My Diva: 65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them

Patti LuPone (1949): Patti’s Turn, In the Key of Diva

208 Patti LuPone Patti’s Turn, In the Key of Diva Jonathan Howle It is March 27, 2008: opening night for the newest Broadway revival of Gypsy, arguably the greatest musical ever. Here I sit, dead center, front row/front mezzanine of the St. James Theater. Lauren Bacall is sitting directly below me in the orchestra! The atmosphere is electrifying. The show was to start at 6:45, but it’s almost 7:10. However, the delay is nothing when you consider that this night was never supposed to happen. Even Patti LuPone’s most loyal fans had once resigned themselves to that fact. (Back in the ’80s, a major fall-out with the show’s book writer, Arthur Laurents, prompted him to publicly decry that she would never play Mama Rose.) But 209 that was then; fortunately, they kissed and made up. And she will be marching down the aisle any minute now. Only . . . everyone around me is talking about the wrong things: American Idol, Bernadette Peters, Mayor Bloomberg, leg room, and get this, Whole Foods! While in my mind serious questions are swirling: How will Patti not be paralyzed by all the money at stake, all the longings of those who want her to succeed, and all the inevitable secret desires of those who want to see her fail miserably? (After all, just nine months earlier, the chief theater critic for the New York Times, Ben Brantley, was not impressed by LuPone’s Mama Rose in a concert version of the show.) So what if these reviews don’t glow too? And the musical closes next week? What if this is such a flop, Patti publicly vows never to sing in New York again? Beads of sweat trickle down my face. My friend asks if I am all right, to which I reply, “My mother might as well be opening on Broadway tonight.” Suddenly, the lights dim. I’ve never really believed in out-ofbody experiences. Until now—this night. I am about to discover that when a gay man finds himself in the same room with his first (and ultimate) diva, strange, marvelous, frightening, and most of all, enlightening, things can happen. Opening Bars They’re a call to action. Sit down, shut up, and take notice. You are in the presence of greatness. Suddenly, on stage I see myself at age seventeen. Listening, really listening, to Patti for the first time. I’d heard her vocal prowess on the recordings of Evita and Anything Goes before, but it was her live recording of “Being Alive” at Carnegie Hall that did it. I wish I could articulate exactly what it is about her voice. It’s not just the typical “Broadway diva” voice. All I know is that once I heard this song I never listened to music the same way again. Patti LuPone 210 “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” More applause. Perhaps the most widely recognized song from the show. Brassy and rapturous—it ends act 1. The opening scene disappears, and now I see myself in October 1996: the first time I ever saw Patti live, in Terrence McNally’s play Master Class. It was a Saturday afternoon, and there were hurricane-sized rains and winds in New York. No other meteorological scenario would have been more appropriate. It was my sophomore year of college, a rather confusing time. I was not out; in fact, I was doing everything I could think of to turn straight, including rushing a fraternity. I figured if I could get in, that meant I was heterosexual. That I would live out the AllAmerican -Preacher’s-Kid dream my parents had planned for me. Although I can laugh now about it quite heartily, getting rejected was quite painful for me then. However, as I walked from the Howard Johnson’s restaurant (which I miss terribly) to the John Golden Theater that afternoon , for the first time in weeks, I did not think about that frat and the rejection. Instead I was nauseated, giddy, and just overwhelmed that this woman, previously only real to me on tape and CD, was about to appear. In the flesh. When the doors to the set opened, and she walked through them, again, it was a defining moment that renewed my confidence . When I returned home to North Carolina, that frat experience was fully behind me. The only pledge I could...