Carole J. Bufford
Chanteuse
Birdland, NYC, October 17, 2026
Reviewed by Alix Cohen
Photo by Peter Carrier
“A chanteuse,” Carole J. Bufford told us, “is a female singer who performs in nightclubs and concert venues.” Her signature research and taste manifested an illuminating salute to a wide scope of these women.
When Peggy Lee started in Palm Springs, no one listened to her. She grew quieter and quieter. The room leaned in. This, Bufford conjectured, was the reason for Lee’s vocal style. “I Love the Way You’re Breaking My Heart” (Louis Alter/Milton Drake) arrived low, breathy, teasing. Tom Hubbard’s bass acted as vertebrae, Eric Halvorson’s brushes circled, MD Ian Herman’s piano strolled.
On a visit to The White House, Eartha Kitt spoke out to Ladybird Johnson against the Vietnam War. Her career tanked in the U.S., but she found success in Paris. “I Wanna Be Evil” (Lester Judson/Raymond Taylor) was a kind of a FU choice. Bufford side stepped, slapped her hip, and rumbaed. The lady can moooove.
Bette Midler closed her shows at The Continental Baths—“$25 nightly to sing to men in towels”—with “I Shall Be Released” (Bob Dylan). Bufford’s Gospel-tinted phrasing was stretched like taffy as if in anticipation; notes hovered.
“Some of My Best Friends Are the Blues” (Woody Harris/Al Byron) or, here, blahuz was a hit for Della Reese. Piano arrived down and dirty. Herman adds texture to everything. Bufford bent out and nodded as if giving testimony. Shoulders rose and fell, one revolved. She (tunefully) wailed.
“When we think about the 1920s, we think of spirited times, but things were not so good for Josephine Baker,” Bufford told us. Fleeing bigoted America, Baker rose to international success from a base in Paris. “Bye Bye Blackbird” (Ray Henderson/Mort Dixon) sauntered in on Hubbard’s very cool bass. Bob Fosse would’ve loved the sinewy take.
The oldest song, “Some of These Days” (Sheldon Brooks) was popularized by Sophie Tucker in 1911. Replete with wide-eyed verse, Bufford’s take on it was cocky and coy; her eyes crinkled. Exploding like a firework in tandem with Herman’s stunt-flying piano and Halverson’s infectious drums, the performer’s vocal glided on melisma.
Two songs made famous by the great Edith Piaf (Marguerite Monot) included a plaintive, shimmering “If You Love Me (Really Love Me)” (Piaf; English lyrics Geoffrey Parsons) and the iconic “Non, je regrette rien” (Charles Dumont/Michel Vaucaire). The latter, in pristine French, emerged with cymbals like breath, humming bass, solemn piano. Bufford’s long-lined vibrato evoked the little sparrow. Feet planted firmly (albeit in silver pumps) she smoldered with defiance.
Songs by chanteuses, Bufford noted, “are of three sorts: torch, red hot mama, or prostitutes. This one has elements of all three” introduced “Sailor Boys.” (Charles Aznavour/Herbert Kretzmer). Her dockside tart was at the same time bawdy and desperate. Expansive om-pah rhythm took us to the streets.
“When You’re Smiling” (Larry Shay/Joe Goodwin/Mark Fisher) was dedicated to Bufford’s favorite singer, Judy Garland. “Its message is a perfect statement about how we might live our lives.” One hand on the microphone, she extended the other, drawing us in. “Forget your troubles, come on get happy.” And for a while, we were.
