Liza Minnelli

When speaking of Liza (with a "Z," natch), it's very easy to recede to the terrain of cliché. So much has already been said about her, that I would rather not grasp for words or dodge hyperbole to describe this infinitely endearing, massively talented, piercingly beautiful performer. Instead, allow me to reprint S.K. Oberbeck's sharply-observed liner notes from the 1972 recording of Minnelli's 1969 concert: Liza Minnelli: Live At The Olympia In Paris.

"Stars may be born, but that genetic genius has to be molded, tempered and mellowed with effort and experience. Liza is a worker, an inspired plugger even, a pro. . . On stage, she's a prancing, rocking curvy pressure-cooker threatening to explode, velvety voice questing for the top, silver bracelets flashing in the spotlights, tossing gem-like trajectories of sweat from that dripping "Cabaret" coif and swinging her arms wide to drink the energy the audience gives back. . . On screen, she gently zaps you with those liquid, chestnut Elsie Borden eyes, or pouts you into chuckles or makes you feel the sudden stitch of old hurts with a sad wince. But she can bump-and-grind you into guffaws or nail you with an icy stare down that foxy nose and regally dispose of you like limp Kleenex. . . But there's much more than that. Beneath the effervescent la-la-la and the misty-quay melancholy is a vibrant, bright young woman who knows how to sing her heart out—and loves it."

When the album was reissued for the CD in 1994, Oberbeck rewrote the essay to include this sentence:
"Also, there was a time in 1984, in between Arthur and Arthur 2: On the Rocks, when Minnelli accidentally caught on fire."