- Columbus, OH - October 8, 1967 -

Garland Image Dead
By John Huddy - Columbus Dispatch

It has been said that those who come to see Judy Garland perform come not to see a human being, an entertainer, or even a legend at first hand on stage.  Instead, it has been observed, they come to see a Circus Maximus, a gladiator's arena, an Indianapolis 500, a bloodied boxing ring... in short, a gruesome, frightening, suspenseful disaster.  Will she show up, will she arrive on time, will she finish the show, will she collapse onstage, will she suddenly stop singing and cry, will she hit that high note?  Just one thin dime folks, or five bucks, or 10 dollars.  She, the disaster, in person, on stage.

Those who came to see such a disaster, such an awful spectacle, saw exactly that Saturday night.  They got their money's worth.  Miss Garland, groggy and slurred in speech -- from what I won't even begin to guess -- stumbled through a pathetic if not horrible hour of the worst singing -- entertaining I have ever seen or heard in my life.  And I'm not talking just about professional performances as seen in the last few years in Columbus -- I'm talking about worse than all the poorest of the amateur productions I've seen, too.

Forgetting words, forgetting songs, and apparently even forgetting where she was or what she was doing, Miss Garland -- whether exploited or exploiting -- appeared to be trying to jam a lifetime of heartache, failure, emotional problems, and just plain misery into a voice that sounded worse than a piece of chalk shrieking across a blackboard.  Most of the time her voice simply cracked.  Other times she was forced to stop, mumble incoherently, and then restart, only to falter again.  At one point in the evening she picked up a glass and toasted the audience.  "Gotta keep up my image ya' know," she slurred.  Later after kicking off her shoe across the stage and clearing her throat several times in the microphone, Miss Garland moaned: "I hardly know where to (voice cracks) turn."  And she didn't.

Yet despite such a performance, there was one thing worse Saturday night and only the fact that I'll be in the Marines at Cherry Point by the time this appears in print, gives me the courage enough to say it.  What could be worse than a tired, tortured Judy Garland involved in such a merciless spectacle?  The answer:  Those who make it possible, the Judy Garland 'fans'.  They scream and run up and down the aisles before before the show starts and holler "I love you Judy," so that Judy can project cuteness and warmth and fragility and say, "Why thank you, honey," or "You're a dear to say that."  These people, and their willingness to spend thousands of dollars whenever Miss Garland appears, is the answer to why a woman with the past greatness of Garland subjects herself to such a terrible exploitation.  If it were almost anyone else but the delightful little girl in OZ, I'd say, oh well, it is just another way to make a buck.  But I know now that whenever again I see that pretty little girl, or hear TROLLEY SONG or OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD, I won't be able to think of that lovely, talented, magical child.

Instead, that nightmare of a tired, tired woman will appear.  A legend self destroyed.