down to the ocean, passing through the romantic little vias off Worth Avenue that had been designed by architect Addison Mizner in the early 1900s to imitate the courtyards and walkways of Venice, Italy. Even the sounds of their names were enchanting to me: Via Amore, Via Parigi, Via Flora.
Frequently when I was out walking, ideas for songs would come floating into my head. One afternoon I returned from a marina stroll with the waltz-time song “Little Towns” in my head. The song expresses gratitude to all the small towns I have performed in over the course of my career. If it were not for all those towns, and the wonderful people who had given me such memories and bought my recordings over the years, I never would have been able to afford the luxury of a house in Palm Beach. I excitedly recorded a demo of “Little Towns” in Garage Band, a free music program on my Mac.
I felt sure that Canada’s iconic storyteller Stuart McLean would play this song on his national radio show, The Vinyl Cafe on the CBC, but a few years later he and his producer ignored my entire album, in spite of my going to meet them, twice sending them CDs, and having a friendly email exchange encouraging them to introduce my Canada-inspired songs to Stuart’s fans across the country. I know that all those tens of thousands of people who drove so many snowy miles to hear me in the small towns of Canada and America would have truly appreciated this particular song that, with love and gratitude, was dedicated to them. Even though Evanov stations, like Jewel, and Moses Znaimer’s radio stations often play me, it hurt me that time after time our national station, CBC, has ignored rather than welcomed my Canadian content.
In the U.S. my videos are still frequently broadcast on the Classic Arts Showcase, and the New York–based National Guitar Museum, which is dedicated to preserving and promoting the legacy of the guitar, requested a guitar as well as some of my concert memorabilia for their exhibits. I was delighted to hear that they chose my performance of Tárrega’s “Gran Jota de Concierto” as the very first thing visitors get to see on display upon entering the museum. All types of guitars and genres of music — from rock to jazz and world music to classical — are represented in the museum, and I was pleased that they asked me to join their Board of Advisers.
Perhaps artists are taken for granted in their homeland and respected more if they leave, but I had decided to come back to Canada, and I do not regret it.
• • •
Once again, during my Palm Beach winter of 2012, Peter and I were enjoying working long distance as we had when I lived in Connecticut. We realized that a few years earlier our complex musical projects would never have been possible, as they now depended heavily upon the internet and our ability to easily exchange large music files. Thanks to technology, we were able to collaborate in arranging and producing music even though we were separated by thousands of miles.
Another song that came to me in an inspired moment was “Song of the Arctic.” It describes the melting of the ice and the tragic consequences for the environment and animal life. Determined to add a phrase in the Inuktitut language, I made several calls to towns in the Canadian Arctic and finally located an Inuit woman, Jesse Lyall, in Campbell Bay, Nunavut, who was willing to help me. She offered me the phrase I had sought and taught me how to pronounce it.
When I explained that I was calling from Florida, she was speechless. “It’s forty-two degrees below zero here,” she told me. Wow, and I was sitting in shorts in the shade of my patio looking at palm trees!
We exchanged photos, and to my delight she emailed me the quintessential image of an Arctic woman peeking out from the biggest furry parka I had ever seen. Apparently, it was sewn together using furs of muskrat, fox, and wolverine, and lined with silk. My Inuit gal was picture perfect!
The phrase she taught me,“Nunami ingumaktut,” expresses profound sadness for the lands of the Arctic people. To match her expressive words I chose an unexpected harmonic shift followed by a series of minor chords to create a sombre mood. I had faith that Peter would create a haunting orchestration to enhance this section, which began “Arctic silence, Arctic white, Arctic stillness, Arctic night” — simple words, but with the ominous spaces between the notes that Peter added, you could almost feel the Arctic landscape I was trying to depict.
When my pen pal Prince Philip eventually heard an early version of this song, he wrote me a letter telling me, “The only significant threat to the future of the earth is the human population.” He believes the melting of the polar ice caps is the result of the earth’s natural cycles, and is not caused by man, as I had implied in the song. I tend to disagree, as would, I believe, his son Prince Charles, but I was not about to argue with the most special of all princes, who had always been so supportive of my music.
A year later, when I heard his friend Lord Monckton give a lecture at Moses Znaimer’s Idea City that attempted to debunk the concept of man’s role in climate change, I presumed to understand why Prince Philip took this stance. But one only has to look at the scientific facts and graphic images from space to see why I still believe that the two of them are profoundly misguided.
• • •
My next idea was to create a special piece dedicated to Quebec, where I had performed many concerts and where I had always found the people particularly responsive to my music. I remembered some of the rhythmic spoon playing I had heard from the rural lumberjacks at the country estate of Paul Desmarais and sat down one afternoon to capture the sound using the guitar “tambora” effect. I hoped my original music “À Mes Beaux Souvenirs” evoked the special spirit I had felt while in La Belle Province.
I decided to weave into it some nostalgic threads with the addition of two well-known children’s chansons, and I was delighted when the Toronto French School choir agreed to let Peter and me come and record them. Toward the end we auditioned some of the adorable little girls and chose one to sing the short solo fade out of “Au claire de la lune.”
The result was, I thought, a fitting tribute to a wonderful part of Canada. Although some Westerners might prefer it if Quebec were to leave Canada, since for decades some elements there have given the rest of Canada headaches with their séparatiste convictions, I believe that Quebec has enriched our country in immeasurable ways.
I have so many memories of the province — as a child emigrating to Canada I made a crayon drawing of the quaint rural towns I saw along the banks of the St. Lawrence River, a drawing that won me first prize in the ship’s art competition. I also remember the province’s great cities — Montreal and Quebec — and also its smaller ones, such as Sherbrooke and Trois Rivières, the place that helped launch my career when I took first prize for guitar in the Canadian Music Competition. I can recall those dusty little music study huts scattered in the woods at Jeunesses Musicales where I first studied with Maestro Alexandre Lagoya, the hum of fierce mosquitos, the beautiful countryside, and of course the summer lakes and trails through the Gatineau woods where Pierre Trudeau and I had sometimes romped with his three young sons and other times frolicked naked like carefree nymphs and satyrs.
With all of these happy memories in mind, I was anxious to record my musical tribute to Quebec. So I was particularly excited when, through a connection made thanks to my friend Naomi, Quebec heartthrob, Daniel Lavoie, agreed to sing a short melody for this new piece of mine. He also agreed to accompany me on the choruses of an autobiographical song I had written about Canada drawing me back home again after living so many years away. I gingerly asked if he might also consider contributing some spoken words in French at the end. Daniel has a most seductive voice, which conjured memories of my special boyfriend who ran Canada for almost two decades. Aware of my delight in languages, Pierre used to whisper sweet nothings en français during our intimate times together. I wasn’t sure Daniel would agree to speak the words, but thankfully he did and I think that even if a listener cannot understand one word of French, the message is clear. What a nerve I had! I more or less wrote myself a love letter from my store box of memories, and
