Why Judy matters.

April is all about Judy Garland this year, with Turner Classic Movies featuring her films all month and Warner Home Video issuing five of her classic films on DVD--most notably Meet Me in St. Louis, with extras including a new introduction by Liza Minnelli. But isn't Garland a preoccupation of gay generations past? Should younger gay men care? Dave White reflects on his own journey to Judy.

"Crazy pill-popping drunk." That's the most frequent response I receive when I throw out the name Judy Garland to an under-40 group of queer men. And that answer only narrowly noses out "Tragic, pathetic mess who married fags." Why am I totally not surprised that not a single one says anything remotely akin to "Oh. God, I weep when she does 'Over The Rainbow!' "? In fact, when I ask them about her singing, none respond with enthusiasm. One says: "Her voice was wiggly."

I was like my friends once, the gay men of generations X and Y. the ones who worship Bjork or Whitney Houston or Annie Lennox or Christina Aguilera or a dozen other dance music divas like Kylie or Deborah Cox, the ones for whom the end of the sentence that begins with "Clang, clang, clang" is nothing, a blank stare. Judy is dead: long live Madonna.

Indeed, once upon a time I was even less interested than they. I was actively hostile toward the very idea of Judy Garland. If asked for preferences, I'd spit out names like the Plasmatics' Wendy O. Williams and Diamanda Galas. Maybe MC Lyte. I was very punk rock and very proud of myself for not being that kind of fag, that kind of queen. Judy was nothing more than an old-school gay pride balloon I waned to see burst into flames.

And then my boyfriend dragged me to a museum screening of A Star Is Born. I resisted. He insisted. I went out of duty to our domestic partnership. And I not only heard her sing but saw her entire body heave forward off the screen while she did it. The woman lunged at her audience like she was having a fit, like a female Johnny Rotten.

It reminded me of seeing my favorite band, Sonic Youth, the first time back in the '80s, and being turned inside out by their noise, being made to feel as if my head would explode. Judy Garland had just done the same thing to me. And she was dead, a recording; she was doing it from a piece of 50-year-old film, and I was converted. My boyfriend likes to take credit for this moment whenever he thinks I'm getting too "kewl" for my own good.

These days, if I were trying to convince someone to think about Judy, I wouldn't use the word "gay" in my argument. It's not important. The woman was awesomely talented, but the gay thing, that old gateway to her, is now a stumbling block. Frankly, gays don't need her anymore. Her life sucked. Ours are just fine. Mine is especially fine because I just got back from the record store. My purchases: a CD by Suffocation--my favorite death-metal band--and Judy at Carnegie Hall. I weep when she sings "The Man That Got Away."

White writes about film for E! Online.