The
evening begins with a dedication.
Shaw
dedicates the performance to the late Haydn Gwynne, the much-loved stage
actress whose ability to inhabit a lyric with dramatic clarity made her a
natural interpreter of theatre music — and whose spirit feels entirely at home
in a night devoted to the songs of Stephen Sondheim.
Then
Shaw launches straight into the opening number.
“Everybody
says don’t,
Everybody says can’t,
Everybody says wait around for miracles —
That’s the way the world is made.”
From the opening bars you know you are in for something special.
Sondheim’s
lyric is more than simply a show tune — it is a manifesto. It asks us to reject
fear and complacency, to ignore the cautious voices that insist we sit still
and wait. Progress, Sondheim suggests, only happens when someone is prepared to
take the risk.
“Make
just a ripple,
Come on, be brave —
This time a ripple,
Next time a wave…”
Those
lines resonate strongly with Shaw himself. Long admired not only for his
artistry but also as a campaigner and activist, Shaw has never been afraid to
use his voice — musically or politically. The song’s message of courage,
individuality and defiance feels entirely aligned with his own philosophy as a
performer.
It
is a theme that runs quietly through the evening — songs about courage, about
speaking out, and about the possibility that music can still remind us of our
shared humanity.
And
in the intimate setting of the newly opened Upstairs room at Ronnie Scott’s
Jazz Club, the connection between singer, lyric and audience is immediate.
There
are few spaces in London better suited to this kind of musical storytelling.
Smaller and more informal than the legendary club below, the Upstairs room has
an atmosphere that draws the audience directly into the performance.
Instead
of candles, discreet table lamps cast pools of warm light across the room,
while the ceiling is decorated with vibrant textile panels. These striking
panels not only enhance the listening experience but add depth to the rich
tapestry that is London’s newest — and possibly finest — listening room. Rich
tones of red and warm hues give the space a theatrical depth, yet the design
remains intimate and carefully considered.
The
seating is arranged so that every table enjoys an uninterrupted view of the
stage, allowing the audience to feel fully connected to the performance.
In
a room like this, every lyric lands.
Shaw
has long been admired for his expressive and versatile voice, his warm,
slightly husky tone and instinctive phrasing allowing him to move effortlessly
between musical worlds.
One
moment he inhabits the tender vulnerability of Good Thing Going, the next he navigates the restless urban energy
of Another Hundred People. Sondheim’s
song captures the constant motion of a great city — strangers arriving,
strangers leaving, lives intersecting briefly before moving on again.
Yet
in the upstairs room at Ronnie Scott’s, that idea takes on a different meaning.
Sondheim
writes of a city of strangers, but here, for a couple of hours at least, those
strangers feel anything but distant. Surrounded by people whose names we may
never know and whose backstories remain a mystery, there is nevertheless a
powerful sense of shared experience. Listening together, laughing together,
responding to the same lyric or musical phrase, the audience feels unexpectedly
connected.
For
the duration of the performance, these strangers feel almost like old friends.
Midway
through the evening Shaw pauses to introduce two songs from the little-known
1966 television musical Evening Primrose.
“Has
anybody seen it?” he asks the room, a quiet hush prevails……….
“Not
even the Sondheim Society…” Welcome
The
moment draws a laugh, but Shaw quickly shifts tone.
For
him these songs feel deeply connected to the present moment. He dedicates them
to “our global neighbours who are suffering at the moment,” urging the audience
not to look away from the conflicts and humanitarian crises that dominate the
daily news cycle.
The
songs, he suggests, are about displacement — about people searching for
belonging in a world that often feels uncertain or divided.
As
Shaw puts it, every time he opens his phone he finds himself asking: what can I
do?
His
answer is characteristically direct: take an hour, do some research, support a
cause, join a march, give what you can. Imagine, he suggests, if everyone did
just that.
Against
that backdrop Shaw performs Take Me to
the World and I Remember.
Take Me to the World
becomes a yearning for openness and connection — a longing to step outside the
confines of fear and re-engage with the world beyond.
I Remember,
meanwhile, unfolds like a fragile recollection of ordinary things we take for
granted: sky, snow, trees, the rhythms of everyday life.
In
the intimate surroundings of Ronnie Scott’s Upstairs room, their themes of
displacement and belonging feel particularly resonant — reinforcing the idea
that Sondheim’s songs, in Shaw’s hands, are not simply theatre pieces but
reflections on the world we are living in now.
At
the piano, Barry Green proves the ideal musical partner.
His
arrangements are intimate and understated, giving Shaw room to explore the
lyrics fully. The stripped-back format — voice and piano alone — removes any
theatrical excess and reveals the songs in their purest form.
This
is particularly effective in Marry Me a
Little, where the ambiguity of Sondheim’s lyric (“Cry, but not too often…”)
becomes almost conversational in Shaw’s hands.
A
lighter moment arrives with Broadway Baby,
a song forever associated with the legendary Elaine Stritch and her
unforgettable performance in Sondheim’s masterpiece Follies (New York
Philharmonic 1985) Shaw clearly relishes the theatrical humour of the number,
delivering it with playful flair and encouraging a little audience
participation while retaining the musical sophistication that runs throughout.
Green’s
playing is subtle but harmonically rich, gently drawing out the jazz
sensibility embedded within Sondheim’s writing. At times the performance feels
less like musical theatre and more like late-night cabaret — singer and pianist
engaged in an easy musical dialogue.
Late
in the evening Shaw introduces Send in
the Clowns, recalling that the song was famously performed at Ronnie
Scott’s by the great Sarah Vaughan in 1977. The reference feels particularly
apt in this room, where the intimacy of the space allows Sondheim’s bittersweet
lyric to unfold with quiet clarity. Stripped back to voice and piano, Shaw
approaches the song with restraint, allowing the emotional weight of the lyric
to speak for itself.
The
repertoire moves across Sondheim’s career, mixing well-known standards with
less familiar material, each treated with equal care. Rather than a simple
collection of songs, the programme feels carefully curated, unfolding like a
narrative that moves from wit and defiance toward reflection and emotional
clarity.
Taken
together, the songs trace an arc that mirrors the emotional landscape of
Sondheim’s writing itself — ironic, intelligent, occasionally melancholy but
always humane. And throughout it all Shaw remains a natural communicator,
engaging the audience with humour and self-awareness while allowing the songs
to speak for themselves.
The
evening eventually arrives at Somewhere
from West Side Story.
Shaw
begins the song almost alone, the opening line laid bare before the piano
enters. In that moment the room becomes completely still. Barry Green’s
accompaniment slowly unfolds beneath the vocal line, the two musicians
listening to each other with the ease of long musical partnership.
“There’s
a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us…”
The
lyric is at once literal and symbolic. In West Side Story it speaks of escape from
conflict; in the wider world it becomes a longing for a place where divisions
of race, class or identity no longer matter.
In
Shaw’s hands the song becomes a quiet statement of belief.
Tender
in places, bold in others, the performance builds gradually to its final
phrase. The interplay between Shaw and Green is delicate and intuitive, each
musician given space to breathe.
What
emerges from this evening is not simply admiration for the songwriting of
Stephen Sondheim, but a deeper understanding of why these songs continue to
matter.
In
the hands of Ian Shaw they become stories about courage, individuality, love,
friendship and hope — themes that resonate strongly with an artist who has long
used his voice both musically and socially.
The
evening began with Everybody Says Don’t,
Sondheim’s call to resist complacency and take risks.
It
ends with Somewhere, a reminder that
hope still matters.
Between
those two ideas lies the philosophy shared by both Sondheim and Shaw: that
music, imagination and courage can still bring people together — even in a city
of strangers, and even if it begins with nothing more than a ripple. Glenn Wright
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