After Nancy's death in 1995, many radio DJ's across the country kept her music alive by playing cuts from her CD's. But one DJ, Jonathan Schwartz, had access to a special private collection of unreleased recordings that Nancy had given him copies of as gifts.
   Over the years, Jonathan would regularly play these recordings, and every time he did, we would get calls asking, "Which CD is that on? How do I get a copy of that song?" Of course, they weren't on any CD, so we had a lot of frustrated fans on our hands.
   Several years ago, we set out to rectify that problem by putting together this compilation. Because these songs were recorded in many disparate venues, most with just a live piano, on all different kinds of equipment of varying quality, live in concert, live on the radio, and in small studios in Atlantic City and New York, the challenge was to get them all to play evenly so they could be listened to on one CD without losing the dynamic range that was the trademark of Nancy's live performances.
   We have tried, in every case, to leave the songs as they were originally sung, so with the exception of raising and lowering volumes and a few small nips and tucks, all these performances are untouched. The result is an intimate, natural look at these songs just as Nancy sang them. No frills, no tricks, just Nancy.

   A blizzard. Kingdoms of snow had taken over New York. And the wind blew and the blizzard snow fell. The streets were quiet, the traffic gone, the Monday night arctic and still. I struggled against the wind to a place called McGraw's, imagining myself as a solitary figure in a bar or restaurant, and pulled at the front door. When it finally yielded, two men, who had been leaning on it inside, fell outside, into the continuing storm. The place was packed, with no place to stand. How did they know? How did they get in?
   It seemed that the word was out, Nancy La Mott was going to sing. A seat had been held for me on a banquette, near the piano in the back of the restaurant. Nancy had made sure. We were, after all, friends. I saw that she sat with a large cluster of other friends at a long table in the middle of the place, amidst the clatter of plates and glasses, and the sweet tension of anticipation. Quite soon, the lights dimmed. Nancy got up, all five feet of her, her long blonde hair catching the spotlight. She wore a pink sweater, white slacks, and red sneakers. And a silver pendant that I had given her. She sat on a stool near her pianist, the improbably named Christopher Marlowe.
   With the exception of Sinatra, singing anywhere, I had never heard music so remarkably moving. Between songs, Nancy sipped wine, saying little. She continued on for an hour, dealing with her wine, which soon became Champagne. Finally, at the end of this informal and heroic gathering, I left McGraw's, pushing my way through the delirious crowd, and re-entered the imposing blizzard. The storm had gained strength, which I only noticed at the subway stairs. In the train, sitting in silence, I heard the music of this most beautiful voice, passionate, heartbreaking, articulate, despairing.
   This tiny figure of magic would become, I knew, the voice of its time. Nancy La Mott died at so young an age, leaving any number of stray recordings; these were first aired on a radio show of mine, and had been my personal requests. Her voice was the perfect complement to Right as the Rain, Alone Together, Too Late Now, and a number of standards, most of them now gathered by the tenacious David Friedman, and presented here, remixed and thrilling.
   I think of Nancy every day. This CD will compel you to regard her as a singular figure, alone on the stage, without pretension. The light in her hair, and in her voice.