“Mom, right here!” Amy Simpson called loudly to a petite, white-haired woman in vibrant turquoise pants, bearing a single pink rose. Before her parents came in, Simpson had been striding to and fro across the staging area at the Roosevelt Tavern. There was a lot to be done. There were song sheets to arrange, microphones to check, fellow musicians to heckle. Despite my front row seat, I couldn’t make out the singer’s jibes to her trio mates, but her deep, robust laughter made me fervently wish I had. This gal has a sense of play. By now, Mrs. Simpson had wended her way over to her daughter, her trip to York culminating in a warm embrace. After the sanctioned duration of a parental hug, Simpson leveled her expressive eyes at her guitar player, Forrest Brown, and jokingly admonished, “Forrest, you better hug my mom!” Then she buried her nose in her newly acquired birthday rose. Yes, it was Amy Simpson’s birthday, and yes, I promised her I wouldn’t say which one, but this wasn’t the only reason the elder Simpsons were out for the show.
“My parents are very supportive,” Simpson tells me later during a set break as we lounge casually outside against a low stone wall surrounding the tavern.
But it was actually Simpson’s brother who first recognized her talent. “I was 7 years old,” Simpson remembers, “and my brother kept all of these vinyls in the basement.” The young vocalist was intrigued and, raiding her brother’s stash, went through all the records, playing them and gleefully singing along. Predictably, she was caught. Instead of receiving typical sibling retribution, however, she got this: “Hey, play that back – that’s pretty good!” This wasn’t the first time Simpson tested her pipes, though. She was only 4 when she would play Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass Band – an album with no vocals – and harmonize to the horn parts. “I was curious,” Simpson explains. She nurtured this inquisitive nature, participating in every venue school had to offer – chorus, concert choir, shows. By her late teens, she was on the road full-time, singing professionally every night. And it was at this point that her parents weren’t quite as happy as they are now.
“I’m an ex-Army brat,” Simpson reveals by way of explanation. As career military, Simpson’s father held fast to his code. Conservatism. Responsibility. Stability. Simpson, with her short, spunky hair, dramatic eye makeup and chic glasses, had devised her own code, and it laughed at the status quo. Then something happened to unite army and artist. Simpson’s father heard her sing at the Hilton. “I don’t understand why you’re not signed and making your mark,” he marveled. This is exactly what I had been wondering during Simpson’s performance.
From my cozy two-seat table, I surveyed the Roosevelt Tavern. It was the ideal setting for a classy jazz trio. A grand, oak horseshoe bar dominated the far side of the room, complemented by inlaid oak paneling on the walls. Miniature alabaster chandeliers with intricate iron scroll work punctuated the room with spots of soft light. Individual glass oil lamps anchored each table. And the whole affair was separated from the formal dining room by a glass wall inset with golden oak framing. I began to feel like I should be sipping a Manhattan. I scanned the room for Simpson and found her near the microphone checking her watch. She pegged me looking at her. “Soon,” she mouthed, raising her eyebrows and smiling coyly. She didn’t disappoint. Momentarily, keyboard player Larry Lentz struck up a backbeat, and Simpson responded by tapping her feet and bending her knees in rhythm. “My temptation, I can’t resist,” issued forth in a deep, throaty alto with just the right hint of vibrato. All conversation stopped. Then, from across the bar, a woman’s voice wafted: “She’s really good!”
This realization transcends the fact that the Amy Simpson Trio performs only covers. In fact, this is part of the allure for listeners. “You guys know that one, huh?” Simpson laughed over spirited applause to her band’s rendition of “Let’s Stay Together.” The sound is so richly layered that it’s easy to disregard that it’s coming from just three people. What is not so easy to ignore is the obvious camaraderie between Simpson, Brown and Lentz. “We’re like family,” Simpson describes of the trio during our impromptu interview. From a few feet away, Brown tosses back, “Oh, god, that’s frightening.” Not to be outdone, Simpson points to Brown, exclaiming, “See that gray hair? I gave him that!” Although the group has only been playing around for a year, the members’ roots go back at least 12 years, during which time Simpson sang with Brown in the band Blitz Dinette, as well as with Lentz in other ensembles. “We play live, and it just works,” Simpson says simply of the group.
Back on stage, a host at the tavern whispered something to Simpson. It soon became apparent that she was to sing “Happy Birthday” to a patron named Red, a middle-aged man standing off to the side grasping a big, square box with a silver bow. “It’s my birthday, too,” Simpson admitted after she belted out the song. “You two should go drink together!” Lentz suggested, not missing a beat. Brown immediately picked up the thread, butchering the birthday classic with a goofy guitar version. Simpson flung a maraca at him. There’s no doubt they’re family. They struck up “Take the A Train,” and Simpson played air keyboard to Lentz, who bobbed up and down with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Hit it,” she commanded to Brown as he laid down a jammin’ riff. It definitely works.
“We’ve all taught each other a lot,” Simpson says when I ask about her favorite aspect of the trio. “Forrest taught me about responsibility and creativity. Larry taught me about feeling the music.” When it comes to integrity, though, Simpson taught herself. Seven years ago, it seemed like the question posed by her father was about to be answered in a very positive way. Simpson was opening for Sean Paul all up and down the East Coast. Atlantic Records was making overtures to sign her to their label and invited her to do some showcases in New York City. Central Pa. had high hopes for Amy Simpson. But she quickly got turned off by the game.
“They were trying to make me sound this way, or that,” Simpson nearly spits. “I’d go against the flow before I’d succumb to being a Britney Spears.” And then, to add insult to injury, other artists approached her to use her songs. Simpson didn’t budge. “It’s like someone else wearing your underwear,” she says, lighting up as she pulls out the perfect analogy. Simpson hadn’t been kidding earlier when she claimed that she was very protective of her music.
While waiting to unleash the music at the right time, Simpson busies herself with her trio at night and assisting individuals with disabilities by day. “You gotta look deeper and find what moves them,” she stresses of her challenging work. “It’s kinda like when you sing – you have to feel the vibe.” Apparently, Simpson is not the only one who is moved like this during her songs. Towards the end of our chat, a middle-aged couple strolls out of the tavern. They pass by us, and then, as if not able to contain herself, the woman tosses back over her shoulder: “You have a great voice!”  Central Pa. still loves Amy Simpson, and Amy Simpson makes a promise in return: “I’m not done yet.”