I found the John Meyer book slimy. Not that I doubt a word of it. I never thought I would say something like this, but it was just more than I needed to know. Not that there were any surprises. Cut off from her family, fans became her enablers. It's pathetic from everybody's angle, hers, theirs, hers again. It's not like a Hollywood movie like "Too Much, Too Soon." More like "Too Much, Too Late" directed by John Waters, but no poop eating. Judy's a hoot throughout, but it's not funny. Perhaps if there'd been poop eating.
I feel a kind of shame for being a witness to this. I have never wanted to feel personally involved in her instability. I respect her work. And I need to retain a professional registration. So it'll take a few days to shake off this feeling of, well, slime. (Surely the upcoming US Postal Stamp commemorative ceremony at Carnegie Hall plus Rufus Wainwright's Carnegie Hall tribute concerts will wash it away, and it will be all in good time.)
The CD disappoints, as the tape recorder is closer to the piano than to her voice. And it's just a rehearsal. He's unfamiliar with the arrangements, her keys; she doesn't know the words. But occasionally when she sings it's astounding. I had thought her voice was completely shot by that time, but she was still capable of singing well. And she learned a brand new song in a manner of minutes. Admittedly it's a simple song. But in the last few months of her life she could still sing well and learn new material at the lightning speed she'd always been known for.