I think the term cabaret deserves defining, for it seems to mean something different to everyone you ask. Cabaret singing has its roots in the chansons of Paris at the turn of the century, in the dark political satire of Berlin in the 20’s and in the mellow, smoky nightclubs of New York in the 50’s. But I believe it’s become something quite distinct in the 90’s.

It has come to mean an intensely personal evening of song and stories, delivered in a simple, honest way, in an intimate space that shatters the “fourth wall,” a term actors use to describe what’s beyond the footlights. Part stand-up comic, part balladeer, part evangelist, today’s performer often has a theme that unifies the evening (either the work of a single composer, an era like World War II or a genre like theater) and a strong dramatic sense of beginning, middle and end.

They also tend to know a great deal about the music they’re singing, be it classics from the American popular song book, obscure treasures or new songwriters just starting out; they are generous enough to share that information in witty and inventive ways.

But the real art of the cabaret performer lies in the juxtaposition of songs, putting two or three songs together in such a way that new and deeper meanings come to light, the resonance of one song lingering to change the color of the next.

At its best, cabaret can amuse, entertain, and inform, and when a performer like Michael Marotta chooses to put “My Ship” and “The Folks Who Live on the Hill” together, it can dazzle you, catch you unawares and make you weep. It is not television. The audience participates in a direct, emotional conversation with the artist and leaves feeling contacted and personally touched.

-- Excerpt from an essay by cabaret artist Andrea Marcovicci in The New York Times (Section 2: Arts & Leisure), October 16, 1994. Read the full piece here.