Thomas Quasthoff’s concert on Wednesday bore a promising title: An American Songbook. I innocently speculated that the versatile German bass-baritone would explore a few Stephen Foster rarities, perhaps to be followed by some Copland. He might throw in “Ol’ Man River”, which he happens to sing better, and deeper, than just about anyone since Paul Robeson.

Silly me. Quasthoff devoted the evening to slick licks and ripe riffs, to snarly snaps and cruel crackles, to glib glissandi and snazzy syncopations. Well-miked and backed by a stylish quintet headed by Till Brönner on trumpet, the master-singer swung and swayed through an orgy of  popsy pizzaz. There was nifty improvisation here, showbizzy indulgence there, sentimental balladeering in between. The songs were delivered with dauntless wit, dedication and just a trace of an accent. Call this Eine kleine Jazz-musik.