Dave Frishberg is back in town, and suddenly Los Angeles is a lot brighter.
After a three-month hiatus awaiting a new addition to his family, the hippest of all song writers/pianists/singers reopened Thursday at the Vine St. Bar & Grill. As usual, he carries no rhythm section, or rather, he is his own rhythm team: His left hand is the bassist, his right hand is the dreamer, his right foot is the drummer.
Though his stock in trade also encompasses poignancy and nostalgia, the first word that comes to mind in evaluating Frishberg is wit. Even his quizzical piano introductions, interludes and solos have an overlay of humor, but of course the lyrics (many of them matched by his own melodies, a few with music by Zoot Sims, Johnny Mandel and others) have always been his longest, strongest suit.
Most of his songs have persons, real or imagined, in their titles. Possibly on the advice of his attorney Bernie, he has constructed odes to Brenda Starr, Marilyn Monroe, a turn-of-the-century ballplayer named Matty, and, of course, Bernie himself.