Kay Swift once described herself rather fittingly as “the Dorothy Parker of the piano.” Talented, beautiful, and fiercely independent, Swift (1897-1993) was a role model for freethinking women of the jazz age.She was the liberated woman who had everything: a loving family with a doting, supportive husband and three adoring daughters as well an astonishingly successful career. And she eventually became the first female composer to write the entire score of a Broadway musical.

A new album, as well as the first fulllength biography of her, remind us of just how unique this woman was. Her father, Samuel, was a music critic for several East Coast newspapers (including The New York Sun). Her family was lower middle class but highly cultured, and she had a thorough education in classical music composition and theory. At the turn of the century, music was consider a proper pursuit for respectable young ladies, but they were expected to employ their skills strictly as teachers and for the amusement of their families and friends. They were not encouraged to compose their own “serious” music.

In 1918, Swift married Paul James Warburg, the poet and scion of a prominent German-Jewish banking dynasty who would later supply the well-crafted lyrics to her songs. But it was George Gershwin who encouraged Swift to write show music, when he prompted friend Richard Rodgers to hire her as a rehearsal pianist for “A Connecticut Yankee.”

Swift’s relationship with Gershwin was both personal and professional (she served as his unofficial assistant and later, posthumous collaborator). And though she never succeeded in leading the philandering composer to the altar, she was undoubtedly the great love of his life.

Swift’s move to Tin Pan Alley brought her at once closer to Gershwin and to her husband. In 1930, the Warburgs (neither one of which was using that family name) created their crowning achievement, the hit show “Fine and Dandy.” Running a respectable 255 performances, the show was a successful vehicle for the headliner Joe Cook, and yielded a future standard in its title song.

An excellent new CD conducted by Aaron Gandy marks the first recording ever of the complete score to “Fine and Dandy” (PS Classics 9419). In his liner notes, producer Tommy Krask observes “Part musical comedy, part vaudeville, part social satire, “Fine and Dandy” wasn’t quite like any other show of its era.” Actually, like a lot of shows of the era, it was written primarily as a star vehicle. Joe Cook, although forgotten today, was one of the more exuberant entertainers of the era, who seemingly did everything – verbal and physical (slapstick) comedy, song, and dance.

Content-wise, “Fine and Dandy,” with a plot concerning factory and corporate politics, is cut from the same cloth as Gershwin’s three political operettas. The Warburgs even acknowledge the influence of the capital G at the end of the show’s title song; in one of the show’s cleverest couplets, Warburg accuses other songwriters of plundering Gershwin’s “themes and rhyth mic schemes.” (Mighty sporting of Warburg, considering that Gershwin was sleeping with his wife.)

Mr. Gandy’s recording has the feeling of the best of the Gershwin show cast albums, mostly made in the last 20 years (actual cast recordings weren’t commonplace until the post-“Oklahoma!” era). Mario Cantone makes an outstanding juvenile, following in the hard-to-fill footsteps of Joe Cook. Mark Linn-Baker has the principal supporting comedy part, and leading ladies Carolee Carmello and Andrea Burns are authentically peppy and torchy. There’s also a postscript of four additional numbers that fill out the Swift songbook, featuring John Pizzarelli, Jessica Molaskey, and others. The big surprise of the new album is the reconstructed original production number of the song “Fine and Dandy” itself.

The original text, as sung on Broadway, is a comedy patter piece between the two juveniles, and it overflows with up-to-the minute topical references. On the album, Mr. Cantone and Ms. Carmello sing of everything from Amos ‘n’ Andy to the Yale-Harvard rivalry.The only time it hits a sour note is when it trivializes the struggles of the Mahatma Ghandi. The original line is “I don’t want to be that colored boy,” which is here changed to “skinny boy.” Better to have omitted the stanza entirely, especially as it advocates the murder of Ghandi (which actually did occur some years later).There are some things more important than historical accuracy.

Compared to other songwriters of the period, Swift seems at once major and minor. While her music is outstanding, her complete output was so small that it would be wrong to rank her as in the company of say, Walter Donaldson or Jimmy McHugh, who wrote dozens upon dozens of standards that are still actively performed today. She wasn’t necessarily the first woman to write for Broadway – lyricist Dorothy Fields had already been active for several years.

Swift’s life story, however – even without the Gershwin factor – is so fascinating that it’s not surprising she has received a full-dress biography long before many other writers with substan tially larger Ascap annuities. Just published by Yale University Press, “Fine and Dandy: The Life and Work of Kay Swift” (294 pages, $39) is written by Vicki Ohl, a professor of music and popular culture at Heidelberg College in Tiffin, Ohio.

This biography is fine, if not dandy. Ms. Ohl is not the zingiest of prose stylists, but she is a formidable researcher and shows excellent judgment in sifting through the copiously documented careers of Swift and Paul Warburg. (Both halves of the marriage wrote memoirs; hers was unpublished, but she also penned an autobiographical novel about her second marriage, which happened to be to a rodeo cowboy.) The book also benefits from Ms. Ohl’s knowledge of music theory: Unlike most songwriter biographies, she’s not afraid to talk turkey regarding the musicological specifics of Swift’s compositions.

In any case, Kay Swift’s most compelling creations stand on their own. And at last her legacy is receiving the thorough re-evaluation that it deserves.