Paved Paradise Redux: The Art of Joni Mitchell

Every once in a while, a show comes along that leaves the most jaded critic (that's me) in a state of ... stupefaction? Adulation? Profound gratitude? Such is Paved Paradise, John Kelly's disquieting tribute to Joni Mitchell.

You don't have to be a Joni Mitchell fan to appreciate Kelly's artistry. His ringing voice, which whoops and swoops from falsetto to mezzo with the same dazzling technique that distinguishes Mitchell herself, can be enjoyed without having heard the originals.

But come on? Is it possible for anyone, no matter what his or her age, not to have experienced "The Circle Game" or "Chelsea Morning" or "Woodstock"? Yes, Kelly sings these, wondrously. Don't expect a playlist, however; part of the fun and excitement of this production is that contented sigh when the first notes sound and your inner ear tells you, "For Free"!

For those of us (and we are many) who consider Mitchell, along with Bob Dylan, Laura Nyro and maybe one or two others the finest singer-songwriter of the past 40 years, Kelly's show is ecstasy.

This is the third time I've experienced Kelly channeling Joni. The first was at an early Wigstock, where he originated the act (he gives a shoutout to Wigstock by a clever substitution of a very few words in the lyrics to "Woodstock"). The second was in the mid-'90s, at Westbeth.

Each time, the setting influenced the production and the audience. Seeing him at the Henry Street Settlement's theater marks a more formal night than the raucous Wigstock or the nightclubs, like Fez, where he has performed previously. If some informality and audience give-and-take is lost, the more formal atmosphere better imitates what an actual Mitchell performance would have been like in her own heyday, down to her unique tics, such as her head tilted outward, like a swan, or her half-curved half-smile.

Kelly's voice has deepened (as has Mitchell's), but he still manages Mitchell's amazing range and texture. At least two of his renderings were, to this listener's ears, improvements on the original.

Kelly is ably backed by long-time collaborators Paul Ossola, who plays bass as "Vincent Van Gogh"; and Zecca Esquibel, who plays keyboards (and some percussion) as "Georgia O'Keefe." Kelly himself plays guitar, both acoustic and electric, and dulcimer, all excellently. (The latter was a gift from Joni Mitchell herself, who is a big fan.)

There's a big change in this production, ably directed by Kevin Malony and gloriously lit by Ben Kato. I'm not going to reveal it, except to say that Kelly adds another layer to the already multilayered sexual identities that make this evening so remarkable.

Just don't call it "drag." Kelly's impersonation of his idol no more resembles all those Judys and Barbras and Lizas strewn along Grove Street than a paint-by-number kit resembles the "Mona Lisa." As Stephen Holden wrote in the Times, this is "less a drag act than a surreal hommage." I suppose you could call it performance art--Kelly himself uses the word "art" in his title--but it's way more enjoyable than any self-serious Downtown performance artist.

This is the first time Kelly has performed as Mitchell in New York for eight years. The show only runs for two weeks. With seats going for only $20 and $25, this is easily the best bargain in New York.