It is possible to arrive at a Judy Garland concert, if one is not a believer, in a state of considerable nausea. The listener knows more than he cares to know about Judy's perpetual troubles—with studios, husbands, nightclub owners, food and the British press. He knows also that Judy has sung Over the Rainbow over and over since she was 17, and that she will sing it again, sure as there is ooze in Oz. Worst of all, there will be the Garland believers who clap wildly and weep like new widows at anything Judy does onstage.
At Carnegie Hall last week, in her latest of many comebacks, all malaise seemed justified. The elegant old music box was jammed, notably with Hollywood stars, starlets, starlettes, and lesser celestial debris. When Judy strode onstage (she is probably the only woman of 5 ft. ½ in. who can stride), she got, without opening her mouth, what it takes Renata Tebaldi two and a half hours of Puccini to achieve: a standing, screaming ovation that lasted almost five minutes. As the hoarse shouts dwindled, one could hear an undertow: "She's much, much thinner," "She seems very stable."
Lungs & Pizaz. The title of the first song, When You're Smiling, made its point a little too muscularly. But this made no difference. By the first, trumpet-clear, high hard note in the first verse, the woozy feeling had disappeared. Judy swung into a bouncy Almost Like Being in Love, blared with humor in Puttin' On the Ritz, wept her words in The Man That Got Away, and brought down the first-act curtain with a ringing, roistering San Francisco. Long before this, the neutral auditor had realized again (one goes through this every time Judy Garland comes to town) that untidy life, maudlin fans and cornball repertoire did not mean much. There are not many good girl singers these days, although there are plenty of echo-chamber yowlers, and there is no one who can come within miles, or ergs, of Judy. She has, in addition to lungs, clarity, drive and rhythm, an incredible amount of nostalgic pizaz, a quality in bad repute largely because it is so unpleasant when it is faked.
Fan-Fanned Lather. Life is going relatively smoothly these days for Judy. She has toured successfully since February, with a short break to play a brief dramatic role in Stanley Kramer's film Judgment at Nuremberg. She will soon tape a television show for next season, is considering a Broadway show. Most important, Judy, at 38, is singing at her best, far above the level of two years ago, when she appeared, puffy-faced and uncertain, at Manhattan's Met.
She proved it last week by coming back for a second act even better than the first. She sang quietly, to the piano, a haunting Foggy Day, and got standing ovations—legitimate this time, not fan-fanned—for Come Rain or Come Shine and RockABye Your Baby with a Dixie Melody.
Eventually, of course, the ooze began to flow again. Judy wound up with Over the Rainbow, and her children were hoisted, blinking, onstage while the believers covered themselves with lather. A nonbeliever could only edge quietly out of the hall, knowing that he had heard the best belter in the business.