Judy, Judy, Judy

Judy Collins

 

I love Judy Collins — who doesn’t?

I saw her in concert last night. It was quite enjoyable, especially when we heard her singing — about half a dozen times, with an encore number thrown in for good measure.

The rest of the time she talked and joked about the weather and her glamorous life. The jokes were funny, the stories interesting enough. The singing was remarkable and she remembered most of the lyrics.

Her flight had been cancelled and she’d had to take a limo from Chicago. Her luggage and her guitar were lost in transition, but she soldiered on.

Good for her.

She was running on very little sleep from the night before — but whose fault was that? After all, that’s life in glamorous NYC.

I could forgive all that, on a good day, as did the audience.

What’s harder to pass over is the fact that we were made to listen to the opening act for far too long.

What lyrics we could make out were instantly forgotten. The piano playing was OK, but it all sounded the same.

The performer’s hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month and was dyed a color deliberately left out of nature.

There was a fair amount of screeching and foot stomping. I don’t know why. It seemed unfortunate in a musical event. As did the kazoo.

At one point she enjoined us to snap our fingers along with her.

When the audience declined, she said she’d thought we were folkies.

Maybe Judy could bring her up to speed with another history lesson.

 

 

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