JAZZ REVIEW : Connick: More Hype Than Hip

If the phenomenal rise to stardom of the unremarkable Harry Connick Jr. is any indication, then jazz, which was once dominated by hipsters, has fallen into the hands of hype-sters.

At the Catalina Bar and Grill on Tuesday night, the New Orleans-born Connick played only two tunes before getting down to the all-important business of thanking “the best press people in the world, the best (booking) agency, the best record company.”

Indeed, Connick should be thankful. His press people have positioned him as some kind of jazz Wunderkind; his agency and record company bought out most of the house to assure the 21-year-old pianist-singer of an SRO opening in the grand Hollywood tradition, right down to the ubiquitous “Entertainment Tonight” camera crew.

Columbia Records is doing for Harry Connick Jr. what it did for Wynton Marsalis in 1982. The difference between the two, however, is that Marsalis had the talent to warrant the hype; Connick, as indicated during his hourlong opening set, does not.

Connick, who has targeted the tuneful works of Gershwin, Porter, Arlen, Rodgers and Hart, et al., as his entry into show business, opened his set with a pair of heavy-handed piano solos that revealed a modified stride style. Unfortunately, the rhythmic constant that style provides was lost due to Connick’s complete failure to exhibit any sense of time. For no apparent reason, each tune floated annoyingly in and out of rhythm.

The situation was not helped when the “best bass player in the world,” Ben Wolfe, joined his boss for the rest of the set. Even on his plodding, unimaginative quarter-note solos, Wolfe had trouble maintaining an even rhythm.

The singing part of Connick’s act is preferable to the sophomoric playing part, but not by much. While his voice is pleasant enough, he has no particular, distinguishing style. And again, his lack of musicality was enough to tarnish the classic quality of such songs as “Taking a Chance on Love,” “I Love Paris” and “I’m in the Mood for Love.”

His inane scatting on “Fly Me to the Moon” gave reason to his paying homage to Louis Armstrong by wearing his socks rolled down around his ankles: he certainly couldn’t pay proper respects with his voice.

Connick does have a keen sense of entertainment, however. His between-song patter, delivered in an exaggerated drawl, is funny, and his animated stage presence is effective. But that’s the stuff away from the piano. Once he sits down, unlike so many of the singing pianists on the fringes of jazz who have preceded him, Connick can’t deliver.

We’ve heard Michael Feinstein. We’ve reviewed Michael Feinstein. Harry, you’re no Michael Feinstein.