Читать книгу Kiri: Her Unsung Story - Garry Jenkins - Страница 13

Now is the Hour

In March 1965, around 300 people packed the Eden Roskill War Memorial Hall in suburban Auckland to celebrate Kiri’s twenty-first birthday. The black tie gathering amounted to a ‘Who’s Who’ of New Zealand’s musical talent. Radiant in a shimmering, low cut dress, her hair piled high in a voguish French twist, it was a new, sophisticated Kiri who monopolised the limelight.

Nell had done all she could to make the party one of the social events of the year. Resourceful as ever, she had persuaded Cliff and Billie Trillo, owners of Auckland’s premier restaurant Trillo’s, to provide free catering. The mayor and mayoress of Auckland were present, as was John Waititi and a representative of the Maori King Koroki. The numbers were also swollen by people who barely knew Nell, let alone her daughter. Susan Smith recalls turning up with an aunt and uncle who had never even met Kiri.

A few formal presentations ensured the Auckland press had their photo opportunities. Kiri was presented with a greenstone pendant by the King’s representative. Johnny Waititi delivered a speech and an elaborate scroll addressed to ‘Dearest Kiri’ on behalf of the Maori Education Foundation.

In the years since he first offered support, Kiri had become increasingly close to the quiet, dignified Waititi. In ‘Uncle John’, as she often called him, she saw a younger version of her father. Yet it was Tom who provided the emotional highpoint of the evening with a powerful and heartfelt speech. ‘We didn’t know he had it in him,’ said Don Hutchings, who like everyone else in the hall had grown used to Tom’s almost invisible presence.

In the time he had known the Te Kanawas, Hutchings had been touched by the quiet devotion Tom had shown his daughter. ‘He would sit there and look at her and not say a word. His eyes would twinkle and you knew what was going through his head,’ he said.

For the first time he expressed those feelings publicly. ‘He called her his jewel and said this was the magic part of his life because he had been gifted both the time with her and Kiri the person. Kiri was his gift from whoever was looking after him.’ Kiri’s tears were not the only ones shed during Tom’s oration. ‘It was a magnificent presentation, a very moving address,’ said Hutchings.

Kiri, naturally, was asked to sing at one point in the evening. Her performance opened at least one guest’s eyes to the true extent of the talents she had, as yet, barely tapped. ‘Everyone was asking Kiri to sing and eventually she said “Alright.”,’ remembered Neil McGough, her old conductor from Uwane. ‘Everything went quiet and she sang a lovely aria. As Kiri came to this great, glorious moment in the aria and everyone had their mouths open, Lou Clauson and Simon Mehana, the popular radio comedy duo, tiptoed in the door and stood quietly at the back. She stopped in mid-phrase and shouted “Hello Lou! Hello Simon! Be with you in a minute”, and then finished the song.’

McGough was stunned by Kiri’s seeming disconnection from her singing. ‘It was one of the most amazing things. You’d think that to sing like that would have taken complete focus. But she could have been thinking about whether there was enough pâté in the fridge at home,’ he recalled.

For McGough, at least, it was the most revelatory moment of the night. ‘That really made me realise Kiri had no idea how good she was.’

Kiri ended the musical interlude by inviting Lou and Simon to join her on the stage. Her hammy performances with the duo had become hugely popular at Mitchell Street. ‘The three of them would have us all in tears of laughter singing “There’s a Hole in My Bucket, Dear Liza”,’ recalled Kiri’s niece Judy Evans-Hita. That night, however, they played it straight, linking arms with Kiri for an emotional version of the Maori favourite, ‘Pokarekare ana’.

It was clear that Kiri was having the time of her life. ‘She had an absolute ball that night,’ remembered Hutchings, who had done more than most to contribute to her high spirits. By now the best-selling success of ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ was transforming Kiri into a new musical star.

Hutchings had begun the job of chivvying and charming ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ on to the New Zealand airwaves early in the year. At first the record’s sales had been sluggish. Over a friendly beer Hutchings had persuaded Les Andrews, an old friend of Tony Vercoe and the host of the country’s most popular radio show, on the ZB station, to inject a little interest with a few, contrived early plays. Hutchings smiled at the memory. ‘Obviously, we dreamed up a few requests. It was marketing ploy people are not reluctant to use today either.’

In its two-hour Sunday lunchtime slot before New Zealand’s television service cranked into life at 3 p.m., Andrews’s show drew an audience any Royal wedding or cup final would be proud of. It may only be a small exaggeration to say that, with the whole country listening, the gift of stardom was his to confer. ‘It was the most popular programme in the country. It had the market to itself,’ Hutchings recalled.

After three weeks of false solicitations Andrews suddenly began to receive genuine requests for the record. ‘There was a trickle at first and then an avalanche,’ recalled Hutchings. Soon ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ became the most requested record Les Andrews ever had. It was perhaps an indication of New Zealand’s curious musical taste that the only record that remotely rivalled it was Spike Milligan’s quirky ‘Bad Jelly the Witch’.

Kiri’s popularity was soon being translated into record sales. ‘It was in the hit parade for weeks,’ said Hutchings’s colleague Tony Vercoe. ‘It was extraordinary.’ As he travelled around New Zealand capitalising on the momentum now under way, Hutchings heard the same response when he asked people’s opinions of her. Kiri’s striking looks and simple, girl-next-door appeal were as important as the quality and clarity of her singing. ‘She looked the part and that was a great help,’ he said. Most significant of all, however, she was presented as a Maori. Kiwi Records had hit on a nerve.

‘It was a method of marketing. If you’d said, “Here’s Pettine-Ann Croul and she sings opera”, they’d say, “Well, so what?”,’ said Don Hutchings. ‘The argument then was, “Maoris can’t sing opera; they don’t have the discipline either with the voice or personally.” Here was a Maori who could sing opera, and that was how we got the door open.’

Vercoe’s colleagues at Reeds wasted no time in capitalising on the breakthrough. Their PR assault had soon put Kiri’s face on the cover of magazines and newspapers across the country. As she became a favourite on television shows like ‘21 And Out’, the bandwagon became unstoppable. Suddenly she was a star. The marketing drive focused on Kiri’s Maori credentials. She was willing to play along with the image, dressing up in the piu piu and other items of ceremonial wear. The approach impressed both sections of the New Zealand community: to the Europeans she was something of an oddity, a Maori capable of singing music hitherto unheard by a mass audience; to the Maori she was a beautiful and aspirational role model, the most enviable ambassador their people had yet produced.

Yet Kiri’s sudden transformation into a Maori singer seemed curious to those who had known her in her formative days. After she had won the Tauranga Aria in May 1964, Susan Smith had seen Nell’s unease at a newspaper headline. ‘It said something like “Maori girl wins aria” and Mrs Te Kanawa was furious,’ she said. ‘Kiri had no interest in Maoridom at all. She didn’t even like to be called Maori.’ This was, in many respects, far from surprising given Tom’s distance from his roots and the racism Kiri had encountered as a child. Nell’s instincts would also have been alive to the danger of Kiri being stuck with a patronising ‘Maori-girl-does-good’ label that might limit her future scope.

There was, however, no mistaking the realignment under way. St Mary’s other Maori star, Hannah Tatana, had helped Kiri out by lending her traditional clothing for her concerts. ‘I had a feathered cloak which she borrowed a couple of times because she didn’t have that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘It’s a heritage Kiri didn’t have.’

If Susan Smith was surprised at Kiri’s sudden embracing of the Maori cause, she was dismayed by the transformation in her personality which she witnessed in the period before and after her breakthrough into pop stardom. Smith’s first glimpse of the shift in Kiri’s attitude had come back at the Tauranga Aria the previous year. As well as working with Kiri, Smith had happily accompanied other St Mary’s girls who approached her for her help. In the run-up to the contest Kiri had asked Smith that, in return for a generous fee, she play exclusively for her. ‘She said, “I want you to play just for me.” I said, “Yes, no problem.”’

Days before the competition another soloist rang asking Smith to play at Tauranga. ‘I said I couldn’t do that, at which point she went back to Sister Mary Leo and all hell let loose,’ recalled Smith. ‘It had never happened before. It caused a lot of strife.’

Kiri’s request merely reflected the new determination she had begun to demonstrate. In the week before Tauranga, she and Smith closeted themselves away at a boarding house. Smith duly played exclusively for Kiri, who, dressed in a shimmering white robe, won the major aria competition and its first prize. Smith remembers ‘bursting into tears of sheer relief’ at the result, while Kiri accepted what was her biggest triumph to date with perfect poise. Kiri gave her pianist a giant panda bear as a token of her thanks. ‘She was very generous to me,’ said Smith, who also received jewellery from Kiri.

For Smith, however, Tauranga marked a watershed. ‘From being a very happy, natural, outgoing girl, she became a very scheming, conniving person.’

To Smith, it seemed Kiri was now willing to use whatever means necessary to succeed. Among her most enthusiastic supporters was a contact Nell had cultivated, H. J. ‘Bill’ Barrett, boss of the ASB bank in Auckland. At a private function attended by Barrett and his wife Shirley, Smith was taken aback when Kiri set off on a story that was clearly less than the truth. ‘I was a bit shocked and horrified, and I remember sitting with her in the car afterwards and I said, “You can’t do that, Kiri, that’s not right.” And she just said, “Look, I know I use him, but if he is too silly to see, who cares?” I thought that was an appalling attitude, really.’

In Smith’s eyes, it was clear that stardom had transformed Kiri when she accompanied Kiri and the Maori tenor Michael McGifford to sing at a raffle evening. In a spirit of fun, McGifford had followed a duet with Kiri with a solo serenade of Smith at the piano. When it came to drawing the evening raffle tickets, Smith rather than Kiri had been asked to select the winning numbers. Smith was stunned at Kiri’s reaction in the car on the way home. ‘I was told that was not the way to behave. I wasn’t to overshadow her,’ she said. ‘You and I would not take a bit of notice of that, but Kiri did. She was furious.’

The end of Kiri’s relationship with Peter Webb represented the final turning point as far as Smith was concerned. It had been soon afterwards, in the car as they travelled from St Mary’s towards Blockhouse Bay one day, that Kiri broke the news that she no longer required her services. Smith understood Kiri’s need for male attention better than most. ‘Afterwards, she didn’t want to be seen with me,’ she said. ‘She felt she needed to be seen with a male accompanist-cum-escort.’ Smith played her final engagements with Kiri soon after the twenty-first birthday party. At the time she was deeply wounded by the rejection. Eventually, however, Smith looked back on her relationship with Kiri with a mixture of philosophy and fondness. ‘I always feel I got the best of Kiri,’ she said.

Kiri’s male accompanist materialised soon enough. A few weeks after her twenty-first Kiri was introduced to a talented Auckland pianist, Brooke Monks. Monks’s father Raymond had built the family business, David Elman Shoes, into a thriving enterprise. Brooke’s mother Berys, known as Billie, was a prominent figure in Auckland’s polite society and a keen supporter of arts and music charities in particular. It had been Billie Monks who engineered the introduction. When Kiri suggested her twenty-one-year-old son become her accompanist at her non-competitive engagements he accepted immediately.

Brooke’s love of the piano had been instilled in him by Billie. His playing style was flamboyant, full of florid embellishments and unashamedly romantic touches. On the dine’n’ dance circuit he soon added a new dimension to Kiri’s performances, his flowing melodies combining perfectly with his partner’s voice on West Side Story numbers like ‘Maria’ and ‘Tonight’ in particular. The looks of affection the duo were soon exchanging across the piano only added to the romantic effect.

According to Brooke it took little time for their musical partnership to develop into something more serious. ‘It didn’t really take very long. We were doing a lot together and it started to change certainly in the first couple of months,’ he recalled.

Brooke was drawn to Kiri’s down-to-earth beauty. ‘She was a very attractive girl and a great personality. She had no airs and graces,’ he recalled. ‘We were very much alike in lots of ways. We both enjoyed life and we were both musical and there was a great opportunity to do things.’ Soon Brooke and Kiri began using their performances as a way of escaping Auckland. ‘We never turned things down. We did so much.’ Country hotels at Rotorua and Wairaki and, in particular, near the hot pools at Waiwera, became their regular romantic hideaways. On occasions they also hid away at the Te Kanawa cabin at Hatepe.

Often they would travel with Kiri’s fellow Maoris, Hannah Tatana and Michael McGifford. Kiri’s career had already begun to eclipse Tatana’s. To her older partner’s eyes, however, her success was a success for the Maori population as a whole.

As she travelled the country with McGifford, Kiri and Brooke, Tatana was unsure of her friend’s new beau. Yet there was no disguising the passion Kiri felt for her flamboyant pianist. The trio had become particular favourites of the Maori Queen, Te-Ata-i-rangi-kaahu. After singing at her home at Ngaruawahia one weekend evening, Tatana and McGifford discovered their colleagues had left before them. As they arrived at the steamed-up car the reason for their early departure was all too apparent. ‘Obviously something had been going on in the back of the car while we were in the hall,’ said Tatana.

Invariably Kiri and Brooke would sit in the front of the car while Hannah and Michael sat in the back. For years afterwards McGifford teased Tatana about her naivety. As Brooke drove, Kiri’s head would disappear out of sight at the front of the car. ‘What on earth is she doing down there?’ her older, but less worldly-wise colleague would ask McGifford. He would sit in embarrassed silence. ‘She was clearly besotted by him,’ Tatana said.

As ever, Kiri wasted little time in introducing Brooke to Nell and Tom. After ‘running him through the grill’, Nell was impressed by what she saw. ‘My grandmother always liked Brooke,’ recalls Judy Evans-Hita. ‘He always made time to chat. He was a nice guy.’

Nell’s feelings for Brooke were reciprocated. ‘She was a real old battleaxe but we got on very well,’ recalled Brooke. ‘I think she was on my side right the way through the relationship.’

Brooke’s parents were less enamoured with the idea of the couple. Raymond Monks expected his son to follow his hard-working example. Instead Brooke’s devotion to his university studies in German and Italian waned alarmingly as his romance with Kiri deepened. Having brokered the friendship in the first place, Billie Monks was even more horrified at the turn of events. ‘I suppose my parents thought that things moved a bit fast for them,’ Brooke said. Kiri eventually charmed Raymond Monks into accepting her but Billie remained cool. ‘In those days my mother was looking after her son like Nell looked after Kiri, protecting their own.’

Brooke’s mother certainly shared Nell’s resourcefulness. When she heard talk of Kiri’s involvement with Vincent Collins, she invited the English actor’s former fiancée to visit her for a chat. Beverley Jordan had put the horrors of Uwane behind her and was now happily married. ‘She asked if I would go around and have a cup of coffee because she wanted to know about Kiri and her involvement with Vincent,’ she remembered. ‘She wanted to know whether she could trust her son with Kiri. I can’t remember what was said,’ she added diplomatically.

Billie Monks’s frostiness towards Kiri was almost certainly a matter of class. To members of Auckland’s polite society, Kiri was the daughter of a pushy provincial arriviste, a crude country bumpkin with ideas above her station. Nell’s reputation was, by now, beginning to embarrass even Kiri. ‘She could not help be aware of her mother’s background. I think she was insecure about it,’ said Hannah Tatana.

In the years since her daughter’s breakthrough Nell’s unsubtle blend of aggression and avarice had offended many within the musical establishment. Kiri had begun singing on the radio show hosted by Ossie Cheesman, New Zealand’s top musical arranger and bandleader at the time. ‘Ossie kept getting Nell on the phone demanding more money. After a while he got fed up and stopped using Kiri,’ said one of Cheesman’s closest friends, Neil McGough.

McGough had heard a similar story repeated all over the city. ‘Radio had a strict regime of set fees for singers. If it was three pounds ten, Nell would demand seven pounds for Kiri.’ For a time Kiri’s voice had become a rarity on radio. ‘Nell simply pushed too hard. She thought the world had to be changed to suit Kiri, but there were plenty of other good singers,’ McGough said.

Her granddaughter Judy has many happy memories of Nell Te Kanawa, but even she admits, ‘Nana’s life was spent polishing Kiri. Anyone or anything that got in the way of that goal would be removed. Perhaps I would do the same, but that’s the way it was.’

Even the unerringly honest Tony Vercoe, renowned all over New Zealand as a man whose verbal contracts were watertight, found her an awkward customer. ‘She was not as objective as one would have hoped,’ he admitted. ‘I do not want to be criticising those who are no longer with us, but it could have been difficult at times, I will say that. Nell had her likes and dislikes and they were fairly well defined. If people got across her then that was a bit unfortunate for them.’

As the winter of 1965 wore on, however, Vercoe did all he could to remain on the right side of Nell. Kiri had become the hottest property his company had come across in years. In the truest traditions of showbusiness, the success of ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ had caught everyone by surprise. ‘There was a bit of publicity, but there was no payola, no palm greasing, no big hype, nothing like that,’ remembered Vercoe. ‘It wasn’t like the Spice Girls, although I suppose there are similarities. It was much more spontaneous. A big wave started to roll and grew and grew, naturally, somehow. The whole country got behind her. It was extraordinary.’