diva
diva | noun; late 19th century origin, via Italian from latin, literally ‘goddess’
- a famous female opera singer
- a famous female singer of popular music
- a self-important person who is temperamental and difficult to please (typically used of a woman)
Thanks, Oxford, but you missed an essential piece of the definition.
- a performer who inspires, comforts, advocates for, and motivates gay men
When Beyoncé dropped her latest single to coincide with the summer solstice, she not only (rather poetically) reclaimed the crown for song-of-the-summer. By developing a song with explicit roots in Black and queer cultures, heavily sampling queer bounce icon Big Freedia, and releasing the single at the height of Pride festivities, she reinforced her status among the great — and I don’t use this word lightly — divas.
The title is thrown around quite a bit — overused, even. The gays anointed various divas over the generations. They didn’t earn the title for their talent or sheer celebrity. Somehow, they channeled into their performances all the words and emotions and desires that their gay audiences couldn’t express, and a kind of empathetic loyalty emerged. The gays remained devoted fans, bought their records, and showed up to their concerts. When they recognized that loyalty, the true divas reciprocated by advocating for queer people and rights, which, in the mid-20th century could’ve included just being seen and photographed with queer people, and continuing to funnel their unrequited passions and deep angers into their art.
Marlene Dietrich. Lena Horne. Judy Garland. Ella Fitzgerald. Barbra Streisand. Cher. Dolly Parton. Angela Lansbury. Bette Midler. Liza Minnelli (not Lisa Manulli). Diana Ross. Freddy Mercury. Patti LaBelle. Madonna. Bernadette Peters. Cyndi Lauper. Prince. Whitney Houston. Kylie Minogue. Gloria Estefan. Robyn. Elton John. Janet Jackson. Mariah Carey. Celine Dion. Audra McDonald. J Lo. Selena. Britney Spears. Lady Gaga. Beyoncé. Katy Perry…the list goes on. It also varies from culture to culture, from subculture to subculture. Actually, there’s no official list. There certainly isn’t unity of opinion about who qualifies and their relative status to each other. I was once in a bar with two friends, each of whom is a smart, engaging, thoughtful, and successful-in-his-field person. When the subject of divas came up, one insisted that Madonna is the greatest of all time, the other Beyoncé. They praised and spouted statistics. Then the phones came out for the Battle of the YouTube Clips. They locked horns, raised their voices, and I actually had to call a time-out to prevent a physical altercation. (I initially typed “fist fight,” but I’m not sure the gays know how to do that.) This moment reinforced two things for me: first, the loyalty of gays to divas is fierce; second, all respect to Beyoncé, but the Madonnawannabe was right. I kid; really, it reinforced the reality that each person identifies his own devotions and constructs his own pantheon. Rob Anderson brilliantly skewers — and devotedly magnifies — these devotions in Diva Worship: The Book of Gay Religions. In the pantheon I’ve constructed, these are the luminaries who rise above the rest, in whose performances I’ve heard my own story, seen my own anguish, imagined my own joy, and whose lives on stage and off build the kind of world I want to live in.
So why do the gays get to identify the divas? Well, fun fact: Article 16 of the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights states, “The gays of every generation will anoint divas.” JK. Article 16 protects equal rights to marriage, but I think the divas thing is implied. Really, the relationship between gay men and divas is less of an “institution” and more a meeting of profound needs and energies, even a mystical (collapsing the normal boundaries of space and time) encounter, but one man’s mystical encounter is another’s capitalist venture. Commercial interests try to institutionalize our divas, but it’s not a product to be manufactured and packaged. It’s an encounter to be sought. One doesn’t package it — one prepares for it with practice and devotion, though one never knows when and where the lightning bolt will strike. And I’ve been lucky to be struck by that lightning many times. I’ve found myself in the presence of some of the greats, and each revealed something to me about the world, about art and performance, and, importantly, about myself.
Liza
I saw Liza perform in the late 2000s. She was touring with a show that eventually landed on Broadway. The first half was classic Liza, but the second was a tribute to her godmother, unsung showbiz heroine Kay Thompson. She sang and warbled, she Fossed and flounced, and she ended each number, whether ballad or uptempo, with one arm dramatically stretched toward the heavens. It killed every time.
The performance space was a large, tented, theater-in-the-round, with sloping aisles that connected exits to the stage like spokes. With no backstage or curtain to pop behind for a costume change or to catch her breath, Liza would run up one of the aisles between numbers or during her backup dancers’ routines. More interested in Liza than her dancers, I kept an eye on her as she traipsed up the aisle and was delighted to watch her meet an assistant who had a glass of water in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Oh, that is how you do it, I thought.
During intermission, my friends and I stepped out of the theater tent for our own glasses of wine and to catch a quick smoke (it was the 2000s…all the gays smoked back then…and if they didn’t smoke, they smelled like they did because they never wanted to be abandoned inside when all of the cool kids stepped out for a little, um, fresh air). An announcement pulled most of the loitering crowd back inside, but we hadn’t finished either our drinks or our cigarettes, so we lingered. Then, to our elation, Liza emerged from her dressing room in an adjacent building and, instead of being shuttled into the theater by stagehands, she greeted us, the dozen-or-so fans who were in no rush to return to our seats. We applauded, we gushed, and she gushed back. Then she approached a woman who was smoking and took the cigarette from her hand, saying, “Oh, what’s this? I’ve never seen one of these before.” To laughter and stifled applause (between wine and cigs, most of us only had one hand free), she inhaled and almost finished the cigarette in one drag. “Thank you, darling,” she said, handing it back, and with bright eyes that said it’s showtime, she sauntered over to her entrance spot while we rushed back to our seats.
Instead of a rehearsed encore, she invited requests, but after a few shouts for “Over the Rainbow,” the song that skyrocketed her mother to stardom, she replied, “I have three words for you.” She extended her hand, poised to pop one finger for each word, and continued percussively “It’s. Been. Done.” I’d never respected her more. I’d never respected any performer more. Before she sang “New York, New York,” Liza said, recycling a jab she’s used many times, “You know, people think Frank Sinatra was the first one to sing this,” followed by her trademark giggle with a sharp inhale. I got goosebumps…not from the song (which was fabulous) but from her bold retrieval of the hit from the clutches of Old Blue Eyes and her reassertion of her place in the pop culture pantheon.
Madonna
I’m not actually sure when my personal obsession with Madonna took root. Maybe it was seeing “Holiday” and “Like a Virgin” on the 4:00pm music video hour on channel 44 as a burgeoning tween. Maybe it was hearing (and frequently singing to myself) “Vogue” everywhere while I was in high school. Maybe it was just a matter of fate, a predictable consequence of being born a gay man in the same world and lifetime as Ms. Ciccone.
In grad school, I wrote a 30-page research paper on Madonna based on a thorough review of “Madonna Studies” (a burst of academic interest in the 1990s from theologians, philosophers, anthropologists, sociologists, queer and feminist theorists, and cultural critics who didn’t know what to do with a female pop star who wouldn’t conform to cultural and industry standards) and a close reading of her 1998 album, Ray of Light. My research helped me hone my own lens for understanding how the intersections of identity and art shape culture, but it also highlighted how Madonna, in particular, was an outlier in both the industry and the culture, a beacon of something new. Ever since, anyone within 10 feet of me when the video for “Like A Prayer” plays has been subjected to my enthusiastic lecture about the videos’ true innovation — integrating medieval spirituality, the modern fight for civil rights, and feminist discourse.
My research also opened my eyes to the way Madonna uses her platform for social activism and advocacy. Much of this is summed up in an interview for VH1 in 1990, on the heels of “Like A Prayer” and amid the launch of “Vogue.” Clarifying the interviewer’s question, she said, “Now, what sort of things make me angry? Racism. Sexism. Bigotry. Homophobia. Ignorance.” She doesn’t just get angry — she channels that anger into her music and videos and shares her platform with voices marginalized by these ills. She integrated a mystical encounter and burning crosses into “Like A Prayer.” She paid homage to and celebrated the queer culture of the Harlem Ball scene in “Vogue.” Instead of receding from political, cultural, and religious commentary, her most recent album, Madame X, accelerates it, maybe reflecting both the variety and urgency of current social threats. The video for “Dark Ballet” blends the piety and vocation of Jeanne d’Arc, the music of gay composer Tchaikovsky, and the stunning presence and performance of trans artist Mykki Blanco into a stark indictment of repressive institutions. “God Control” feels like a eulogy for the victims of the Pulse Nightclub massacre and for all victims of gun violence that both satirizes willful public ignorance and tries to shake viewers out of the grip of apathy. The track for “I Rise” samples the speeches of student activists who survived the shooting at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas. “Batuka” mourns the history of slavery and honors the Cabo Verdean performers who preserve and breathe new life into centuries-old musical traditions that carry their own history of survival.
Until I was 30, my devotion to Madonna was from afar, but in 2006 my ex and I scored tickets for the Confessions tour — 9th row, center, right next to the catwalk that extended toward the middle of the arena. When the show began, she (appeared to have) descended from a giant disco ball that dropped from the ceiling and opened like a lotus at the end of the catwalk. Moments later, she was dancing and singing and prancing back and forth before me. At one point, I swear that her sweat dripped on me. I was ecstatic. After the concert, a friend who could see me from his seat across the catwalk and a few rows back told me that any time Madonna came near me, I appeared to levitate a few inches off the ground. He couldn’t see, though, the tears that flowed down my cheeks when she rose on a giant, mirrored cross in a crown of thorns and sang “Live to Tell” while excerpts from the parable of sheeps and goats in the Gospel of Matthew and statistics of the continuing ravages of AIDS in Africa floated on screens above her.
Angela
“You know, she was only 17 when she made Gaslight. And she was nominated for an Oscar for it!” My mother was the original Pop Up Video. Well, not the video part, but watching any movie or TV show with her meant a flurry of uninvited and mostly trivial factoids about actors on screen or anecdotes about the production. That’s how I learned the essentials of Hollywood, like the fact that Lionel Barrymore was debilitated by syphilis, not polio. #themoreyouknow
I always thought that little nugget about Angela Lansbury in Gaslight was fascinating. The film featured a cast of Hollywood greats — Charles Boyer, Joseph Cotten, and Ingrid Bergamn (who won an Oscar for her performance) — but it was Lansbury’s first film role. She’d earn another nomination a year later for The Picture of Dorian Grey and another seventeen years after that for The Manchurian Candidate, but, my mother explained, “Hollywood didn’t know what to do with her. You know, she was only three years older than what’s-his-name who played her son?!”
When Hollywood turned her nose up at her, Broadway embraced her. Before the name J.B. Fletcher was printed in the TV Guide, the gays had already embraced Ms. Lansbury for her Mame Dennis, Countess Aurelia, Mama Rose, and Nellie Lovett. Without knowing it, I’d apparently completed the curriculum for Gay 101 — by the time Murder, She Wrote was canceled, I had learned the scores of the Broadway shows she starred in and through which she swept the Tonys. See, I’d come to revere her not just as a great talent but as someone who was uniquely resilient in a harsh industry. That’s what made her a friend to outsiders in the industry. That’s what made her recruit a slew of character actors who’d been overlooked, cast aside, or blacklisted by Hollywood for featured roles in Murder, She Wrote.
I finally got to see her perform in Deuce. The play wasn’t great (I mean, if you’re interested in two old ladies hashing out the drama of their glory days as professional tennis players, it’s a fabulous script), but, even at 82, Lansbury was magnetic. A couple of years later, the revival of Blithe Spirit gave her a chance to channel the McGonagill goofiness inherited from her mother as the campy medium Madame Arcati, and I delighted in every caricaturistic gesture she pulled. But my favorite live encounter with Ms. Lansbury was in the revival of my favorite Sondheim score, A Little Night Music. As the wheelchair-bound, aged courtesan, she only left the chair once for dramatic effect during “Liaisons,” and the quarter-of-a-second delay in most of her dialogue betrayed that she was being fed lines through the piece in her ear. Still, at 85, the fact that she was on stage 8 times a week was enough for my respect, and to hear Lansbury sing Sondheim was enough to make me weep.
One of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received came from a colleague in my first year as a middle school principal. Apparently, the way I talked about Angela Lansbury made an impression, so, with a letter to the actress explaining my lifelong love and admiration for her, she ordered an autographed headshot. I’d never felt more known.
Bernadette
I’m 12. I’m in the backseat of a car, my sister and her husband are in the front seats. Somehow, the topic of favorite performers comes up.
“Bernadette Peters,” I said, indicating my favorite, “because she’s a passionate actress.”
My sister and her husband looked at each other and kindly stifled their laughter at my response. For the record, the only things I’d ever seen Peters in by that point included an episode of The Muppet Show and Annie, so what did I know?
I’ve re-lived this most-cringeworthy moment many times in my mind, but I’ve never been able to explain my response. Maybe I caught a glimpse of Sunday in the Park with George playing on PBS. Maybe I heard interviews of her on the radio. No. The only logical, rational, and scientific explanation is that it’s inherent gay wisdom. Like a reincarnated lama or a regenerated Doctor Who, I came into this world with essential knowledge, including the fact that Bernadette Peters is a passionate actress. When Into the Woods came out, I played the CD endlessly. I knew that score backwards and forwards and had come to appreciate the nuance of Joanna Gleason, the effortless tone of Robert Westenberg, and the deep insights woven into Sondheim’s lyrics, but most of all, I wanted to sound like Peters, who blended irony and earnestness, satire and grief into the role of the Witch.
I saw the revival of A Little Night Music twice. The first time included the opening night cast, including the glorious Angela Lansbury and the deeply underwhelming Catherine Zeta-Jones. They were replaced by a consistently two-seconds-behind-the-beat Elaine Stritch and Bernadette Peters. By the time intermission came, I was ready to lobby for the Theater Wing to rescind Zeta-Jones’ Tony and give it to Peters. A couple of years later, when I was living in DC, Peters joined the revival of Follies at the Kennedy Center. The entire production was a heavenly gutpunch. So beautifully done, so perfectly performed by a cast of stage legends — Jan Maxwell, Danny Burstein, Ron Raines, Elaine Paige, and even freakin’ Linda Lavin. That’s right, the Alice of Alice was that night’s Broadway Baby. But Bernadette…in the first act, Peters’ Sally built the tension of the show subtly, but her tormented “Losing My Mind” in the second act left me weeping in my seat. Weeping from the grief that tore through the song, and weeping from the joy that, after all these years, I finally had proof that my closeted, 12 year old self was right.
