Once in a while, I tend to go overboard with what out-of-towners refer to as “metro-provincialism.” New York is the undisputed cultural capital of the universe, but once in awhile there’s something even we don’t have. For instance, there are three legendary jazz-pop singers who’ve spent all or most of their careers in Los Angeles, and who I never thought I would get to experience live in New York: Ernie Andrews, Bill Henderson, and Sue Raney. Happily, both Messrs. Andrews and Henderson have broken the curse in recent years and made appearances in our city. But as for Ms. Raney, alas, no such Gotham engagement seems forthcoming. It may well be worth breaking my lifelong boycott of the left coast just to see her in person. In fact, I’m tempted to do so because Ms. Raney’s most recent album, “A Tribute to Doris Day: Heart’s Desire” (Fresh Sound) finds her singing better than ever.

Born in 1940, Raney was only 17 when she began recording for Capitol Records. She recorded her first album, “When Your Lover Has Gone,” in 1957, which was perhaps the last time (until very recently) that a record company assumed the world wanted to hear a precocious teenager chirping Richard Rodgers and Hoagy Carmichael. That first album, despite characteristically superb charts by Nelson Riddle, was a rather dour affair; the cover depicted a heartbroken high-schooler forlornly grasping a goodbye note. The next album, 1960’s “Song for a Raney Day” had the young singer posing by the window in a rather formal nightgown, looking like a bride deserted on her wedding night. Although Ms. Raney’s phrasing was looser on the second album, the inspiration for both recrords was the cool, semi-stonefaced style of Keely Smith.

By the time she taped her third album, 1963’s “All By Myself,” Capitol Records had decided to give her an update. Rather than looking glum, she was photographed wearing full makeup — and that’s all — in the luxurious surroundings of a bubble bath. There’s much more of a Stan Kenton influence to the proceedings, from the opener, “Some of These Days,” done in a breakneck time signature with dissonant brass. The charts are by the occasional Kenton arranger Ralph Carmichael, and the model for the 23-year-old singer is June Christy, the vocalist most associated with that band.

Still very much a youngster when she made “All by Myself,” Ms. Raney was not the fine interpreter she is today. While working through the Christy influence, she was somehow more tuneful and brassy than the veteran songbird, if not quite as emotionally stirring. Ms. Raney’s treatment of the Elllington perennial, “Just a Sittin’ and a Rockin’,” an early hit for Kenton and Christy, is way more exuberant, with tambourine and a go-go beat. Even Irving Berlin’s title song, done over Joe Mondragon’s insinuating bass vamp, is more jazzy and sexy than torchy and lonely.

“How About Me,” also by Berlin, is also more thrilling than moving, although there are a pair of winners in the form of two convincingly blue tunes penned by the singer and Ed Yellin, her husband and manager at thetime:”NoPlace To Go” and “Burnt Sugar.” “All By Myself” is an outstanding album, but it still doesn’t signify the start of the indigenous Raney style.

That wouldn’t happen for another 20 years. She recorded only sporadically in the 1960s, and not at all in the ’70s. Finally, between 1984 and 1992, Ms. Raney came into her own with five albums for producer Albert Marx’s Discovery and Trend labels that mark the overall apogee of her career, most famously “Quietly There,” her 1988 collection of songs by Johnny Mandel.

Until this year, Ms. Raney’s most recent album, “Autumn in the Air,” was released in 1997, also on Fresh Sound. The set backed the singer with just piano and bass; the new package, “Heart’s Desire,” is considerably more ambitious, featuring a full orchestra and strings under the helm of one of the most sensitive and intuitive of all accompanists, Los Angeles’s own Alan Broadbent, a worthy successor to Nelson Riddle, Ralph Carmichael, and Johnny Mandel.

Where “All By Myself” had Ms. Raney taking sad songs and transforming them into swingers, “Heart’s Desire” finds her doing precisely the opposite. “Que Sera Sera,” was written and became a mega-hit as a lighthearted children’s song, yet Ms. Raney sings it as if it were the accumulation of a life’s worth of lessons, a backward-looking perspective and personal reflection — a female equivalent of Sinatra’s “It Was a Very Good Year.” “It’s Magic,” which was written to be a light and frothy ode to golden wands and audible violins that aren’t really there, becomes something deeper, while “Sentimental Journey” now describes a journey that’s more profound and introspective than simply sentimental.

Thankfully, Ms. Raney is never heavy or dire, and other tracks show that, at 67, she has more than retained her ability to swing. “Shanghai,” an unctuous novelty tune (one of many that Doris Day put on the charts), co-written by “Orange-Colored Sky” author Milton DeLugg, becomes a straightforward swinger featuring Ms. Raney’s formidable sense of humor, along with an alto solo by Gary Foster (another legendary West Coaster never spotted in an NYC club).

As with other tribute albums (such as Cyrus Chestnut’s new “Cyrus Plays Elvis”), Ms. Raney includes one dedicatory track not recorded by the honoree — in this case, “Heart’s Desire,” the title and concluding song. It’s a stunning, neglected ballad by Mr. Broadbent (who solos beautifully over a string backdrop), with an equally compelling lyric by Dave Frishberg, and precisely the song that Doris Day should have recorded had she not stopped singing before she turned 50. In it, Ms. Raney invests a lifetime’s worth of feelings — meaning what she feels she owes Ms. Day — as well as everything else. As Mr. Frishberg’s lyric suggests, what makes both Ms. Day and Ms. Raney great singers is the chances they take, their willingness to offer their hearts.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful for any chance to hear Sue Raney, one of the great living interpreters of the American songbook. I’m just hoping that next time I hear her, it’s at Birdland or Dizzy’s.

wfriedwald@nysun.com