The Hundredth Meridianrnby Chilton Williamson, Jr.rnA Cowboy at CaramoorrnIt’s a long ride to hear Andrea Mareovicci,rnthe Maria Calks of cabaret, in concertrnafter I missed her in Billings a conplernof years ago. At Katonah, New York, Irnchecked into the first motel I saw, snubbingrnthe horse between a Lexus and arnVW bus covered with flower decals, leftrnover from the 60’s. I showered, andrnchanged into the double-breasted pinstripedrnsuit, snow)’ white Brooks Brothersrnlinen, and dark-patterned tie I’d broughtrnalong in the saddlebags (the Virginian alwaysrndressed suitably when he wentrnEast), then dialed the number of a floristrnin Mt. Kisco. I’d never sent flowers backstagernbefore, but the occasion, I felt,rncalled for it; the florist, too, seemed properlvrnimpressed. At Peppino’s in Katonah,rnthe barman and several of his customersrndiscussed Andrea, who has sung annuallyrnat Caramoor for the past four years, as ifrnshe were a personal friend. I drank a doublernTanqueray martini, and a glass of redrnwine with a plate of pasta. It was eight o’­clock,rnhalf an hour until show time,rnwhen we reached the Caramoor estate,rnwhose carriage house Norma and I nearlyrnrented 20 years ago. I dismounted, tiedrnup to the rear bumper of a Mercedesrn400SL converhble, and went on to thernbox office where my ticket was beingrnheld. Tlie Venetian Theater is a permanentrntent, shining white and open onrnthree sides with an enclosed stage. Nearrncenter in row W, I found m- seat amongrn1,599 others and sat listening to Caramoor’srnOrchestra of St. Luke’s tuning up.rnIn a sold-out house, the only vacant seatsrnwere a few added folding chairs. At 8:30rnprecisely Glenn Mehr-bach lifted his batonrnand led the orchestra in John PhiliprnSousa’s Hail to the Spirit of Libert}’. Beforernthe applause finished, Andrea Marcornicci —the Utterly D’nine Miss VI. —inrna long wine-colored dress, made a sweepingrnstage-right entry and launched intornBud Green, Lester Brown, and BenrnHomer’s Sentimental Journey.rnCritics have suggested that Marcovicci,rnto be fully appreciated, needs to bernseen in performance. I found it strikingrnhow much of her on-stage artistry shernmanages to convey in recording, by herrnimmense vocal resources alone. A few ofrnthe songs included in “Millennium” (alternatelyrnbilled as “The Great AmericanrnSongbook: Songs of a Century”) werernunfamiliar to me, at least as sung by thernartist; the majority I was familiar withrnfrom her CDs. Even so, watching thernlong fingers plow backward through therndark short hair, the slender figure turnedrninto the crook of the piano to shake thatrnhair out passionateK side-to-side, thernfeathering left hand, and the hand raised,rnCallas-like, beside the high cheekbone, Irnfound every movement and gesture familiar,rnthough I had imagined none of it.rnA more valid criticism may be that Marcoviccirnshould be viewed (and heard) atrnclose quarters, in the intimate cabaret settingrnof Los Angeles’s Gardenia Lounge orrnthe Oak Room of the Algonquin in New-rnYork, where she performs for a mere 90rnpeople or so, able to make personal contactrnwith her audience —the way she likesrnit. At the conclusion of the evening, MissrnMarcovicci thanked Caramoor for contributingrnits orchestra for the performancern(“Most girls would choose a diamondrnring; I took the orchestra”).rnFinally she called her mother, HIelenrnMarcovicci Carroll, onstage for a sortrnof alternative encore —”Llit it. Mother!”rn—and Mrs. Carroll, who in heryouthrnperformed at the St. Regis Hotel’srnMaisonette, sang the Vlaurice Chevalierrnfavorite from Gigi. “I’m Glad I’m NotrnYoung Ammore,” in a Wagnerian mezzornthe Sage of Baxreuth would havernadored to write music for. Obxiously a favoriternat Caramoor, she received a hugernhand from the audience, and both ladiesrnvanished from the stage. Miss Marcovicci,rnwhen she reappeared, was carryingrnflowers. My flowers. I’d wanted to givernher an orchestra instead, but Caramoorrnbeat me to it.rnBackstage, I encountered a woman inrnpearly gray, dark-eyed and dark-hairedrnwith a high color, somewhat shorter thanrnI’d imagined h e r – a n d yes, she is a beaut’.rnAndrea invited me to the post-performancernreception, entrusting me to Mrs.rnCarroll and Shellv Markham (her accompanistrnand a talented conrposer inrnhis own right) while she changed intornsensible shoes. She joined us shortlv afterwardrnat the reception where we spiedrnher, still in costume and with her makeuprnon, holding a glass of white wine andrnsurrounded b’ well-wishers. Andrea astonishedrnme b saying she’d rehearsed forrnthe first time with the orchestra that afternoon,rnthe entire program from start tornfinish. Her singing voice is a direct extensionrnof her speaking one; as she talked,rnshe kept breaking into small dance patternsrnto illustrate her points. Bidding arndeparting couple goodnight, she sang sottornvoce “‘And I’ll see you when I see ourn. . .'” Was it my imagination, or had sherngiven me a prompting look sideways?rn”‘ . . . fine, okay,'” I finished for herrn(Stephen Sondheim’s “Goodbye ForrnNow”). Andrea gave me her mother’srnnumber and requested that I phone thernnext day: “Not before twelve, please.” Irnpromised to call at 45 seconds past thernhour and went stumbling away across therndarkened Caramoor grounds, tramplingrnthe flower beds and shrubbery before Irncame upon the horse at last, wanderingrnwith a magnolia branch in his mouth andrntrailing the chrome bumper of the Mercedesrnbehind him at the end of the lead.rnTwo days later I rode through the townrnof Carmel, turned left at the courthouse,rnand continued out the Gypsy Trail Road.rnGypsy Trail itself founded in 1911 in thernfirst big push by the upper-middle classesrnout of New York Cifv, centers on an enormousrnlog lodge set against the treeline belowrnthe top of a wooded hill. EoOowingrnAndrea’s carefullv exact instructions, Irnfound Mrs. Carroll’s handsome housernoverlooking the reservoir and tied thernhorse to a flow ering bush beside her bluernCadillac. In flie saddle bags were a bottlernof Pinot Grigio and another of AustralianrnFlat Red. Witii the wine in a paper bagrnin one arm and carrying a briefcase in myrnother hand, I felt like a traveling salesmanrnor a poor fifth cousin twice removedrnwanting to moe in. Andrea, lovely in arn56/CHRONlCLESrnrnrn