Prelude
Before heading to the MGM Grand to make my dream come true, I had lunch with my 94-year-old Great Aunt Esther at a hole-in-the-wall deli in suburban Nevada. As with most of conversations one has with old Jewish women, this one featured plenty of inquiries about the present ("What subjects are you taking?") and common-sense suggestions for the future ("From now on, wash your hands with lemon. It does wonders, I'm telling you!"). But over the two-plus hours we dined together, the conversation kept coming back around the reason I was in town to begin with.
"I can't believe you're seeing Barbra", she said, italicizing Mrs. Streisand's name by making a sweeping gesture with her little hands. "You know, I'll never forget the first time I saw her."
Then, leaning in conspiratorially--her favorite way to begin any story--she told me what she remembered. She grew up in a cramped New Jersey household with seven siblings, a chornically ill mother, and an Orthodox Rabbi for a father. Not surprisingly, theirs was a supremely religious abode; murmured prayers were a constant, and the hum of the newfangled television was a rarity.
"But Papa made an exception for Barbra", she said wistfully. "We watched all her TV specials, everything she was in. When he listened to her sing 'Happy Days Are Here Again', Papa was in awe. He said 'Kids, you need to watch this'. He said it sounded a little bit like davening." Davening, for those who don't know, refers to the entrancing lilt with which Jewish clergymen and women intone prayers. In other words, Esther's father believed what many of Barbra's most ardent fans believe--that her voice isn't just one of the wonders of our world, it's somehow otherworldly. She sings like Shakespeare wrote, like Liszt played, not just beautifully but somehow transcendentally. In an uncharacteristic burst of eloquence, fellow fan Rosie O'Donnell put it this way: "She's definitely channeling something. She's a huge satellite dish."
We love Barbra for her rags-to-riches story, her striking individuality, her groundbreaking charity work, and her status as one of the last surviving stars of Hollywood's Musical Golden Age. But most of all, we love That Voice. We love its unmatched tonal purity, its unimpeachable sense of rhythm. We marvel at its versatility, the way it can tackle a Hebrew hymn or a Stevie Wonder tune with equal success. We stand in awe of its burnished lower register, and break out into goosebumps as it slides seamlessly into the upper octaves, never once cracking or breaking. We tear up at the miniscule but monumentally important details, at the poignant pause during a ballad or the bitter laugh during a torch song. And, of course, we piss our pants when it goes for those high notes, neither scooping up to them or riffing them into incoherence but hitting them with all the clarity and profound power of a church bell.
What do we do when we aren't busy worshiping the voice? Bitch about how hard it is to hear live. After she flubbed lyrics and faced down assassination threats at her famed 1968 Central Park concert, Streisand ceased performing live altogether, showing her face only for the occasional thousands-of-dollars-per-seat fundraiser. Determined to overcome her iconic stage fright, she embarked on some hugely successful touch-and-go tour dates in the mid-to-late 90's, and in 2006, she mounted her first ever big-time world tour at the age of sixty-three--a tour that, as luck would have it, culminated mere months before I watched Funny Girl, the gateway drug to my full-on Streisand addiction. So, when she announced that she'd be embarking on another tour in 2012, I went meshugenah for two reasons; because it was her first tour since I fell in love with her, and because, with the singer pushing seventy, it might very well be her last. Damned if I'd let seeing my musical idol in concert crop up on my list of could woulda shoulda's, I scraped together some of my savings, assembled an itinerary, and, called up an equally ardent Streisand fan by the name of "Mom". Three months later I was at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, Nevada, waiting with bated breath to see Barbra Streisand perform live. Just me, my mother, and 12,000 of our closest friends.
Those friends, by the way, came in all shapes and sizes. There was the young Polish woman who grew up with A Star Is Born, the Japanese couple treating themselves for their anniversary, and even a couple Real Housewives of New Jersey lookalikes who sent my blood pressure soaring to untold levels when they attempted to jack our seats. Mostly though, there were Jewish Women of A Certain Age (JWCA), the kind Mike Myers made fun of so brilliantly in his Linda Richman SNL sketches. These were the true fans--the ones who knew which album came out when, who brandished comprehensive lists of Barbra's dreamy male co-stars, who'd committed her family tree to memory. As I listened to them, I was occasionally tempted to interject, to make my own contribution to their Encyclopedia Streisandia. Indeed, my interest level in their conversations grew so high that I feared for a moment that I might leave the building as a JWCA, adjusting my shawl and muttering about how they got the lox-to-bagel ratio wrong. My fears turned out to be wholly unfounded--I did, thank God, remain a twenty-year old boy, albeit one who screamed like a thirteen-year-old girl when the overture ended and a spotlight came up to reveal Streisand standing center stage, mic in hand.
Act I
After what seemed like a yearlong standing ovation, the orchestra cued up, and Streisand stepped forward for her first song, the titular tune from her 1971 film On A Clear Day You Can See Forever. It's one of the Big Guns in Barbra's Greatest Hits Arsenal, and as she eased into the opening lines, I bet we were all wondering the same thing; could she still nail the song's famous belt-it-to-the-rafter climax? A few minutes later, we had our answer; absolutely. The Voice was still there, a realization I emphasized by tapping my mother on the shoulder so hard she almost fell out of her seat. Not surprisingly, Barbra remained in complete control of her craft. What was surprising, however, was her newfound ability to cut loose. Streisand, long known for her slavish adherence to the script, no longer seemed like the imposing diva who's rehearsed every little note and gesture to death; with a handful of wildly successful live tours under her belt, she's noticeably more relaxed, still decidedly the Reigning Queen of Song, but also more than willing to come down off her pedestal every now and then to commiserate with the commoners. She cooed at a youngster in the crowd ("Oh, sweetie...this is a three-hour show. I hope you don't get sleepy!"), cracked wise about the famous to-the-left-of-left political beliefs ("Now, I wouldn't dream of telling you who to vote for..."), and even paused multiple times just to thank us for being there ("Touring isn't easy for me, but you guys make it so gratifying..."). As a long-time fan, it was positively thrilling to see Barbra open up like this; nearly forty-five years after Central Parkgate, she's finally learned to love live performance, finally developed a knack for working a crowd.
It sounds strange to say, but I was proud of her. After all, part of the magic of Streisand is that her persona invites such intense identification--her triumphs and tribulations become your own. When she dedicated a stripped-down version of "The Way We Were" to its late composer, Marvin Hamlisch, her grief was palpable, and her very real ache filled the room. Her "Smile" was so pure and playful that by the end of it we were all just as full of sap-free happy juice as she seemed to be. The most interesting iteration of this effect for me, however, occurred during "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered", an old Rodgers-and-Hart chestnut that she first performed during the New York City jazz club dates that launched her career. To watch Streisand perform this song was to catch her in the fascinating act of watching herself, of thinking back to the days when she was merely a gawky Brooklyn kid with a big nose and bigger voice trying to make it to the top. She was lost in the revery of her past, and so were we, if the ten seconds of silence before the standing ovation were any indication. And, of course, when she closed the first act with "Don't Rain On My Parade", we were right there alongside her, riding high on the here-I-am-world thrill of the ultimate underdog anthem. Admittedly, she now delivers it less like a spitfire up-and-comer and more like the world's most belligerent Grandma, but when she reaches that climax, no one cares. Thousands of theatre kids have belted out this anthem in their cars, but no singer of any caliber can do it quite like Barbra, can come at those final phrases with such dizzyingly emphatic energy:
"Nobody, no no-body
Is gonna-
Rain on my-
ParaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAde!!"
The lights go crazy. The orchestra goes for broke. The crowd goes wild. I have a series of small seizures. End Act I.
Act II
The second act began with a double whammy, featuring both the show's funniest moment and one of its most touching. Before Streisand returned to the stage, the video screens descended, but instead of the interviews or photo montages that normally precede her second acts, we got a YouTube video of--you guessed it--Duck Sauce's "Barbra Streisand", a techno smash that pokes glib hipster fun at the iconic diva. Even if it left some of the older crowd looking as if they'd wandered into the wrong part of the hotel, it was an appreciable nod to her younger fans, and a welcome display of self-deprecating humour from the woman who once insisted that she be photographed only from her "good side". As the last strands of the Duck Sauce song faded away, the screens transitioned to something a little older; the final scene from Funny Girl, with Barbra's Fanny Brice character getting dumped by Omar Sharif's Nick mere minutes before she's due onstage for a concert. Sitting in her dressing room in shock, Fanny sweeps back her hair, blinks away the tears, and marshals her remaining strength--after all, the show must go on. Then, as the twenty-five year old Barbra onscreen walked onstage to perform "My Man", the lights came up on the real stage, and there stood seventy-year-old Barbra, singing the opening bars of the same song.
It was magic, pure and simple, and so was her rendition of the tune. Over forty years later, she still tears into this greatest of torch songs with all she's got, leaning into that surging finale ("The world is bright/Alriiiiiiight!") with enough force to prompt a mid-song outburst of applause and holding that final note a few seconds longer than the orchestra just to prove she can. It was an indelible highlight of the evening, and just one of the countless moments that left me in awe of a voice that still throbbed with the power and potency most singers start to lose in their mid-50's. If anything, she sounded even better than she did during her last tour, having settled into the deeper, warmer timbre that's come with age. This was clearest of all during her heartfelt rendition of her signature song, "People", performed with a slower, string-driven arrangement that allowed her to really belt out that penultimate portion like never before. Of course, the Streisand magic isn't just in the Big High Notes, it's in the little details as well. She turned "My Funny Valentine" into a deeply haunting tragedy in miniature, using her exquisite legato to turn words like "favorite" and ""smart" into self-contained pleas. On "How Deep Is The Ocean?", a duet with none other than her son Jason, she pulled back, delivering Irving Berlin's lyrics with soft, honeyed, unforced affection. On "Here's To Life", she drew out the final phrases, doing justice to the song's celebratory lyrics by offering up each word like a little toast.
When it comes to singing, every lyric is a symbol, and Streisand, like all great vocalists, makes us understand what those symbols mean.
Never was this truer than during the evening's sterling finale. I swear, if the prior two hours had been a combination Justin Bieber-Ke$ha concert, it still would've been worth the exorbitant ticket prices just to see Barbra perform her eleven o' clock number. You'd expect one of her chart-topping hits. But among Barbra's innumerable talents is a knack for surprise, and she didn't disappoint. Instead, she trotted out "Make Our Garden Grow", a poignant Leonard Bernstein ballad that she recorded in the early 90's but never released. About half a decade after she committed it to wax, it made its way onto the internet, eventually becoming a fan favorite--and a personal favorite of mine. You don't expect your favorite artist to sing a song of theirs that never even technically saw the light of day, but there she was singing it all the same. I couldn't help but think of that old Tennessee Williams quote; "Sometimes there's God so quickly." The song, taken from the musical adaptation of Candide, is as touching as anything ever written for the theatre, a full-throated ode to the small, fragile joys that keep us afloat throughout life's raging storm;
"We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow."
Gently caressing the song's tender opening passages, Barbra built smartly and steadily to the operatic conclusion, delivering that earth-shaking final note with her singular power--the kind that, in Richard Rodgers' words, resembles nothing so much as "the lift of a climbing bird." Then, amidst an eruption of applause, she segued seamlessly into one of her greatest hits, "Somewhere", just as deeply affecting and defiantly hopeful as it was when she recorded it for The Broadway Album thirty long years ago. For those who were curious, here's where the tears finally fell. And here's where the crowd shot up out of their seats for the loudest ovation of the night.
After a seemingly endless series of bows, Streisand briefly vanished from the stage, then returned for two encores. The first was "Happy Days Are Here Again", which she famously duetted on with the late Judy Garland. Here, Barbra invited her sister Roslyn onstage to sing Judy's part, and their interplay was endearing as it was adorably genuine. The final tune was "Some Other Time"--a jazz standard like the kind a teenaged Barbra used to perform in crowded piano bars tucked away on bustling street corners. As I listened to the wistful lyrics ("Just when the fun is starting/Comes the time for parting"), I reflected back on the evening that was. It wasn't a perfect one; bringing along popera phenoms Il Volo to sing backup didn't detract from the show, but it didn't add much either, and it seemed rather silly to invite trumpeter Chris Botti along without having he and Barbra perform any of the pieces they've recorded together. But perfection was never what I was looking for. I wanted confirmation--confirmation that this woman who's inspired, intrigued, and moved me so was just as peerless onstage as she was on screen and on record. By the end of the night, I had that assurance and then some.
Here she is, I thought as she took her final bow. Here's the woman whose voice got me into singing, and whose extraordinary story reminds me and countless others that marching to the beat of one's own drum isn't a mark of shame but a badge of honor. Here she is. And there I was, the luckiest person in the world.
When it comes to singing, every lyric is a symbol, and Streisand, like all great vocalists, makes us understand what those symbols mean.
Never was this truer than during the evening's sterling finale. I swear, if the prior two hours had been a combination Justin Bieber-Ke$ha concert, it still would've been worth the exorbitant ticket prices just to see Barbra perform her eleven o' clock number. You'd expect one of her chart-topping hits. But among Barbra's innumerable talents is a knack for surprise, and she didn't disappoint. Instead, she trotted out "Make Our Garden Grow", a poignant Leonard Bernstein ballad that she recorded in the early 90's but never released. About half a decade after she committed it to wax, it made its way onto the internet, eventually becoming a fan favorite--and a personal favorite of mine. You don't expect your favorite artist to sing a song of theirs that never even technically saw the light of day, but there she was singing it all the same. I couldn't help but think of that old Tennessee Williams quote; "Sometimes there's God so quickly." The song, taken from the musical adaptation of Candide, is as touching as anything ever written for the theatre, a full-throated ode to the small, fragile joys that keep us afloat throughout life's raging storm;
"We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow."
Gently caressing the song's tender opening passages, Barbra built smartly and steadily to the operatic conclusion, delivering that earth-shaking final note with her singular power--the kind that, in Richard Rodgers' words, resembles nothing so much as "the lift of a climbing bird." Then, amidst an eruption of applause, she segued seamlessly into one of her greatest hits, "Somewhere", just as deeply affecting and defiantly hopeful as it was when she recorded it for The Broadway Album thirty long years ago. For those who were curious, here's where the tears finally fell. And here's where the crowd shot up out of their seats for the loudest ovation of the night.
After a seemingly endless series of bows, Streisand briefly vanished from the stage, then returned for two encores. The first was "Happy Days Are Here Again", which she famously duetted on with the late Judy Garland. Here, Barbra invited her sister Roslyn onstage to sing Judy's part, and their interplay was endearing as it was adorably genuine. The final tune was "Some Other Time"--a jazz standard like the kind a teenaged Barbra used to perform in crowded piano bars tucked away on bustling street corners. As I listened to the wistful lyrics ("Just when the fun is starting/Comes the time for parting"), I reflected back on the evening that was. It wasn't a perfect one; bringing along popera phenoms Il Volo to sing backup didn't detract from the show, but it didn't add much either, and it seemed rather silly to invite trumpeter Chris Botti along without having he and Barbra perform any of the pieces they've recorded together. But perfection was never what I was looking for. I wanted confirmation--confirmation that this woman who's inspired, intrigued, and moved me so was just as peerless onstage as she was on screen and on record. By the end of the night, I had that assurance and then some.
Here she is, I thought as she took her final bow. Here's the woman whose voice got me into singing, and whose extraordinary story reminds me and countless others that marching to the beat of one's own drum isn't a mark of shame but a badge of honor. Here she is. And there I was, the luckiest person in the world.
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