Nicole Zuraitis @ Ronnie Scott’s: Songs, Stories and the Spirit of Ronnie Scott – June 30

Nicole Zuraitis (vocals, piano); Idan Morim (guitars); Sam Weber (double bass); Dan Pugach (drums)

There is something rather special about Frith Street on a summer's evening. The conversations spill out onto the pavement, taxis edge their way through Soho, the scent of restaurants drifts through the warm air, and beneath the famous red neon sign of Ronnie Scott’s, people gather with that unmistakable sense of anticipation that only this remarkable club seems able to create. Long before the house lights dim, the performance has already begun.

Inside, little has changed in the qualities that have made Ronnie Scott’s one of the world’s great jazz rooms. The lighting is warm rather than theatrical, wrapping the musicians in soft amber tones while allowing the audience to retreat into gentle shadow. The intimacy remains extraordinary. Every table feels connected to the stage, and the sound is, quite simply, among the finest you will hear anywhere. Every lyric, every brush stroke across the snare drum, every harmonic nuance from the guitar arrives with remarkable clarity. For an artist whose songs depend so heavily on language and storytelling, there could hardly be a better setting.

Nicole Zuraitis arrived in Soho as part of an extensive international tour celebrating the release of her latest album, The Devil I Knew. The tour spans some eighty dates and is already introducing audiences around the world to a collection of songs that feels deeply personal while somehow remaining wonderfully universal.

That balance would become the defining feature of the evening.

Zuraitis possesses one of those rare voices capable of moving effortlessly between strength and vulnerability. There are moments when it fills every corner of the room with remarkable power, yet seconds later it can draw an audience into what feels like an almost private conversation. Technically she is exceptional, but what makes her truly captivating has little to do with technique.

She is a storyteller.

Not simply through her songs, but through everything that surrounds them.

Ronnie Scott himself built much of his reputation on exactly that gift. Before introducing a musician, he could have an audience laughing within seconds, his stories becoming almost as memorable as the performances themselves. Watching Zuraitis, it was impossible not to think of that tradition. She has exactly the same instinct for timing. She knows when to make people laugh, when to pause, when to allow silence to settle across the room and when to hand the moment back to the music.

Had Ronnie been sitting quietly in his favourite corner last night, I suspect he would have recognised a kindred spirit.

Early in the evening, Zuraitis explained that she no longer thinks of herself simply as a jazz singer-songwriter. Instead, she prefers the description “modern songbook writer.” It was an interesting distinction, but what followed was even more revealing.

She spoke about lyrics no longer belonging to the person who wrote them once they are sung. Every song becomes a little book handed to the audience. From that moment, each listener is free to interpret every page in their own way. What one person hears as heartbreak, another may hear as hope. A memory for one becomes comfort for somebody else. It struck me because, as someone who spends so much time writing about jazz, I often wonder whether I’ve understood a song in quite the way the artist intended. I always try to. I read about the writing, the inspiration and the stories behind the music because I think that context matters. But perhaps it doesn’t matter as much as we sometimes think. Music arrives carrying our own experiences with it, and those experiences inevitably shape what we hear. If a lyric speaks to something completely different in my own life than it did in Nicole’s when she wrote it, that isn’t getting it wrong; it’s simply another chapter in the life of the song. That’s the beauty of music. The artist may write the first draft, but every listener adds a few pages of their own

It was one of the most thoughtful observations of the evening and, in many ways, explained exactly why her songs connect so deeply. They are personal without being exclusive. They leave room for everyone.

Much of the evening centred on The Devil I Knew, a record that explores the complicated territory where self-awareness meets vulnerability. Rather than searching for villains elsewhere, many of the songs quietly acknowledge that we are often our own worst enemy. They examine the decisions we repeat, the relationships we return to, and the uncomfortable truths we sometimes refuse to recognise in ourselves. It is an honest collection of writing, never melodramatic, never seeking easy answers.

The opening Won’t Make It Out Alive immediately established that emotional landscape. Introduced with the wonderfully dry observation that it was about recognising a red flag only to realise that red happens to be your favourite colour, the humour disguised something far more serious. Beneath the smiles sat a song about knowingly walking towards danger simply because it feels familiar.

The title track, The Devil I Knew, continued that journey. Rather than presenting relationships in simple terms of right and wrong, it explored the strange comfort that can exist within emotional chaos. Sometimes the familiar, however unhealthy, feels safer than the unknown. Zuraitis never overstates these ideas. She trusts both her audience and her writing enough to allow the songs to unfold naturally.

Two steps back (The Overlap) proved equally compelling, capturing those curious periods after a relationship has ended when memories continue to occupy the same emotional space as the present. It was beautifully observed writing, delivered with quiet restraint rather than theatrical heartbreak.

Throughout these songs, the quartet demonstrated exactly why they have become such an accomplished touring band.

Bassist Sam Weber was magnificent throughout the evening. His playing possessed warmth, patience and a wonderfully rounded tone that anchored every performance without ever drawing unnecessary attention to itself. It was intelligent accompaniment of the highest order.

On guitar, Idan Morim displayed remarkable taste. Never tempted to overplay, he coloured the music with elegant lines and beautifully judged harmonic textures, leaving just enough space for both the lyrics and the silences between them.

Behind them sat Dan Pugach, drummer, arranger, composer and Zuraitis’s husband. Much has rightly been written about his achievements in recent years, but seeing him in this intimate setting reminded everyone just how musical his drumming really is. There is an extraordinary sensitivity to his playing. Every brush stroke, every cymbal accent and every rhythmic shift seemed designed not simply to keep time, but to shape the emotional direction of each song.

Perhaps more importantly, the affection between the musicians was obvious.

Zuraitis introduced each member not with formal biographies but with stories. They were introduced as friends, collaborators and family. It was impossible not to smile as she spoke about the people with whom she shares both her life and her music. That warmth flowed directly into the performance itself. This was not simply a quartet of outstanding musicians. It was a group of people who genuinely enjoy making music together.

One of the evening’s great strengths lay in its pacing.

Just as the emotional intensity threatened to become overwhelming, Zuraitis would puncture the atmosphere with another wonderfully observed anecdote.

Her introduction to Devil’s Advocate was a perfect example. With characteristic humour, she confessed her dislike for people who insist on playing devil’s advocate just when all you really want is someone to listen. The audience laughed, but beneath the joke sat another thoughtful reflection on human relationships. The song explored that tension beautifully, reminding us that logic rarely arrives at the same speed as emotion.

From her Grammy-winning album How Love Begins came Reverie, inspired by Debussy’s famous piano work. Self-deprecating as ever, Zuraitis joked about being a self-taught pianist, but the performance revealed something much deeper. She moves between jazz, classical music, singer-songwriter traditions and popular song with remarkable ease, never sounding as though she is consciously crossing genres. The music simply follows wherever the story leads.

Then, almost without warning, the atmosphere changed completely.

Lou Reed’s Walk on the Wild Side became one of the evening’s most joyous moments. Encouraging the audience to join the famous “doo-do-do” refrain, Ronnie Scott’s briefly resembled a room full of old friends rather than strangers gathered around tiny tables. It was impossible not to smile.

The emotional centre of the concert, however, may well have been Wish I Could Love You.

Heartbreak songs are hardly uncommon, but Zuraitis approaches the subject from the opposite direction. This is not about longing to be loved. It is about the guilt of being unable to return somebody else’s feelings. It is an unusually compassionate perspective and one delivered with extraordinary honesty.

It is about the people listening. Her arrangement of Jolene provided another highlight. Introduced with obvious affection for Dolly Parton, the performance also acknowledged the arrangement that first brought widespread Grammy recognition to Zuraitis and Pugach. Rather than reinventing the song for novelty’s sake, they simply uncovered fresh emotional colours within one of popular music’s finest compositions.

Recognition has followed both artists in recent years. Zuraitis’s Grammy-winning How Love Begins confirmed what audiences had already begun to recognise: here was one of the most compelling vocalists and songwriters working in contemporary jazz. Alongside that, her partnership with Dan Pugach has continued to flourish, culminating in further Grammy success through their collaborative work on Bianca Reimagined. Yet what impressed most last night was how lightly those achievements were worn. There was no sense of performing as Grammy winners. They simply performed as musicians completely committed to their craft.

One of the evening’s most delightful moments arrived with He’s a Demon, He’s a Devil, He’s a Doll, introduced through a wonderfully improbable story involving her mother, one of her students and Minecraft discovering an old Betty Hutton recording. It perfectly captured Zuraitis’s personality. She has an uncanny ability to wander through seemingly unrelated stories before landing effortlessly inside the next song.

Later, Call My Name (I dare you) returned to the new album’s emotional landscape with confidence and vulnerability existing side by side. By this stage, the audience had become completely invested. Every lyric seemed to land with increasing intimacy.

Towards the close came a beautifully understated reading of I Get Along Without You Very Well, followed by Jimmy Webb’s timeless Wichita Lineman. Some songs resist reinterpretation, yet Zuraitis approached it with humility, allowing the melody and lyric to breathe rather than trying to reinvent a masterpiece. It was a fitting way to draw the evening towards its conclusion.

As we stepped back onto Frith Street, the conversations continued long after the applause had faded.

People were not discussing vocal technique or Grammy Awards.They were talking about stories.

About lyrics that had unexpectedly found them.
About laughter that had arrived moments before heartbreak.
About songs that, for a couple of hours, seemed to belong to everyone in the room.
Perhaps that is the greatest compliment any songwriter can receive.

Nicole Zuraitis invited an audience into her world for an evening, but somehow everyone left believing that a small part of it had become their own.

I cannot help thinking Ronnie Scott himself would have appreciated that. Indeed, I suspect he would have admired not only the extraordinary musicianship on display, but the generosity with which it was shared.

After all, the finest raconteurs know that the story is never really about them.

It is about the people listening. Glenn Wright