I was riddled with anxiety. My breath was caught in the base of my throat. My hair hurt. It seemed everything was happening to me at once. That I was in control of nothing. My arms were numb and the only way I actually knew I was moving forward was because Shannon and Sheila’s heads bobbed up and down trying to see the stage and the rest of the crowd.
We also noticed simultaneously that we were again, the hottest chicks in the room. We were also the youngest. The youngest and the hottest. This was turning out to be a great trip for all concerned. Most everyone piling into the theatre was over 50. There were a few 30 something’s scattered about like random confetti, but for the most part, we were of the few that had our own hips. The great thing was that unlike some of the casinos, these people were dressed. Spangles, sparkles, chiffon, cocktail dresses, suits and ties, everyone was going to the Theatre. They dressed for it, and they dressed for Liza. And there was a definite buzz. People whispering about how she was going to look, when was the last time they saw her live, what was their favorite song. Each conversation had my heart beating just a bit faster. Obviously I couldn’t listen to anymore Liza talk or someone would have o call the paramedics.
The theatre was gorgeous. A big open space with almost 1,000 seats in it. And one by one, little by little, every single seat was taken. She was sold out, and I was happy for her. As if I knew her. As if we had some sort of personal relationship. I was relieved. She had sold out. That’ll make her happy.
We were in the 13th row dead center. The seats were perfect. Perfect.
Oddly enough, everything up to that point had also been perfect. Nothing went wrong. We didn’t run out of gas, we didn’t get stranded, our hotel room was fabulous, we were laughing and giggling and chatting about everything with no strange spacial awareness or uncomfortable long pauses….everything about this trip was truly magical.
And now…these seats. Dead center and only about 25 feet away from the front of the stage. Amazing.
Her audience was diverse, but that’s normal. It always has been. I know people tend to lump Judy and Liza in the big gay pool, and think that the only people that come to see either of them were the Gays, and although it’s true the Gays had a lot to do with both their successes, both women transcended stereotypes. They reached across gender and generational lines. And Liza was carrying on that tradition. Old, young (okay…a lot of Old), races, religions, sequins, flannel, straight, gay……me. Everyone was there. And all of us had come to the theatre to celebrate. To hear her. To be with her. We were all huddled together, everyone in their finest (and me in my sweatshirt) waiting for the entrance of a trouper. A trouper from the old school.
Directly in front of us were a couple. A man probably in his 40’s. He was large. A big guy with huge hands and a bushy face riddled with day old bear. Although he was in a suit and tie, I could tell by his stature and demeanor this was foreign to him except for very special occasions. He had bear claws and wavy bunches of black hair plopping in his eyes. He was a Guy. Just a regular beer drinking, boob grabbing, behind watching King of Queens Guy. And there he was, sitting directly in front of me with his beautiful brown haired tiny framed wife. At a Liza Minnelli concert. I didn’t know what was happening. I had reservations. Would they get her? Would they be okay through the concert? Why was HE there? She probably dragged him there and he came reluctantly, jaw to the ground, fists clenched and carrying his copy of Popular Mechanics.
“Liza? Aw crap, Honey. Isn’t she dead?”
But, no matter what their attitude, I was now half way out of my seat, rocking back and forth, and smiling at Shannon and Sheila. Sheila’s face was beaming. She was excited and ready. Shannon was smiling and looking over at the crowd, counting the large hair dos and mumbling:
“Wow. Wow.”
Over and over.
And then it happened. The 13 piece orchestra set on the stage struck a massive chord that shook the base of our collective feet. The lights dimmed. A large pool of light flooded the center of the stage, darkness washed over us all, and the back drop changed from it’s boring, hum drum neutral, to an electric blue. Then, from off the to came the force.
The light swung forcefully over to her bouncing off her rose cocktail dress and her familiar short cropped hair, and round expressive face reaching toward the back row with a power of a live electric wire. It was stunning. She looked amazing. She lost almost 40 pounds, her legs looked shapely and fabulous, and she bounded toward center stage with the energy of a 30 year old. There were no fake hips or wheel chairs for this night. It was as if she’d turned back the clock and had secretly stuffed a picture of herself in her attic. She looked so stunning it was almost frightening. There was age. This was definitely not Liza at 20, we all knew that, but we were fine with that. She had lines, she had a small lilt in her eyes, and she made no secret that she was anti botox, and anti wax lips.
She was a true star at the peak of her powers.
And collectively, and I mean collectively, we stood. Everyone. All at once. In a huge clump we shot out of our seats and screamed and howled and hooted and applauded until our palms bled. We were THRILLED to see her, and she loved it. She appreciated it. As the band kept playing, and lights got brighter and more fine tuned, and as she walked (almost skipped) to the center microphone standing solely in the center cradled on it’s stand, she waved, smiled, and giggled…..Liza-like.
And we kept standing. We couldn’t sit down. We couldn’t stop. Everyone with every hair do and every age and every generation was up on their feet doing exactly what I was doing: Succumbing to the need to say thank you to a living legend.
It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
I was with my peeps.
It was satisfying and fulfilling.
The high register is gone. Not that she ever really had one. Minnelli always relied on story telling. She never considered herself a brilliant singer and doesn’t to this day. She’s not Streisand, she’s not Garland, she’s not Merman. She’s not one of those legends. In order to understand why she does what she does, you truly have to see what she does and why she does it…..live. It comes together. You get it. You feel what she’s saying. Truly, obsession aside, there’s no one on the planet that does what Minnelli does. Never has been and never will be.
The closest artist I can think of would be Charles Azenvour. It’s that kind of performance.
And she did it all for us.
She stood. Gestures aside. While the drums and the brass loomed behind her mixed in a sound system that Briteny really needs to look in to, and with legs wide apart as if she were standing in compete defiance of us, she sang “I Can See Clearly Now” with a clear, alto that shook the rafters. With age (and years of abuse and reconstruction to her voice) she has a sound that is low, deep, resonate, and pure. She’s still belting. Still holding on to those long, long notes with confidence and clarity, and yet the high whispery Liza of years ago is a memory. And we didn’t mind. She belted. She belted “So What?” (from Cabaret), in which she went from the telling of the story, to actually re creating the character of Lata Lania. She lowered the key a bit on “Come In From The Rain”, and then hopped and swung her arms voraciously to “What Did I Have” (from On A Clear Day).
In between her miraculous vocal performance, a cell phone went off. Liza stopped the band, turned to the idiot caller and said plainly:
“Hello?”
We loved it.
She sang “Sara Lee” (a novelty song composed by two of the men that literally helped create her) and three people decided they take their seats late into the performance, and sit themselves in the front row. AS she sang the song.
After she finished the last chorus, Liza looked down toward the three late comers, and said loudly and with a smirk:
“Don’t worry. You didn’t miss much. The people to your right will explain everything.”
It was a calmer, more demure, campier, freer Liza. Finally free from the idiot with the lips she married, over 60 and svelte, she’s done with the people pleaser. She grabbed her bosoms at one time, made fun of her own image, laughed at us and us at her, talked about her Mom and Pop, and danced.
Yes danced.
As her piano player (who Shannon SWEARS is boffing her) played an instrumental version of “You Can Leave Your Hat On”, Liza took a small gold and black fedora from behind the piano, and Fosse-ed her way across the stage. Lifting, kicking, pulsating, gyrating and slithering back and forth in a style that would put all these teenagers to shame.
In between the boffo, socko belt-y numbers, and the gorgeous ballads, we cheered, screamed, stood up, sat down, stood up again, and reached toward her. Peppered with “You look FABULOUS!”, and “LIZA!!!”, from the crowd of a thousand, I got in my very own:
“I LOVE YOU LIZA!!!”
At the top of my lungs.
And the top of my lungs is loud. Trust me.
She looked at me, we collectively applauded once again, and with her enormous brown eyes, she said:
“I love you too. You know, you guys are really my family. I’m happiest when I’m around you.”
I think I went onto cardiac arrest for a second, I can’t really remember.
Shannon was out of control. Sheila was out of control. The three of us were acting in unison. Crying. Wiping tears away. Grateful to her. She wasn’t performing AT us, she was performing FOR us. All the jittery convulsions that used to pepper her shows were gone now. This was a woman who was sure. Confident. Aware. And truly, and more importantly, grateful. You could see it. We could tel. And we, in turn, were grateful to her. She stood firm and tight with a sparkle and a smile that allowed us to relax. Everything was fine. We were in good hands. Seeing both my pals love her as much as I love her probably added to the emotion of the evening. They GOT her. They understood WHY I was so obsessed and why a performer like that is not only adored but respected and revered, and very, very, very rare.
“She’s amazing. I had no idea.” Shannon whispered to me at one point.
That was huge for me.
Then, as the show was nearly over, 3 more idiots came waltzing to the row in front of us plopping themselves down next to the Hairy Guy and his Wife. There were three of them, and they had entered the wrong place. This was Liza’s show, not theirs. They continued to jabber even after they sat. Moving and giggling and whispering to each other. I was getting angrier and angrier. But luckily, we were all on the same team. We were all together. This wasn’t a movie; there was a real person up on stage. And not just somebody, it was Liza Minnelli. Shut up.
The Hairy guy was bopping his head to Liza’s newest song, moving in a joyful shape back and forth, and then stopped suddenly, turned his head toward the three idiots, and in a loud masculine voice said:
“SHHH!”
Then turned his head slowly toward Liza and continued his bopping.
They not only shut up, but they cowered, shrunk in size, and then moved down two seats. Sheila whispered under her breath:
“Good man.”
And Shannon and I gave a small thumbs up behind his back.
The three of us were now officially in love with The Hairy Guy and his tiny wife. The Hairy Guy was also enthralled with Liza. He got her. He understood what he was witnessing and he was as caught up as the rest of the Liza Philes in the house that night. He didn’t want to be disturbed and he didn’t want anyone else disturbed either. He was Row Captain and we all collectively, thanked him. He saved the rest of the show for us. I wanted to find him, hunt him down after the show and personally shake his hand and tell him how much we appreciated him. He arrived on time, he got dressed in his monkey suit and he took his wife by the hand and as they sat and as the show went on and as Liza began to do what she does, something occurred. He might not have expected it, but it happened anyway and he loved it so much he refused to let some gaggle of strangers with big mouths disturb his moment.
Liza reached out to the Hairy Man, and we all benefited from it.
Minnelli having sung almost an hour and a half, and taken one small break for a delicious costume change then pulled out the big guns. She went into “Cabaret” and then finished with “New York, New York.”
There’s always been one gesture in her version of “New York, New York” that has always baffled me. Liza, right before the key change on the word “Town” winds up her arm like a toy boat and the lets loose on the rest of the phrase. It’s bizarre and fascinating and I’ve never seen anyone else on the planet do this. And it’s always, always gotten a standing ovation.
I later asked Sheila what she thought that was:
“She’s winding up. Makes sense to me.”
Yes. That was it. She was getting ready to hit us in a way that moved forward. It wasn’t about the next note, or how terrific it was going to be, it wasn’t about what she was trying to sell us all. It was unavoidable for her. She had no choice but to wind up, prepare her and us, and let loose with a vocal prowess that’s seldom seen.
We were collectively thrown from our seats. All 1,000 of us, including the Hairy Man and his petite wife. I don’t know if the idiot stragglers included themselves or not, I was too busy trying to hurl my limp body on the stage like a drunken rag doll. My head felt light and my hands almost ached having applauded so long and so manically.
Minnelli had three curtain calls and then began an accapella version of “I’ll Be Seeing You” which I’ve heard her do 3 or 4 times. Then, after our support and genuine appreciation of her and her gift, she felt herself change gears. She told another story, and then stood on the stage, stared at us for a moment and said in almost a hush:
“No. Nope. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to do that one. Feel something different now. I’m going to change my mind and sing something else. I hope that’s okay.”
I was stunned.
The one thing I know about Liza is that she’s exact. She rehearses until she’s blue. Nothing is ever left to chance. But tonight, after the cell phone, after the late comers, after the boob grabbing, I knew she was off on an unplanned tangent. She sang a song accapella as she had planned but not the song she began. I knew this because of the curious face of her pianist. His head was cocked to the side, and the expression on his face was priceless.
The concert ended. She took two more bows, and then swept off stage. Sweating, heaving and probably ready for a large gurney.
Shannon was in shock. Sheila was still wiping tears away, and my ears were ringing with the sound of Liza’s voice still surrounding me.
“I really had no idea. She was brilliant.” Shannon said directly to me.
“That was unreal.” Sheila commented.
“I KNOW!” I screamed at her.
“I mean, who’s like that anymore?” she said again.
“RIGHT???!!!” I yelled back.
“So, so, so many things.” She said again.
“THAT’S RIGHT! THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!!!”:
I was screaming to the rafters. Literally yelling at Sheila. She looked at me, winced a bit, and then said as calmly as she could:
“You don’t have to get angry Alex. I’m agreeing with you.”
I was riddled with my own Liza anger. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but I was indeed angry. I was angry at all the people who dismiss her without ever having experienced her. I was angry at Hollywood for treating her like an old relic, and I was angry because she was gone and I didn’t know how long I would have to wait to see her again. I was just angry and unfortunately, Sheila was in my own way.
This is the thing about friends: You can take out your Liza Anger when you feel the need and they’ll accept it with love and courage.
The rest of the night was filled with more mazes, more great conversation and a roller coaster on top of a casino that caused us all to clutch our pearls like three terrified Chihuahuas on riddlen.
As we drove home, and the concert re played in my head on constant repeat, we said goodbye to each other, hugged, and Sheila and I retired to our casa where we unleashed the weekend on poor, defenseless Chrisanne. As Sheila and I were tottering off to bed, and Chrisanne was safely tucked in, I took off my Liza sweatshirt and put it in the hamper. I had to take great care in washing it, and I needed to have it ready at a moments notice. After all I had been through and all I had experienced, I needed it to happen again. I was sure it was going to. And as I folded it, and out it in a very special place so as to remind me to hand wash it, I remembered Liza’s power and her sheer naked ambition. No matter what happens to this woman, she’ll go on. She'll keep doing it until she truly can’t do it anymore. And as much flack as I get for obsessing about her the way I do, I knew I was in for another ride. I couldn’t wait. And I made sure my sweatshirt would be not only clean, but ready and at the top of the pile….
…and the heap.