Florence Henderson’s recent appearance at Feinstein’s at Loew’s Regency was all to the good and all too brief. The actress-singer called her show “All the Lives of Me . . . A Musical Journey,” and it was outstanding in more than one way.
There was, first, the heartening fact that age could not stale talent and appeal such as hers. Her accomplished renderings were as youthfully vibrant yet subtly shaded as they were in the various musicals she starred in on Broadway and elsewhere.
She sang only one of the hit songs from her stage roles, the idea being rather to convey in song her role in life. This took her from the poverty-stricken farm where it began, through sundry nail-biting or elating phases, to becoming an idol of stage and TV.
Her rise began at 19, when Rodgers and Hammerstein saw her in a bit part in Wish You Were Here and asked her whether she would take on the part of Laurie in the last touring company of Oklahoma! “Sure,” she said, “but what is it?” It progressed to her being the first female guest host on “The Tonight Show” and induction in the Smithsonian Institute as part of the first permanent Entertainment History Exhibit. A steady, sedulous rise; if just a little short of meteoric, no less than stellar.
The autobiographical show includes such faded favorites of her parents’ as “You Are My Sunshine” and “My Old Kentucky Home,” but delivered with unprecedented, revivifying delicacy. What show tunes she performs, such as “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” and Kander and Ebb’s “Me and My Baby,” are there to illustrate the feelings at becoming famous or a mother, or, as in the case of “The Brady Bunch,” participating in unparalleled backstage camaraderie.
She has possibly the best between-the-songs patter I have heard from any artist. This ranges from one of her dad’s typical bawdy jokes to her mom’s exaggerated warnings against playing with herself—she would go blind and deaf—to how today’s TV-proclaimed side effects of sex-enhancing drugs include impaired sight or hearing. And if you have a dread, more-than-four-hour erection, would you, on your way to the doctor, please stop off at her place.
But it goes beyond the scripted; Ms. Henderson is a wiz at repartee. Not only does she mingle physically with her audience, she also conducts a freewheeling Q & A session, providing answers that are both pert and pertinent.
She talks frankly about her two marriages and more recent widowed state, about her four childbirths that always came at a time most in conflict with her work, but resulted in wonderful offspring. You can almost see waves of joyous energy radiating from her.
Two of her wittiest songs—“Have I Been Lifted?” and “Eight Shows a Week”—are by her musical director, Glen Roven, who, besides steadfast piano accompaniments, also gives her a spirited introduction. No less fine is the work of Julie Ferrara on reeds, Laura Bontrager on cello, and Cynthia Leigh Heim in vocal support.
If you had the misfortune of missing Florence Henderson this time round, be confident that such an indestructible and indispensable artist will show up again somewhere on your horizon. Avoid at that time committing the same mistake twice.
