THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, December 5, 1995 TAG: 9512050387
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Guy Friddell
LENGTH: Medium: 58 lines
Mel Torme went through town the other day, still whispering melodies as he did a half-century or so ago.
They called him then the Velvet Fog, for his huskiness. I thought it was Velvet Frog. Boyish Torme had - and has yet - a sunniness about him, all scrubbed, but with a wide smiling, big-lipped mouth and slightly pop eyes that lent a froggy cast, albeit handsome.
Sometime my mind makes up its mind on impressions that don't jibe with reality. Nothing dissuades it.
Torme lifted his voice just above a whisper, a confidential cooing, a murmuring, half-singing, half-talking. Which is why he is still around.
Time's scythe is severest with women vocalists, such as Carol Channing, who belt out every note at their utmost. Their day is short.
A talk show amateur tried to imitate Channing. Her voice is in such ruin that nearly anybody can offer a reasonable facsimile. But a viewer who admires her yet was wrathful that any ego-struck ham would dare to offer a reprise of her in decline.
As Macy's recent parade was forming, a TV camera lit on her face and it blossomed in a great glowing sunflower of a smile as she threw a kiss at the lens with both hands and flung wide her arms - still ``Hello Dolly!''
Ethel Merman's trumpet of a voice when young could raise the quills on a porcupine; but she stayed beyond her prime. She flung herself into a score as of yore but the trumpet had become a shrieking steam calliope. On a high note, the house vibrated with her vibratto; but to the end she was game.
Best at seeming to sing was that old sweetheart, Perry Como. With a chorus swelling behind him, he would jerk his head or tilt his chin and you would swear he was going all out. Oh, he sang ``Old Black Magic'' full tilt, but it was a tour de force. Usually he was a hum-along.
Two years ago, Como walked on stage for a PBS show. That's all, just walked, but that slight, jaunty, touseled gent with the dancing eyes, crinkly smile, and courtly gesture drew a standing ovation that usually ends a concert. All without a note!
Some songs perpetuate the singer. Bing Crosby gradually faded to only on annual Christmas show, bantering more with his family than singing except for ``White Christmas'' near the end, which welcomed home GIs and good times.
Frank Sinatra does more stamping around than singing, as in ``New York, New York'' where he can shout the lyrics. Tony Bennett excels yet at ``San Francisco,'' which should assure him the key to that city though he may misplace the key here and there in other songs.
Best of them was Nat King Cole. His voice, were he here, would be as strong as ever; but he died of throat cancer from smoking.
That habit perhaps exposed some of the tension beneath his smooth, effortless style as he wrought his charm on a segregated society. No one, old or new, can ever touch King Cole. by CNB