marie or myself. Frequent patrons Joy Behar and Taffy Jaffe, sharing issues like ‘Whose placenta is in MY hair? I wanna know.’ The Reverend Henry Harrison, always aiming to lift you up and always succeeding, with, say, ‘Deep Purple’ and ‘Put a Little Love in Your Heart.’

“And  ANY time time Dawn Hampton would get up, she’d just kill you with a demanding diva turn on ‘Losing My Mind,’ and then turn around and whistle 'Stardust' or sling her funky stuff, batting her baby browns to the tune of ‘Makin’ Whoopee.’ That’s her lyric, ‘I'm Just a Drag Queen,’ which Ruby Rims performed on the 'Phil Donahue Show.  Which brings us to the drag queens. Oh, how they could inspire a house player to help them create a moment, and with entrance and exit music. Not that every attempt would come off, but so worth the try!!  For me, the absolute empress was Alexis del Lago, who cut and sewed her own high glamour ensembles, did a 1940s Central European emigree thing (think the Gabors, Ilona Massey, Marlene Dietrich) , not to mention Eva Peron. Alexis would do that ‘hostess' nightmare’ monologue, ‘Ina, Oona; Oona, Ina; Ina, Ida; Ida, Ina, etc.’ I never did place her accent, but it was from this hemisphere, for sure," he smiles. “Jackie Curtis, out of drag, so sweet; and I still have a pop-bead from Holly Woodlawn. I never quite got the hang of her ‘Princess Pupuli Has Plenty Papaya (and She Loves to Give It Away),’ but it was fun trying. Ruby Rims and his conversion from pantomime to actually singing! Albert Walsh, soprano! Anthony Cardinale a/k/a Connie P. Francis, another swell dresser. Extra-special is Rollerina, the skating Fairy Godmother, who would take a spin around the room, bop you on the head with her sparkling ah-oo-gah baton if you were lucky, and then say something sweet and encouraging on the mike, even as an epidemic was looming. Rollerina taught me  'Coal Miner's Daughter' and I got to play it for her singing debut. So very adorable. And just before I left in '88, there was Richard Skipper as Julie Sheppard as Judy Garland, by which I mean he wore that swanky mink number, before he committed to Carol Channing. That possibly might have occurred when we both worked at Marie's Crisis.

“There was also Janet Sumner, who had a special goblet waiting for her at every stop. Our Lady of the Cabarets, and it was a pleasure to know her all through the time of Judys* Chelsea, before she passed on right about then. I hope that perhaps she now does cocktails with pianist Scott Traudt, with whom I worked one Tuesday night after I'd given notice, and who would then become Marie's relief man. Oh, and bearing in mind that restaurants must maintain rat control, there was the night a disoriented, poisoned rat stepped out into the spotlight while Marie was playing. It was very ‘Hello, ma sweetie, hello ma honey ...’ And I have to mention the night Don Swanson, Tommy Tune's understudy in Seesaw, danced out dressed only in Saran Wrap, for the birthday of Henry Dibling, who could deliver the best ‘Mr. Cellophane’ you've ever seen. Henry was best friends with Laura Lauten, the brilliant, charismatic hostess at Ted Hook's Backstage, which was our sister restaurant, next door to the Martin Beck, now the Hirschfeld, and was the absolute ‘innest’ spot in midtown for after-theatre stargazing. At Backstage, I first heard the great Steve Ross at the piano, and he played my favorite Carol Burnett showtune, ‘You Mustn't Be Discouraged.’ I have sometimes thought I'd like to have beeen the musical child of Steve Ross and Marie Blake, not that you need to visualize that,” he laughs. "Anyway, the Backstage staff were a great group, and brought us some terrific patrons and performers, like Judy Kaye and the cast of On the Twentieth Century. One final thing, and I haven't thought of it in years, but one night Marie struck up ‘One’ from A Chorus Line and I swear to you, when we looked at the fishtank, the goldfish were hovering in a straight line.”

Unlike some who’ve been around for a long time and feel that a sameness takes over each new piano-playing gig, Lowenthal revels in the uniqueness of each space. “They’re ALL different,” he says. “At the Oaks, my favorite people were the staff. I really spent more of my break time in the service area than out on the floor. I tend to identify with where I work, which can sometimes lead to over-engagement and painful disappointments, depending, but also some nice memories and ongoing friendships. It's rarely 'just a job' for me, because the work is usually where I'm most alive. It doesn't feel good to have to deliver your goods to crooks or incompetents or whoever else considers you to be a commodity, but the patrons often can make up for that, at least for a while. You shouldn't not care about the work, it's a kind of hell,” he stresses. “I should mention that I've been thanked by two cruise directors for taking possession of my room and sparing them extra work, on the Holland America line; and I'd skip "proper channels" to make sure my bar stools got fixed. And DT's Fat Cat was a fun job, with Danny Onzo and little Kate at the bar. Marie's Crisis was intensely contradictory for me, but it was a great room. Same goes for Regents. See, I like to be proud of where I work, and I resent it when an owner thinks they've nothing to learn from their hired help. You'll meet many bartenders, servers and hosts who feel the same way. We have a work ethic, we deal with the patrons, we know things and we're trying to help. And they have to help us to help them before we all lose another job. The real estate market is a big part of why it can be so hard to get a simple venue going, with a focus and a following. There are big rents, little time to succeed, and as a musician in these venues, that struggling business that you tried so hard to help along may have been merely a tax write-off. Right now, though,” he continues, “I'm happy to identify with La Mediterranee on Fridays, a bistro where singing happens after nine or ten. I can banter and misbehave discreetly and maybe coax Sharon Brand into doing a song she never sang before. And the Metropolitan Room on Saturdays, because of how nice their insanely-talented staff has been to me, and how oddly-well this splendidly-appointed cabaret room converts to a piano-bar playground when the shows are over. I'm delighted. But I don't mind being defined by this scene for all these years. For some it's Camelot, for some the Algonquin,and for me it's the Oaks. Everything I do anywhere else is an adaptation or variation on something I learned there.”

And even with a career that spans decades, Lowenthal remains a staunch and enthusiastic fan of many colleagues, singers-waitstaff and musicians alike. “One whom I loved, and I miss, is Susan Ellman,”   he says, “with whom I last worked at Danny's on 46th St. She was classy and fun, loved Joni and Dylan and Lenya and Sondheim and especially Harold Arlen. She had a kind of dewy brunette look, like Hedy Lamarr, maybe. Sang 'em slow, husky and sexy, then she'd turn around and be Shirley Temple or Marilyn Monroe. Susan used her feminine wiles constructively, and was a great hostess. As a patron, she was my welcome wagon when I moved down the street to Marie's Crisis. We lost her to cancer a few years back; Ronny Whyte and Daryl Sherman performed at her funeral. And Bobby Peaco is special to me. Back when I was the player and he was the busboy at the Oaks, his Cinderella transformation almost overnight, to piano bar megastar in 1984, was just astonishing. Suddenly, his posture changed, his hair got curly, he'd shaved the beard and left a moustache, and he left them panting at the Monster in Cherry Grove. He had surprised even himself, in that he hadn't imagined himself playing without sheet music. He's one of this brilliant trio from Portsmouth NH, who came to work at the Oaks in the early 80s, the others being writer John-Richard Thompson and superb actor-singer Michael Guerrette. I love Ricky Ritzel, both his showmanship and his voice. Mark Nadler, Charlie Lindberg, so many others. As far as the newer bunch, I don't get around much, but I've seen Nate Buccieri accompany a dynamite benefit show at DTM with minimal rehearsal; such terrific intuition, such tasty saves, and he makes it look easy as pie. Kathy Kaefer, with whom I worked  at Judys* Chelsea, has got everything. Repertoire, expressiveness, presentation and an almost unimaginable natural glamour. A total knockout in every way. And I couldn’t be happier than to be playing for Kimlee Hicks every Saturday at the Met Room.”

Though he’s lived in various locales throughout the city, Lowenthal is very pleased to have made the Upper West Side his home for over twenty years. “I'd been a roommate at Independence Plaza in the late 70s, just before the area was named TriBeCa. The nice lady I lived with had been lead singer for the group Heatwave, before they hit the radio. We had a wide Hudson River view from the twenty-first floor, and you left the building in the morning with divine aromas in the morning air, from the Martinson and Bazzini warehouses. Anyway, after over two years, it was time. I wanted to stay friends with her, so I just got out quick and took whatever I could find. I was priced out of the Village, so I found an ad for a studio, snapped it up and got complacent. The rather dodgy West Side was a changing neighborhood; this was during the Columbus Avenue revival. Well, even as the charming or quirky Mom-and-Pop stores began to vanish, I didn't notice the rents rising around me until, suddenly, what was $400 was now $800, and a few years later they spiked again. So I'd locked myself in, but at least I got here in time to get rent stabilization, which also began to vanish shortly after. In hindsight, I had no foresight. Even so, it was nice to take a short walk to the legendary Mrs. J's Sacred Cow for an evening's work, while it lasted. I could live elsewhere,” he finishes, “but even if I did drive, I wouldn't enjoy a suburb. I could take New York City with me, live on a crick and hitch rides.”

On a day/night when he’s not working, Lowenthal’s pleasures are relatively simple. He laughs, “Have you ever seen Andy Warhol's Empire? That would be more exciting. Although, if you followed me with a video camera, you would overhear some entertaining phone calls with my chums about work, gossip, politics. I enjoy chatting with very close friends, like singers Niko Louizos or Jim Bruce, on why we like the songs we like, going over the craft with a fine-tooth comb. I like my home media simple, and I'm a borderline news junkie. I have my financial constraints, and the truth is that any acquaintance of mine in cabaret can tell you that I rarely make it to anybody’s show anywhere, no matter how much I enjoy that performer, or this birthday person. It's always been that way. Yet,” he adds, “I'm more readily up for the theatre, sitting with a much bigger audience, so I don't know. But no performer ever needs to apologize to me for their absence, that's for sure, and I'm always happy when a friend wins an award, even though I don't like competitions. It's not agoraphobia, it's something else. But,” he chuckles, “I'm told I took my time leaving the womb, too.”  Similarly, he’s never had a reputation as a particularly amorous fellow, has almost never been seen around town with a partner or cruising in bars, which may also account for why he’s been somewhat shrouded in mystery lo these many years. “Let me put it this way,”  he explains. "A lyric like ‘You're Nobody 'til Somebody Loves You,’ although technically perfect, is some nasty advice. More helpful might be ‘You're Nobody 'til You Love Somebody,’ or something. Or, 'Time after time, I tell myself that I'm so lucky to be loving you.’ Great song. I've had my flings, and nothing has stuck. If I had a few eager suitors who'd have done anything, put up with anything for me, I could do naught but to end the chapter as gently as possible. Call me Turandot Lite,” he jokes. “Some went on to codependent relationships, so it was the right call for me, or it would've shown up on my portrait in the attic. Honestly, I think I've always been unable to see me in his eyes, whoever he is, and if he's even still alive. And I've long been able to live with myself, whoever I am. Again, complacent, but I'm ruling nothing out. Almost. Meanwhile, people who are lucky in love need to remember to stop implying that you're a cripple, Blanche, if you're not blessed in that way. Frankly, they're wrong. I’m blessed plenty, like if someone tells me that I deterred them from suicide one night when I played a song, or if a pair of newlyweds tells me that they met at my piano bar, both of which did happen, at Marie’s Crisis. And I thought I was just doing my job.”

Equally blessed are the patrons at La Mediteranee on Friday evenings, and those at the Metropolitan Room on Saturdays. Steven Lowenthal singlehandedly not only keeps the home fires of cabaret’s past burning brightly by word, deed, music and lyrics, but is certain to have an equally triumphant trek into the future.

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