JAZZ REVIEW : Connick Jr.: Still the Sinatra Wanna-Be

The phenomenon of Harry Connick Jr. is as hard to explain as it is to justify. At the Universal Amphitheatre on Tuesday, it was evident that not since the Frank Sinatra era has a young singer of traditional pop music so completely galvanized an audience.

The Sinatra comparison starts and ends with the audience reaction. Connick only has to sing a line like “Take my lips” to be greeted by screams and yells. The great difference is that whereas Sinatra was content to sing, and sing superbly, Connick wants to be known as a vocalist, pianist, lyricist, composer, arranger, dancer, drummer and comedian. On none of these levels, except as arranger, does he rise far above mediocrity.

If his act, which ran for two hours without interruption on the first of his four nights at the amphitheater, can be summed up in a word, it is contrivance . Everything was calculated to garner the wildest crowd noises. Even when he sang a song straight with his lightweight, pleasant tone, he would sometimes wind up with some sort of “oogly-woogly” double-talk nonsense.

Connick came along at a time when certain segments of the public were perhaps tired of rock and ready to accept standard tunes, or originals in the old swing-era mold, performed by a good-looking, personable youngster. The big-band sound with which he surrounds himself also has a certain appeal that has been lacking in music intended for younger fans. Connick has catered successfully to them with his brash, brassy arrangements.

He takes advantage of their naivete with such effects as having musicians wave their instruments in rhythm, which was considered corny when Glenn Miller’s band did it in 1939.

Part of his tremendous success is due to the extensive use made of the 18 musicians, among whom are superior soloists such as Leroy Jones on trumpet and Russell Malone on guitar. His treatment of the sidemen verges at times on condescension; he has them singing and dancing and mugging, but they sometimes seem like puppets under his control.

As a pianist, he has no discernible style of his own, but he offers enough novelty effects to keep the squealing listeners under his spell. The low point of the evening was “Sweet Georgia Brown,” which began as a mannered keyboard solo but soon degenerated into a series of percussion effects played on the lid of the piano.

One possible reason for the Connick phenomenon is his background. He grew up in New Orleans--that city’s district attorney is his father. He even had his jazz-loving dad onstage to sing a couple of numbers in one of the evening’s rare moments of sincerity, although this too wound up as a quasi-comedy act.

Connick also has had the powerful Marsalis family behind him: Ellis as his teacher, Delfeayo to produce his first album, and Branford as guest soloist on another.

Despite all these advantages, it is difficult to detect in him any soul, any deep passion. Everything he does, even the attempt at gospel on “Just a Closer Walk With Thee,” is calculated to kill the crowd in one way or another. Ironically, this song worked best when he turned the vocal over to Malone, who has the feeling Connick never quite conveyed.

Harry Connick Jr. has become a symbol of success in a manner that takes advantage of the public’s hunger for a more traditionally oriented repertoire and for an orchestral setting to match. What’s most regrettable is that because of the insistence on excessive showmanship, he does not fully use this rare opportunity to raise the level of appreciation for what could be, but rarely is allowed to be, honest and valid music.