By Roy Sander

After an eight-year absence, Australian singer David Campbell recently returned to New York to promote his new CD, David Campbell On Broadway, and play a five-day run at Feinstein's. I'd like to set my comments on that performance within the context of his earlier New York appearances and the artistic development he showed during his first residency here. To do that, let me turn back the clock…

Six months later, he opened at Rainbow & Stars, the youngest performer ever to headline that glittering, upscale night spot. "OK, So How Do I Join the Fan Club?" is the caption I wrote above my review, and I went on to say, "Let me now praise him without reservation," giving kudos to his ballads (an "intensely focused reading," an "exquisitely direct and heartbreaking" rendition," and his "eloquent use of quiet notes and understated moments") and to his up numbers ("rousing," "marvelously physical," "full of joy and youthful energy," and  "big, wholesomely spunky, and gratifyingly showbizzy"). I closed by saying his "skills as a singer, actor, cabaret artist, and showman have all come together; now he deserves all the hoopla that has surrounded him since he came on the scene."

He went on to do some theatre work here, including in 1999 the role of Valentine (as in "my funny…") in the City Center Encores! production of Rodgers & Hart's Babes in Arms, and in 2000, a lovely performance as one of the leads in Second Stage's New York debut production of Saturday Night(Stephen Sondheim, Julius J. and Philip G. Epstein). He moved back to Australia in 2001, but a year later returned to New York briefly for a run at the Café Carlyle, with the artistry he'd displayed at Rainbow & Stars completely intact.

We come now to his recent Feinstein's engagement and the crucial question: how did this performance stack up against the David Campbell we saw eight years ago? His voice, if possible, is now even better: a resonant baritone that is capable of great ringing power as well as of beautiful tenderness. He's every bit as affable as he was then, and despite the considerable success he's enjoyed in Australia during the intervening years, he remains unaffected and charming. But, alas, his Rainbow & Stars/Café Carlyle level of artistry was evident in only about half of the numbers.

Best was "Goodbye," a dramatic rock song by Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman from their forthcoming musical Catch Me If You Can; filled with intensity and released anger, his interpretation packed an emotional and aural wallop. Right up there was his simple and heartfelt rendition of "Some Other Time" (Bernstein, Comden & Green). He also scored with a sweet performance of "Danke Schoen" (Bert Kaempfert, Kurt Schwabach, Milt Gabler), a wow-em/sell-it delivery of Kander & Ebb's "All I Care About," and a breezy "Luck Be a Lady" (Frank Loesser), in which the band really cooked. (The first rate ensemble consisted of musical director Christopher Denny on piano, Jered Egan on bass, Rex Benincasa on drums, and Kevin Kuhn on guitar.) Also successful were a big, pop-waltz version of "How Can I Be Sure?" (Felix Cavaliere, Eddie Brigati) and, surprisingly, a quasi-gospel treatment of Rodgers & Hammerstein's "You'll Never Walk Alone," even with the melisma (because in this case this pestilential device was consistent with the adopted style).

Then there was the other 50% of the program. Rodgers & Hammerstein's "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'" sounded glorious (as did everything else), but Campbell's performance was physically unfocused. Rodgers & Hart's "My Funny Valentine" was similarly marred by an unfortunate laxity (e.g., hands variously in pockets for no dramatically valid reason) and a stylistically inappropriate use of melisma. He seemed uncommitted at the beginning of Sondheim's "Being Alive," and "Hey There" (Richard Adler, Jerry Ross) was nightclubby, riddled with ungrounded gestures.

Finally, Cole Porter's "Begin the Beguine" was a complete mess. It started out with jungle drums (Benincasa was great on percussion), then for a few bars it became pensive, then it got hip, peppered with extraneous inserted phrases. (Think Frank Sinatra during his regrettable final few decades.) I suppose that musically, this treatment was perversely interesting, but there is the pesky matter of the lyric—it says something, and its meaning should not be so cavalierly ignored. As you know, the song tells of a dance rhythm that reminds the singer of a lost love. Emotionally torn, the singer is finally prepared to relive the pleasure and endure the pain of the memories that hearing the beguine will stir up; (s)he expresses this decision with the words "Oh yes, let them begin the beguine." Nothing about Campbell's performance suggested that he understood or cared a jot about what the song is saying; to cite just one indication of this, he sang "make them begin the beguine" instead of the correct lyric. I submit that let more potently conveys the emotional turmoil that precedes this decision. I suppose a case for the dramatic potential of make could be attempted, but you'd have to take that up with Cole Porter; he wrote let. (Perhaps Campbell simply had a momentary lapse, for the next words are "make them play"; however, he sang the wrong lyric repeatedly.)

If I seem unduly unforgiving, my harshness stems from my disappointment; I have seen what Campbell is capable of. What caused his backsliding to a pre-May 1997 level? I don't know. My speculation consists only of more questions—for example, why did the majority of problems occur during the first half of his show? and has he not performed in intimate venues over the past several years? But I do know that it saddens me terribly to have to report it.