As of this writing, the COVID-19 pandemic has claimed the lives of 160,000 of our friends and relations.  It is a measure of the tragedy that large numbers of bits and bytes would be consumed by the mere listing of their names.  Remembering even a small fraction of those dead in any meaningful way would be impossible.  But at least one of those lost to the virus can—and will—be remembered now, and here.

Rick Unterberg died of the COVID-19 virus on April 23^rd of this year, at the age of 61. Rick was described, in an internet blog making brief note of his passing, as pianist/singer/accompanist and entertainer extraordinaire, a description that will serve as well as any.

JudgmentsHere encountered Rick as a regular performer at the Townhouse piano bar in mid-town Manhattan.  The Townhouse’s sprawling space was divided into a number of rooms, and Rick and his piano were found regularly in the back corner of the venue’s back room.

The entertainment was of the “open mike” format . . . the relevant implications of which will be addressed below.  For the nonce we will attend to those junctures in which no patron had seized the mike, leaving Rick to be The Entertainment   To say that Rick did not mind those moments is to say the least.  Like most who are drawn to the performing arts, we suspect, Rick did not object to being the object of every eye and ear.  He played, and he sang; and he brought his inimitable physicality to his performing.  He would roll his stool to the far end of the piano, and reach across the keyboard to play.  Not infrequently he would slip under the piano, leaving only his hands exposed to view.  No matter, though, because those hands—left alone to defend the post—always knew exactly what to do.

And flamboyant mugging was also in Rick’s entertainment toolbox, to be broken out when the song called for it (and sometimes when it didn’t).  None of the Marx Brothers did it better.

Rick could (and would) do a ballad; but his predilection was toward songs that were upbeat and affirmative, especially if they reflected a little defiant naughtiness.  Hence (and understandably) the works of Kander and Ebb were favorites.  He returned often to “Chicago”:

Isn’t it grand?  Isn’t it great?

Isn’t it swell?  Isn’t it fun . . . .?

Or to “Cabaret”:

What good is sitting alone in your room?

Come hear the music play . . .

Consistent with the venue’s entertainment format, patrons would often take the mike, stand beside Rick, and sing.  The full range of talent was represented.  On occasion, the patron holding the microphone would realize mid-song that the foray into entertaining had been ill-advised: the jaunty confidence with which he or she strode to the singing spot was replaced with a look of terror at the realization that there remained two verses to go, and the melody had somehow gotten lost mid-way through the first—taking the words with it.

Rick seemed always able to see when the microphone was being gripped more tightly than was necessary, in the patron’s desperate hope that its cord would transform into a lifeline.  It was at such moments that Rick came quietly, and tactfully, to the rescue, taking both the song and the singer on his back—subtly “accompanying” the patron, grounding him (or her) in the melody, and reciting the words a second before they were due to be sung.  No patron was going to drown on Rick’s watch.  None did.

There was also an altogether different cohort of singers who took the Townhouse’s open mike.  The venue being in the middle of Manhattan, the Townhouse was visited frequently by talented entertainers . . . some aspiring, others professional and between engagements.  Some used the venue as an opportunity to rehearse before a live audience.

In spite of his personal tendencies toward jollity and burlesque, Rick was willing to treat serious talent seriously.  Frequently a performer would hand Rick the sheet music to the song he was determined to sing—which Rick would, of course, play flawlessly.  Often there would be a brief conference, to discuss the singer’s preferences with regard to tempo, or key (etc.).  Rick would listen, nodding, and then oblige . . . in that moment subordinating his own liking for the spotlight to the interests of another.

An evening with Rick presiding presented many—many—opportunities for those crowded around the keyboard to sing along . . . which we assembled would do enthusiastically, if not always well.

But eventually those evenings would end . . . usually with Rick belting out one of the songs that were not simply songs but anthemic statements of Rick’s worldview . . .

What good is sitting alone in your room?

Come hear the music play . . .

Whether behind it, beside it, or beneath it, Rick Unterberg owned the Townhouse’s piano.  For a period of years Rick did his best, for all us, to create that place where we could hear the music play—to make of life a cabaret.  The show closed, alas, before any of us was ready.

We remember you, Rick Unterberg.  Rest in peace.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpXCT_e0eq4

[Rick Unterberg Playing, May 22, 2013]