Disneyland theme park? Could this be the last time I would be tempted to return? I certainly hoped not, but part of me wanted to weep, realizing that Venice could never again be the city I had once been fortunate to know.
• • •
The orchestra has switched gears to “Moon River,” and I remember being invited to composer Henry Mancini’s beautiful Bel Air home for a soiree of Chopin and Beethoven. On another occasion, with my former husband, I had sipped hot drinks and huddled with “Hank” and his wife, Ginny, at a World Presidents’ Organization conference in Bruges, Belgium. That chilly autumn evening the locals had re-enacted the noisy and smoky Battle of Waterloo for us. It was a surreal and unforgettable experience.
Now the infectious theme to “Never On Sunday” floats past my ears — one of the masterpieces written by the old Greek composer Manos Hadjidakis. The old maestro had welcomed my mother and me into his apartment one sweltering summer afternoon when we were staying in Athens, and in London I had later recorded one of his pieces, “Mother and Sister,” with the renowned composer and producer Michael Kamen.
The orchestra at the Florian continues their set with “My Way,” written by fellow Canadian songwriter Paul Anka and made famous by my former Beverly Hills neighbour Frank Sinatra. The song seems to have brought this evening’s serenade that I have been internalizing to a perfect conclusion. Yes, I think, I really have lived my life and my music “my way.” Indeed, my first autobiography, which I had now come here to continue writing, was called In My Own Key: My Life in Love and Music.
I wonder if perhaps one day I might be doing it “our way.” Or is this not in the cards for me? Was I destined to walk alone after leaving one by one all the men who had loved me?
Few had lived the colourful adventures I had: from the shores of Great Slave Lake to the penguin-nesting rocks of Patagonia; from the jungles of Nepal and the Great Wall of China to the Atlas Mountains of Morocco and the pyramids at Giza; from the night markets of Calcutta to Hong Kong, Hanoi, and Bangkok, and so many more amazing places. Looking back I realized how privileged I had been, and how “the road less travelled” had always enriched my life.
Who else had been given the chance to perform solo with symphony orchestras from Tokyo to Bogotá to Boston, had been given the opportunity to front two classical “rock bands,” and had now been invited to return to the stage once more and play before millions on television?
Certainly, few had experienced the contrasts of la vie bohème in Paris, the giddy “flower power” and “Summer of Love” days, the hippie psychedelia scene for a year in Mexico, the fantasy lifestyle of my late friends the Baron and Baroness di Portanova in Arabesque, their opulent Acapulco home, and the challenging Canadian wilderness canoe trip I had undertaken in the eighties with my then-fiancé, businessman Joel Bell, with whom I had shared eight years of my life.
Who else had helped design a Beverly Hills mansion, fallen in love with and married one of that city’s most generous and handsome residents, serenaded heads of state, dictators, and kings, hung out with Liberace, appeared three times on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, and been conducted by John Williams? Who else had flown by private plane as a guest of Comandante Zero, the former head of the Nicaraguan Sandinistas, dated Canada’s charismatic prime minister Pierre Trudeau for eight years yet declined to bear his child, and maintained a platonic friendship and correspondence with the Queen of England’s husband, Prince Philip, for over thirty years?
I had been a lucky lady indeed. How many blessings had I been fortunate to have had showered upon me, and how many more might I hope for?
But what exactly is the price I have paid for this gypsy life? Had my dear father been right with his frequent suggestions that I stop pushing for a career, “drop out,” let go of my ego, and relax into a quieter, bucolic life? Surely that could not be my destiny, at least not in this decade? For as Pierre Trudeau used to say, quoting from a favourite Robert Frost poem, “I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”
I have chosen to live each day with immense gratitude and appreciation for every small detail — from the cool, tall drink before me and the delicious gelato limone I have just savoured to the incredibly beautiful setting that surrounds me this week. I give thanks for the many friends and supporters I have in Toronto and in my winter retreat in Palm Beach, and for my good health and that of my widowed mother, Eileen, and my sister, Vivien. I also realize, with sadness, that the four men in our family have all left, each in different ways. Even my lovely cat, Muffin, has departed, making the total of our lost males five.
• • •
As an evening sea breeze moves in, the small orchestra concludes with something beautiful — ah yes, the haunting theme from Stanley Myers’s The Deer Hunter, “Cavatina,” which I recorded for my Best of Liona Boyd album in 1982. I see the wistful face of the British film composer, who brought me a bouquet of red roses and tried unsuccessfully to seduce me on the couch in his home in London after I had played him my version of his timeless melody. A few years later I heard that the poor man had died of cancer. Ah life, how ephemeral, how bittersweet, and yet still magically filled with memories and my personal connections to almost every piece of music that has wafted my way while sitting here this evening in San Marco.
But enough nostalgia, it is now time to pick up my life story and go back in time to share with you the events and situations that finally led me to leave California, a place that, for me, was no longer the glittering “Golden State” I had once believed it to be.
2
Guitar Woes
Los Angeles is such a vast and sprawling city. I once described it as a melting pot of creativity, reckless ambition, absurd fantasy, and violent crime — a city built by dreamers and schemers from all over the world. It is also home to millions of hard-working Mexicans, Salvadorans, and Guatemalans in search of a better life. Indeed, L.A. is dependent upon this constant flow of labourers, some legal and some not, in order to build the freeways, clean the houses, sweep the streets, gather the trash, maintain the pools and gardens, mind the kiddies, run the restaurants, and harvest the produce. L.A. was also now my home.
I was first introduced to this fascinating metropolis in 1976 when I opened for Gordon Lightfoot and performed four sold-out concerts at the Universal Amphitheater. I was instantly impressed by the profusion of palm trees, the colourful shrubbery flowering under cerulean skies, and the Spanish architecture and street names that seemed to add to the city’s charms.
While there, I met the famous pianist and showman Liberace along with many other artists and performers. Liberace’s manager, Seymour Heller, tried to convince me to move to Los Angeles, so in order to test the waters, in 1980, I rented the smallest room in the Beverly Hills Hotel. My stay was a short one, however, and I fled back to the safety of Toronto a month later, exasperated by the “casting couch” mentality that seemed endemic there, and by the horror of having to continually fend off sleazy producers, agents, and record company executives. Toronto seemed a much safer place for a serious classical guitarist. Nevertheless, I continued to commute to the “City of Angels” for guest appearances on television shows from The Tonight Show to The Merv Griffin Show and The Dinah Shore Show.
In January of 1991, I decided to give Los Angeles another chance. This time, fate intervened. Three days after renting a pied-à-terre in Beverly Hills, my girlfriend Dale, from Vancouver, introduced me to a statuesque widower, John B. Simon, known to his friends as Jack — the man I instantly knew would become my husband. The problem was that I was engaged to another man at the time — an exceptionally bright man named Joel Bell. If I wanted a relationship with Jack, I had to undertake the painful task of leaving Joel. I hated to break the man’s heart, as he had been presuming that
