New York City, New Year's Eve, December 31, 2000/January 1, 2001

49th Street, Times Square, December 31, 2000. 7:50 PM.

Like lots and lots of people I am indifferent to New Year's Eve. I have very social friends who elect to stay home and even go to bed before midnight, which I think is a good idea. However.

It was a beautiful, mild winter's night after the snows. The snowbanks were still piled high and not always easy to navigate. The streets were wet underfoot and there wasn't a lot of traffic except for the taxis (when you could find one) and the buses. The buoyant mood that came with Saturday's big storm remained in the air.

I put on a dark suit and tie, and went out about nine to meet up with several friends for drinks (and an occasional dollop of caviar), ending up at the Carlyle where my friend, Barbara Carroll, the jazz pianist virtuoso, plies her trade every New Year's Eve at the Bemelmans Bar. She's told me many times in the past that this is always a really good party; and although I'm leery of such descriptions from anybody about New Year's, there's nothing hyperbolic about Barbara's take on things. So I thought it might be a great way to cap off the night.

I got there about eleven-thirty. The Carlyle was jumping. Bobby Short, avec orchestra, was doing his glamorous New Year's gig at the Café Carlyle. Bobby just completed his sixty-eighth year in show business. He is the quintessential interpreter of a style and wit in music called Cole Porter. And there are probably damned few American popular songs of the last century that he doesn't know.

While checking my overcoat, I could see Bobby at the Baldwin, beyond the glass door into the Café, with its whimsical and now classic Vertes murals behind him. He was performing for a full house. In the hotel's restaurant, Peter Duchin was entertaining with his legacy of society dance music, another adjunct of sophistication that is New York. While his wife Brooke Hayward was hosting a small dinner for her daughter and a few friends including Metropolitan Opera star Renee Fleming; as well as Atlanta's prominent newcomer on the New York social scene, Alex Hitts.

Barbara Carroll at The Carlyle

Meanwhile: The Bemelmans Bar, its walls above the banquettes covered with Ludwig Bemelmans' whimsical murals, was packed about a quarter-to-midnight. Two and three deep at the bar. Ceiling covered with gold and silver balloons. Lowering the room and adding to the sense of intimacy. In the middle of the darkish room, under a pinkish spot, at the piano, with bass player Sean Smith just behind her, was Barbara. Our chic mistress of the evening, with the big bright eyes, the pale as alabaster white skin, flaming red hair. The lady was sparkling in a black and silver, green and red pailletted jacket, her music blanketing the spirited yet muffled murmur of the crowd.

It was a very (but not overly) friendly crowd. Barbara took a five minute break just before midnight, and then returned at that moment, to play "Auld Lang Syne." The crowd's singing wafted warmly (and sentimentally) across the room. Gentle and sincere voices of tribute and hope. The silver top hats and the bleating horns came out: welcome 2001!

The St. Regis (and Peninsula in the background). 8:25 PM.

There was toasting and kisses and hugging and calls for more champagne. Then Barbara hushed the audience enough to introduce her featured star of the evening, Dwight Owsley, the Carlyle's Concierge, moonlighting his talent for this moment, with the mike, by the piano. Mr. Owsley is a big guy, big like a Jets linebacker, with a deep smooth baritone assisted by a style that blends Bobby Short with Fats Waller, with a heavenly hand from Ethel Waters. Joy was in the snapping of those big Owsley fingers, carressing the curve of Barbara's grand piano. It was like having your best friend with the best talent entertaining you in his living room. He sang "Making Whoopee" with an exclamation mark that everyone was hip to, adding some new- world cyber-lyrics that brought down the house. From that he went into "Something's Got to Give," and then Fat's "Honeysuckle Rose," and then John LaTouche and Vernon Duke's "Takin' a Chance on Love," and one he dedicated to "Someone we all know right now," "My Heart Belongs To Daddy." We were in New York, honey.

The crowd went wild. Have you ever been to a party where you realize this is something that is so wonderful, so much fun, that it can never happen again quite like this?

After Dwight's encores and then final exit, as if choreographed, some of Bobby Short's musicians, having finished their set next door, snuck in from the side door behind Barbara, pulled up some chairs, sandwiched in between the customers at their tables, and added drums, sax and clarinet to the party. And then they jammed for us, the rhythm of the evening moving right along. And then, all in place, in comes Bobby Short, ducking through the crowd unnoticed until he was right there on the bench next to Barbara for some four-handed riffs on the Baldwin.

Meanwhile the party was in full swing, the house was rockin', the voices were rollicking, the white-jacketed waiters and bartenders were quickly serving the drinks for the happy clamorers. Between some of the tables, couples were dancing; The Best!

The Waldorf-Astoria. 8:45 PM.

It was one of those parties that resemble the parties you've seen in the movies but never quite recreated in real life. A big, warm, happy crowd, exhilarated by the music, the performances… and the vibe in the room. A woman named Lisa Carroll, also a cabaret singer, sitting next to me at the bar, a lady who hails from North Dakota and has made New York her home for a long, long time now, said: "you see, this could only happen in New York, all these people having such a good time together. And they don't even know each other."

And it was. A great, great party. Thanks Barbara.

And Happy 2001 to all; blessed be the hearts that sing! The world needs 'em.