Under the spotlight, her thin, sharp face had the moody glower of an unsuccessful manicurist. Her lank, hemp-colored hair splashed in uncombed confusion above her black velvet sheath. But weird as she looked, slack-mouthed, hazel-eyed Singer Tammy Grimes sounded wonderful—no mean accomplishment in the cramped quarters of Julius Monk's Downstairs at the Upstairs, a crowded Manhattan nightclub where the man who moves may catch his neighbor's elbow in his ear or his companion's highball in his lap.
On the very first night that she appeared Downstairs this month, one of Tammy's fancier...
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