Musically-speaking, I'm a bit obsessive. I tend to listen to one thing for two or three weeks, and then switch to something else entirely. Yesterday a new phase began. Here comes a month-long period of downloading, high-kicking, and dramatic re-enacting.
Much to my boyfriend's dismay (he's this close to having his gay card revoked) I've been listening, non-stop, to Judy Garland's 1961 concert at Carnegie Hall. Last winter Rufus Wainwright released his version of the show, a song-by-song re-creation of the iconic performance. It's been on regular rotation since December, but it wasn't until yesterday that I got my hands on the original. You can hear the qualudes coarsing through her veins. How old school! How glamorous!
I've always loved a hopped-up diva, I mean, come on. And a musical? Obviously! My sister and I sang along with The Wizard of Oz, we busted "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" in-character (The Sound of Music) and dreamed of one day being adopted by Daddy Warbucks, just so Anne Reinking would introduce us to the cleaning staff at every opportunity. A dream! On that long list of things I want to do in life, perform on Broadway has a place. But, it might as well say "perform open heart surgery", because who do I think I am? Somehow, with no training and no God-given natural talent, I'm compelled to sashay across a stage. I'm no geneticist, but what gives? Someone's gotta find the correlation between gay and footlights. The missing link, indeed.