She can seemingly sing anything expertly: a wrenching ballad, a wacky comedy number, operetta, razzle dazzle musical comedy, and it doesn't hurt that she has a big vocal range (three--count 'em--three octaves, according to her resume and reliable sources, like those in her audience thinking, "wow!"). Annie Hughes is the very definition of the word "pro," but someone needs to con this pro into coming back to Manhattan more often. Hopefully, she'll come willingly. Otherwise, it may be difficult to find kidnapers willing to travel to Wisconsin and back, but that is where Annie has relocated after years of being based in New York. We'd probably have to pay them a handsome fee plus all the cheese they can eat on the way back. Returning to the Hideaway Room at Helen's on Eighth Avenue for a one-night-only splash, Annie was gratefully welcomed back by an appreciative audience. (She'd been there at the end of last year doing this show.)

Opening with a bang, and a rolling of the eyes, she borrowed a showstopper from The Drowsy Chaperone, the mock lament of the weary, wary performer as she protested, "I don't wanna show off no more..." Then, of course, within this number she dazzled by semi-begrudgingly showing off her skills with, for example, a snippet and a half of the showpiece "Glitter And Be Gay." It didn't take long to be impressed (got a minute?). Her bag of tricks is more of a set of luggage. Out of it she pulled madcap merriment, parody, one-liners, and blithely lobbing silvery high notes into the air. There were scathingly funny stories about her underwhelming romantic possibilities, sincere thoughts about time passing by, and warm recollections.

Annie Hughes can easily shift gears. Occasionally it wasn't always clear when we were in serious mode. It's clear that Annie can turn on a dime, from playing straight with her gorgeous soprano, and then go for a laugh without as much as a twinkle in her eye to prepare you. There were a couple of times I wondered if the other shoe were about to drop (kerplunk/ha ha) or if she simply was going to be singing a straight song sincerely. Maybe the surprise was that there was going to be no surprise. One or two numbers might be set up a little differently or moved, but most work well as placed. I'd also like to hear her do something more recently written by the new crop of writers. Her brew could stand being freshened that way, but it's a mighty potent brew.

There was a litany of punny metaphors in "He Knew How To Read Me," Ben Schechter's clever song presented as if the Sunday New York Times had sensitive feelings about being used and could express them. Canny Annie convincingly draped herself in truly ardent romantic awe of an ideal mate in "And This Is My Beloved" from Kismet, and could just as easily kick love in the teeth while rejecting the whole idea in a self-mocking, self-centered ode to self-gratification, "Making Love Alone" by Marilyn Miller and Cheryl Hardwick This might be a good time for an intentionally awkward segue about how Annie had a couple of male partners in making sure she was satisfied. I'm talking musically, of course. She was accompanied by musical director/pianist Daryl Kojak whose work I've previously admired, often in shows with more of a strong jazz sensibility. His work here showed versatility and a comfortable relationship with all kinds of music, particularly musical theater.

Singer Rob Langeder delighted as the other guest, game and gallant and the two made a good team. Rob recently won a MAC Award in the category of male solo debut, but he'd been in a group show with Annie in her Cabaret past. He was her partner this time in two of three pieces done as brilliant channelings of the excesses of the writing styles of certain theater songwriters. Known collectively as "Literate Broadway," the writers are Linda Wallem and Peter Tolan. It's a "what if" concept, the conceit being that the singers are presenting unlikely pieces of literature being adapted as musical theater. Annie and Rob especially click with the Sondheim parody section (imagine him musicalizing the old first grade reader, Fun With Dick And Jane-- limited vocabulary, unlimited laughs). Hilariously, Annie further digs into the masochistic challenges of learning and delivering mega-tricky Sondheim material in her encore set piece, "Dear Mr. Sondheim," which she co-wrote herself (along with Wayne Abravanel).

Annie Hughes is funny in a self-deprecating way and without a mean streak. You might say she's a funny lady with a warm streak, because there's an older-but-wiser sense about this veteran, and a desire to both communicate and entertain. It's determined without being at all desperate. That's a key difference. She can take Wicked's "For Good," about the gratitude for the impact others have on us, and make it ring true. In the approach to comedy, there's a real fearlessness and an in-the-moment presence that might make her appear to be a loose cannon. But make no mistake--this cannon's ammunition is well-prepared and packs a wallop of explosive talent. And when she turns serious, she's as likely to mend your heart as to break it.