Gabriel Kahane Photo by Marc J. Franklin

Kahane (I wasn't familiar with him, but I want to know more now) enters, an average-looking fortyish fellow in a comfy cardigan and a black tee. He allows how glad he is to be back in New York, "a beacon of good governance and ethical propriety," he deadpan ad-libs, and we're on his side immediately. His first song for Magnificent Bird, a mellow waltz, begins, "What if that was the last show that I'll ever play?" Lacking context, its meaning isn't easy to grasp, but when he reprises it later, we get it. (It's a trick he'll repeat in Book of Travelers.) His voice is light-ish and, with the help of head tones, rangy; that opening number travels two octaves. In midrange, he sounds to me like Paul Simon. A dozen-plus songs follow, punctuated by frequently engaging palaver.

The program is a mixed bag, and you won't always know what Kahane is driving at, or even when a number is over–he's not big on buttons. This much we fathom: Some months before the pandemic began, Kahane, feeling consumed by too much news and too much social media, elected to give up the internet for a year. His wife, with whom he'd just had a daughter, thoroughly supported the decision; maybe the abstinence would help him answer the question, as he writes in an accompanying essay, "How can a person find grace, meaning, and purpose in a world suffused with relentless cruelty?"

His specialty seems to be cryptic metaphor, with details whose relevance are not always easy to discern. Sample: "Toward the little piles of broken stones, these days of wandering, blood blindfold armory, I want to hold you close." Got that? Some lyrics repeat and repeat, and it's a relief to return to a more straightforward narrative, as in "Linda and Stuart," Upper East Side friends of his facing advancing age and solitude in those dreadful early pandemic days. What comes between the songs is often witty: "To be clear, I don't think the internet is strictly to blame for the way we find ourselves; the cliquishness of junior high school, sadly, is baked into the human condition." What's more, and how gratifying this is, he takes our literacy for granted; when did you last hear "abattoir," "chimerical," and "vacuous torpor" in rapid succession?

He survives the year of internet cold turkey and so does his marriage, which, he admits and takes full responsibility for, was growing a little iffy. Book of Travelers takes a different trip, beginning the morning after the 2016 election. Feeling, again, out of touch with the America that exists beyond the iPhone or computer, Kahane embarked on a 9,000-mile Amtrak journey, making it a point to interact with fellow travelers in eye-to-eye, non-electronic ways. Their stories constitute most of this songbook.

The opening number, again, is flummoxing–something about "singing with a stranger from the false world"–but becomes clear, and quite touching, when we hear the story behind it. Then there's Monica, the TV personality on her way to a funeral in Tupelo, boarding the train because even TV stars can't count on safety surviving the Mississippi night if they're driving while Black and female. There's Carol, married to a model train buff, with a sad story to tell. Jason's headed back to Baltimore, where a friend just died. Somewhat surprisingly, given the moment in time, there's no politics to any of these stories, just a lot of all-American acknowledgment and celebration of diversity, like in old movies like The Human Comedy and It's a Big Country. It's not something we get a lot of in these times, and it's welcome.

Annie Tippe directs, and this has to be intentional, anonymously; you're never aware of any direction, there's no wall between Kahane and us. There's an unsung hero, Christopher Bowser, the lighting designer: An evening such as this doesn't require elaborate lighting, but Bowser's work is always focused, warm and inviting. And while I'd like to have heard at least one unamplified song, Garth MacAleavey's sound design doesn't overwhelm or distort the words.

The music? You won't exactly go out humming, but you will appreciate Kahane's musicianliness, his Schumann-esque filigrees and fondness for waltzes, light jazz, and complicated arpeggios. He even brandishes an electric guitar for the encore, both evenings. You needn't see both, by the way; each is an experience unto itself, though if you choose one I'd recommend Book of Travelers, with its less-cryptic lyrics and slower tempo, something it shares with Amtrak. Which, Kahane reminds us, averages 50 mph, versus 173 mph on a French bullet train; "It's like, should we even call both of these things trains? I mean, like, me, George Clooney, are we both men?"

Such self-deprecation is winning, and if you don't love every minute of Magnificent Bird or Book of Travelers, I expect you'll relish the overall journey. More than that, you'll feel like you've made a friend.