As its title indicates, the new musical “Lady Day” involves a whole lot of Billie Holiday songs. And since it’s an off-Broadway show rather than a regular tribute concert, a dusting of biographical anecdotes helps spice things up.
We’re in November 1954, and Holiday (renowned jazz singer Dee Dee Bridgewater) is in London, about to start a run in the West End. A four-piece combo is onstage, ready to back her up during a rehearsal (first act), then the gig itself (second act).
The simple setup brings to mind a couple of recent-ish Broadway offerings: “Million Dollar Quartet,” about a jam session with ’50s rock and country pioneers like Elvis Presley and Johnny Cash, and “End of the Rainbow,” in which Judy Garland implodes during a 1968 London engagement.
Garland and Holiday shared dramatic lives plagued by drugs, alcohol and terrible taste in men, making them unreliable performers. In “Lady Day,” the band is patiently waiting for the star to arrive, and after she finally does, she keeps interrupting the work with impromptu reminiscences and digressions.
Bridgewater — whose mantelpiece boasts several Grammys and a Tony for “The Wiz” — is no stranger to the part, having played it in an earlier version of “Lady Day” in the mid-’80s.
She’s perfectly at ease with the material, capturing the singer’s distinctive phrasing and color in classics ranging from “Strange Fruit” to “God Bless the Child” and “All of Me.” The band, led by musical director/pianist Bill Jolly, backs her with swing and verve.
The story parts are a lot shakier.
Book writer Stephen Stahl also directed the show, meaning there was nobody to tell him the part of the hunky assistant stage manager (Rafael Poueriet) is unnecessary. Or that Holiday’s supportive manager, Robert (David Ayers), is dull as dishwater.
Worse are the factual mistakes and clunky flashbacks in which Holiday puts on a little girl’s voice to recall being raped as a child and growing up in a brothel, with blues songs wafting in. “I don’t want no money,” Lil’ Billie cries, “just let me listen to that beautiful, sweet whorehouse music, please!”
Later, Holiday was keenly aware of what she was up against. “You can be up to your boobies in white satin, with gardenias in your hair and no sugar cane for miles,” she says, bitterly, “but you can still be workin’ on a plantation.”
Nevertheless, the show ends on an upbeat note. “I guess if all else fails, I’ll just go on singing,” she says.
Five years later, she’d be dead at 44.