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Srdjan

At a guitar festival in Miami I became acquainted with a talented classical guitarist and singer from Dubrovnik, Croatia, and instantly fell in love with the CD of Croatian songs that he handed me. In the seventies Srdjan Givoje had been part of a renowned duo, Buco and Srdjan, the “Simon and Garfunkel of Croatia.”

How had I discovered this man who could be an ideal duo partner with whom to try out my crazy idea of singing? We tested our voices and, indeed, they appeared to be a match made in heaven. Somehow his sweet, husky tenor cushioned my mezzo-soprano, and the resulting blend could not have been more perfect. Srdjan assured me that my voice had beautiful overtones and “colour” and that, in spite of my lack of confidence in the pitch and lack of strength, both would develop if I persevered. As for the guitar work, we decided that I could take the easier guitar lines, mostly relying on the rest strokes that I was still able to play well, and he would be responsible for any complex free stroke arpeggios and tremolo should our arrangements require them.

• • •

Srdjan and his wife Vesna lived with their two children in Bernardsville, New Jersey, which meant that working together was something of a challenge. I started to fly him down to Miami every few weeks in order to begin recording some songs. I commissioned for him a beautiful Vazquez Rubio guitar, which he still treasures today, and I purchased two Boss recording machines so that we could demo our music on our own and send each other downloadable files through the internet.

Srdjan arranged most of our repertoire while I selected the songs, wrote all the lyrics, and composed the intros and solos. He helped me to learn some of his folk-style techniques, which as a classical player one is never taught, and together we experimented with vocal harmonies. Finally I had a project to work on, and I was ecstatic as the demos of our planned CD started to take shape.

Inspired by the beautiful melodies I had heard on his album, I composed English lyrics to several Croatian songs, such as “Lula Starog Kapetana,” which became my “Little Seabird,” an allegorical song about the struggles of life that I had written in my head one afternoon while driving over the causeway to Key Biscayne. Likewise, I transformed “Dobro Jutro, Margareta” (“Good Morning, Margaret”) into “My Sweet Lover.” Years earlier, I had penned a love song to my guitar using the familiar melody of “Greensleeves.” It now fit perfectly into the new repertoire.

Mother of pearl and ivory

Scent of cedar and tones of gold

Curves of rosewood and ebony

Simple shape that my hands love to hold

Notes as soft as a child’s caress

Chords that soothe like a summer wine

Sounds that linger like memory

Fading slowly away into time

Oh guitar, you were meant to be

The gentle voice of my destiny

You are my peace and my harmony

Oh guitar, yes you are, my guitar

Strings that sing like a lullaby

Strings that slice 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.

• • •

In August, the hottest month of all, I was once again moving house as my lease had expired and I was determined to escape the flight path noise of Brickell Key. I chose a peaceful old plantation-style house on Munroe Drive in Coconut Grove’s private estate known as Camp Biscayne. The house came with a private canal, a derelict boat, and a shared tennis court. But most importantly I would finally be able to sleep! Or so I thought.

Unfortunately, the first night proved me wrong. Next door, I soon discovered, lay a seven-acre estate that led down to the water’s edge and ended in mangrove swamps — the perfect breeding ground for those nasty flying critters known colloquially as “no-see-ums.” The tiny bugs could fly right through mosquito netting and feasted on me for the next year.

Apart from this annoyance, the place was enchanting. My new abode had a long wooden bridge on one side and a spacious upper floor that I really did not need, so I advertised on Craigslist for a tenant and found a lively French girl called Alexandre. She worked as a professional accountant, and in exchange for free board, she looked after my bookkeeping.

It was while living in Camp Biscayne that a documentary film maker, Max Montalvo from Montreal, spent a day interviewing me on camera for the film called El Payo that he was making on the wonderful flamenco teacher, David Phillips, who years ago had enthusiastically arranged “Malagueña” and “Granada” for me. If only David had known the role those arrangements had played in my career — that millions would view me playing “Malagueña” on YouTube, and many millions more would watch me performing these perennial favourites on American and Canadian network television shows, to say nothing of all the listeners to albums and radio shows once I had recorded them. It might seem unbelievable, but there had never been any classical guitar arrangement of these two popular pieces until I commissioned David to make them. Even my own guitar teacher had considered them too “popular” for my repertoire, but that is the nature of the classical guitar world and its purists, who usually eschew anything that sounds remotely popular. Tragically, Toronto’s much loved flamenco teacher died an alcoholic, a condition due in part, I believe, to the psoriasis that ravaged the poor man’s guitar-playing nails. Fingernails are always an obsession with guitarists as they greatly affect the tone we produce when plucking the strings. Breaking a nail can seriously jeopardize a concert. Fortunately, both Srdjan and I had strong fingernails, and we relied heavily on them when playing together.

Over the next while we worked long hours perfecting our duo songs and tweaking the arrangements. By 2007 we had had assembled sixteen beautiful love songs. Our inspiration when we played together was tangible, and we finally felt ready to start recording a CD. But where? I investigated a dozen studios and producers. Miami was very much attuned to the Latin music scene, and I had the overwhelming impression that the dozen producers I interviewed were not that interested in folky English-language love songs. Trying to decide what to do was both frustrating and time-consuming. It was quite different from Toronto, where I had built up a lifetime of contacts in the music business, or even Los Angeles, where I also had developed quite a network.

One evening I attended a lecture at the Miami Recording Academy, where I was a member, and there I encountered Bruce Swedien, Michael Jackson’s legendary recording engineer, the man who had engineered, mixed, and co-produced, along with Quincy Jones, the biggest selling album of all time, Thriller. This man had also just produced a Swedish classical music CD and had won five Grammy Awards! Bruce told me he had just opened a new studio in Ocala, Florida, and would be happy to produce our songs for us. Wow, what incredible good fortune! I thought. I could hardly believe my luck, and soon after our encounter I took a plane up to Ocala to check out his state-of-the-art studio. We made a deal that I thought was extremely reasonable, and a couple of months later an excited Srdjan flew down to Florida to begin recording.

I had booked a photo session in Miami for our album cover, and later that day Srdjan and I drove north to Ocala, which was situated three hours from Miami, smack in the middle of Florida. We were bubbling with excitement that our songs would be produced by such a renowned name in the music business.

Sadly, it was not meant to be.

I realized through this experience what a difference there is between an engineer and a producer. Bruce gave us hardly any guidance, and his occasional phrasing advice was not to our liking as we had both formed definite ideas about how our songs should sound.

Bruce kept pressing buttons and asked us to sing take after take of the same first part to our first song. Srdjan and I gave each other despairing glances, and we shared the sinking feeling that Bruce was not proving to be the producer we had been hoping for. I tried, over a dinner that his wife kindly made for us, to explain some of our musical ideas, and the next day we began again to lay down some more tracks, but after a couple of hours I took Srdjan aside and whispered that I was going to have to pull the plug. It simply wasn’t working, and I was getting more and more frustrated. Srdjan nodded glumly in agreement.

I am sure that Bruce had been an amazing engineer for Michael Jackson, and he was an amiable and experienced man, but for the two of us who needed a producer’s guidance, it was just not the right fit. He accepted our decision and was fair about returning the majority of the money I had fronted. One suggestion he offered, for which I shall always be grateful, was for me to write English lyrics to “Chiri Biri Bela,” a Croatian song he heard us sing while we were warming up our voices.

The day we split with Bruce happened to be July 11, my birthday, so Srdjan and I took a detour to Disney World, saw an IMAX film, and ate ice cream, and I tried to forget what a huge mistake I had just made. Perhaps the producer I was looking for was simply not in Miami.