I didn't come to bury Barbra, but I'll admit I was a little skeptical. Her career has been so embalmed by her perfectionism that I'd basically given up. Talk about peeing up my back and calling it rain -- you can't sing an endless succession of the same old ballads in the same old excruciatingly careful way and call it jazz just because there's a piano-player noodling around behind you.
But sure, I watched the telecast of Babs' "Back to Brooklyn" concert. No matter how divided my loyalty, it was a Big Event. Bottom line? The faults I expected are still to be found, like the pretensions of her spoken song intros. Oy. They're mini-episodes of Babs' Road to Achieving Inner Serenity and World Peace. Years ago she played a yeshiva student; since then, she's graduated to Rebbetzin.
And the longueurs of all those ballads, in warm-bath arrangements that are at first anodyne, then anesthetic. And the pandering shtick, with shots of audience members dissolved in tears, and the manipulative moment of her singing "Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long" to a six-year-old boy in the audience who's cynically been wired up for sound so his participation can be heard. And the special material that ain't that special, especially the couple of songs effortfully re-written in praise of a hometown she wrote off so long ago. The jokes sound like Babs wrote them herself. Where's Bruce Vilanch when we need him?
And Jason. Babs' son. It's a little embarrassing when they lock eyes to swear eternal love by singing "How Deep Is the Ocean" at each other. Yet another ballad, and not helped by Jason's thin, toneless voice. If his mom's name weren't Babs, he'd never be on a stage. And yet she's so proud of him. And she doesn't introduce him as a singer. He's "My son, Jason." Oy, such nachas. On the other hand, Jason's 46. It's time for Babs to stop treating him like Bubeleh. As for the solo he gets, his mother may kvell, but the rest of us will be reaching for the remote. Sing a duet with the old broad if she wants you to, Jason. But then get off the stage.
Okay, okay, there's all of that. But there's also so much really great stuff that I'm a fan all over again. Halfway through the show I went online and bought a DVD/CD combo (it's really cheap!). The chaptering unfortunately doesn't separate the intros from the songs, but the sound recording is the best a live concert ever had. Why isn't there a Blu-ray? Is Babs concerned about the pitilessness of a Blu-ray close-up? Who cares if she's had work done? It's the world's best. Hello, gorgeous. And you know what? She got over her fear of flying. She's relaxed, loose, obviously having a good time.
She's gratified by the audience's reaction, takes pleasure in giving her performance to them, even genuinely announces regrets at not having done more concerts. Makes me wonder what other late-career regrets she might have about cocooning herself the way she has. My god, she could have sung Jacques Brel, she could have filmed A Little Night Music . On and on, the first-class projects she could have done. I'm sorry, I haven't come to bury Babs. It's not too late for her to film Sunset Blvd., and someone should tip her off about Dear World. At any rate, there's no regret about this concert.
Her voice? She's singing beautifully, and even seems to have conquered a lot of that inhibiting perfectionism. With extreme help from her mic, she's got a couple of money notes that sound belted. She can't put much pressure on the voice, so she works at lower volumes, but there's a freeing security in what she does, and her breath control is still impressive. And - this is really swell - she has accepted and doesn't try to mask the husky grain that's a natural development of age. It sounds good to me, authentic, and it even ameliorates her much-satirized nasality.
Babs goes for variety by singing duets with guest stars, trumpeter Chris Botti and teenage cutie Italian tenors Il Volo, but only on more ballads. As for her proposed film remake of Gypsy, well wow, how skeptic can I get? She squelched that in the smart moves of a medley, replacing the traditional belt she can't do on "Some People" with a staccato punchiness for each word that still delivers the song's pow. Made me think, "You go girl, make that movie!"
Then there's the not-to-be-missed great thrill of Babs' finale, the Bernstein/Wilbur anthem from Candide, "Make Our Garden Grow." It's overwhelming, with Babs' voice soaring above a symphony orchestra, the trumpeter, the Italian tenors and the hundred-voiced Brooklyn Youth Chorus. You know how everything these days gets a standing ovation? I stood up in my living room, clapping away.