like a silver knife
Strings that paint with my fingertips
All the colours that make up my life
• • •
Prince Philip, upon hearing a demo that I sent him, wrote to say my poetic lyrics were “brilliant” and that he wished me good luck as a singer, kindly adding, “Is there no end to your talents?”
His encouragement and support touched me, giving me confidence as I embarked on a new phase of my career. Along with his words of praise, however, he also sent me a gentle admonishment, teasing me for still using my gold embossed Beverly Hills stationery. “Get some new writing paper!” he wrote, but it would be years before I did. Yes, Prince Philip didn’t miss a thing and I smiled remembering how in Glasgow he had commented that my shabby footstool had seen better days.
• • •
At Srdjan’s suggestion, I decided to fly to Europe to meet his former teacher, Djelo Jusic, the “Beethoven of Croatia.” Hugely accomplished and highly regarded in his homeland, he was a man with a wide range of experience, having written symphonies, operas, ballets, and concertos — including one for the guitar — as well as many popular songs and ballads that drew on folk traditions. To my English ears, Croatian music seemed a fascinating blend — borrowing from the soulful qualities of Russian music and the romanticism of Italian melody.
On my birthday, while walking down from my hotel to the town square, I had written the lyrics to “Family Forever,” based on Djelo Jusic’s arrangement of “Nicoletta.” The same day I had a magical encounter with the maestro. I spoke no Croatian and he spoke no English, which perhaps made our brief rendezvous even more poignant. Here is an extract from my journal that I wrote in the form of a letter to him after I had returned to Miami.
How could I forget my birthday in Dubrovnik? The grey, rain-filled morning skies as I ran down the hill over puddles to meet you in the Stradun café, wondering if you would arrive or leave me waiting alone again as you had two days earlier.... The pilgrims in plastic raincoats who tied a silver saint medallion around my neck and handed me a knotted string rosary ... then you and the sun suddenly appearing together ... two frothy cappuccinos and your pipe smoke in the wind as I sang you my words to “Kapetanis” and “Dobro Jutro, Margareta.” A white bag filled with bright red tomatoes swinging in your hands as we walked up the hill past the old city walls and moat, our arms linked together under a black umbrella ... the steep climb up your steps to your house, walls full of posters, gold and platinum albums, your collection of sculptures, pipes, scores and erasers, and your unmade bed. And then your music ... your delicate, powerful guitar concerto, your film score evoking the sun and rain, the birds and the horrors of war in your beautiful city ... your love songs, your ballet. You cut the medallion off my neck and brought me tea from England, slices of cantaloupe from the market, marzipan chocolates and socks to warm my feet ... and then the summer skies exploded and the rain began to fall like crazy on the rooftops ... lightning striking over and over again the island Lokrum, while thunder crashed in time to your symphonic timpani rolls. You played some of my CD, “Moorish Dance” and Tárrega’s “Gran Jota,” until suddenly the power cut out and all we heard was the incessant pounding of the deluge as we watched in awe from your balcony, your arms around my waist. You played me the piano while standing there, then one of your CDs as the power returned and we started to dance a waltz ... your music, my music, your hands, my hands, your arms around me and the brush of your lips against my neck, the touch of your silver hair and our cheeks drawing closer to end in a gentle kiss as the music played and the rain weakened ... that unexpected birthday afternoon in Dubrovnik with you, the music, and the rain.
Maestro Jusic and I bid each other farewell after that one kiss, but I often thought of what a special moment it was: a tender gesture of mutual appreciation between two creative souls. His gift to me of the international publishing rights to his four songs had been accompanied by a precious memory, and I knew that it was now my mission to bring his melodies to the world.
Srdjan, anxious to show me his city, arrived in Dubrovnik with his brother, Givo, who had brokered a deal to open the new Hilton Hotel. We spent a star-filled evening at Givo’s magnificent home overlooking the Adriatic listening to a variety of singing groups and meeting Srdjan’s musician and dancer friends from his former folk ensembles, Liju and Maestral. At Srdjan’s insistence, I bravely sang with him our “Little Seabird” song, even though it was one o’clock in the morning. There was magic in the air that night. Dubrovnik left me feeling rejuvenated and inspired as a composer and as a singer.
• • •
Later that year, I flew up to Orlando to attend a three-day conference by one of my favourite New Age writers, Dr. Wayne Dyer. I had the good fortune to chat with him about music and even massage his foot since he had conveniently collapsed in front of me with an acute pain in his ankle that he thought was a spider bite. Wayne was as close to a “holy man” as any I had known, and was one not supposed to honour holy men by with bathing their feet? Offering a massage seemed the next best thing. Until the paramedics arrived Dr. Dyer and his foot were all mine! I bought Wayne’s books and tapes, and his words of advice rang in my ears: “Don’t die with your music still in you.” I did not intend to; although, at times I despaired of ever performing live onstage again. No doubt, this new persona of singer-songwriter that I was determined to become would present some huge challenges. I hoped Eleanor Roosevelt’s famous quote about those who believe in the beauty of their dreams might apply to me.
Every day I played my guitar, still struggling to coordinate my right-hand finger movements, but somehow managing to execute all the basics needed for our songs. Srdjan helped me arrange the piece I had written for Jack when I first fell in love with him and which I had played at our wedding. “Lullaby for My Love” became simply “Lullaby.” Even though the new lyrics had not been written for anyone in particular, I think they are particularly beautiful and could be sung to either a lover or a child.
Srdjan possessed an exceptional whistling technique that he had developed as a youngster and, encouraged by me, he added it to some of the songs. I took the ideas and melodies of two songs I had originally written in Spanish as “Eres Tu La Gloria de Mi Vida” and “Llevame Contigo,” and changed them into “One in a Million” and “My Gypsy Lover,” the lyrics for which were very loosely inspired by Garcia Lorca’s poem “The Unfaithful Wife,” one of the poems I had discussed with Leonard Cohen over tea in Beverly Hills.
Givo, Srdjan’s brother, suggested I write an English lyric to “Caruso,” one of Europe’s biggest-selling songs, a song with a searingly intense melody. I came up with some poignant English lyrics and called it “Why Must You Leave Me Now,” the only truly sad song on the CD. Securing the rights to that particular song as well as to Julio Iglesias’s “Abrazame,” which I reinvented as “Make Love to Me,” took an entire year of delicate negotiating with the Madrid and Milan publishing houses.
With all these poetic and romantic lyrics that I had been writing I knew that a special kind of classical guitar and vocal duo was being born, and I hoped fervently that the right agent or manager would soon discover us! I flew up to New Jersey for rehearsals with Srdjan, staying at his home with his family or at nearby hotel, or he came to Miami, which he loved, particularly in the winter months. Looking back on my days of writing melodies and lyrics, bathing in the joys of creativity, and suffused with hope for the future, I now realize they were among my very happiest since first meeting Jack in California. Each tropical morning, while sipping a cup of tea, I could hardly wait to pick up my guitar and manuscript paper. The muse was with me, and life felt good in spite of my simplified guitar abilities. Having a supportive friend in Srdjan, who loved the romantic songwriting style in which I chose to compose, made me feel fulfilled and happy. I eagerly awaited his visits, knowing that every time our songs and my voice were slowly improving.
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