“Me and Julio”
My performing schedule was always hectic during the latter part of the seventies. Two concerts were arranged in Chile in October 1978 through the Beethoven Society, Santiago’s classical concert sponsor, for which I transcribed “Moonlight Sonata” and “Für Elise.” The hospitable Canadian embassy held a luncheon in my honour. “Please help yourself to the salad,” the hostess insisted, noticing I had bypassed the bowl of lettuce on her buffet table — a precaution learned from my San Miguel days. “It’s not like Mexico. In Chile, nobody gets sick. Here, let me put some on your plate.” As a result of her insistence, and my reluctance to appear impolite, I became violently ill and ran a high fever for the next six days. Although my hands went through the motions of playing concerts to full houses in the Teatro Nacional Chileno and the Teatro Municipal de Santiago, the rest of me struggled in a drugged daze. I had swallowed enough penicillin, codeine, and Kaopectate to kill a horse!
The son of Arturo Alessandri, one of Chile’s former presidents, became enamoured of me, attentively presenting himself at the hotel room every few hours, laden with medicines. Thinking that fresh air would do me some good, my self-appointed nursemaid insisted on driving me to one of his family homes at the base of the spectacular Andes Mountains. But I was too feverish to really appreciate the breathtaking scenery, my sole preoccupation being whether I would be able to reach the bathroom in time!
At the conclusion of my trip, the Canadian embassy held a second reception, to which many of the upper-class Beethoven Society members had been invited, as well as several guitarists, writers, and composers from the university whom I had suggested be included. There was a tangible undercurrent of tension between the two disparate factions, who were at opposite poles of the political spectrum. Each group kept to its own side of the room, while I tried to alternate between them. Two students confided in me about the hideous measures that their right-wing government had used to quell freedom of expression. Before they eventually killed him, the military had mutilated the hands of Chile’s beloved singer/songwriter Víctor Jara so he could not play his guitar. It was horrifying to learn of such atrocities, and I shuddered to think how evil man could become.
It is always a moral dilemma when an artist is invited to perform in countries with repressive regimes, as acceptance might be construed as approval of that government. Still, I believe that cultural contact and communication are some of the best ways of penetrating the barriers created by politics. Living behind the ideologies are human beings struggling to survive. Music has a universal appeal that reaches deep into the human psyche. Who can listen to a Mahler symphony and not be moved by sublime emotions? From darkest despair to absolute joy, music is able to convey our deepest feelings more intensely than any other art form and is integral to humanity itself. I know of no society devoid of music. Even through my simple classical guitar, I felt that I had touched some emotional chords in Chile.
What a tragedy that many Latin American symphony orchestras suffered tremendously during the years of upheavals and pernicious military rule. The vibrant music created under the regimes that once gripped Peru, Chile, and Argentina is a wonderful testament to the survival of the human spirit. Pinochet tried to silence the voices of Victor Jara and his contemporaries, but their message lived on within the hearts and minds of the people. I left the land of Pablo Neruda and Isabel Allende laden with tokens of my audience’s appreciation — records, poems, a collection of classical guitar music — and a renewed appreciation for the democratic country in which I lived.
A colourful intrusion interrupted my North American touring schedule when, in November 1979, the Rotarians of Trinidad and Tobago decided to present a couple of concerts as part of their fundraising campaign. My mother, who had enjoyed her introduction to the Caribbean in Puerto Rico, offered to be my travelling companion.
The evening air was steaming hot as people crowded into tiers that were stacked up to the rafters in the school auditorium of hilly San Fernando, Trinidad’s second-largest city. The typical Third-World scenario of unresponsive microphones entailed heated discussions between the stage manager and the electricians. The pandemonium ended, however, when, in the nick of time, Father Michael came careering down the hills on his motorbike, black cassock flying in the breeze, with the missing connection cord tucked into his robes. These pre-concert shenanigans are routine whenever one leaves the technical security of North American shores. As a performer, I have learned to be tolerant and not panic; everything usually falls into place by an often delayed show time. The hall lacked air-conditioning, so, with windows flung wide, the intermittent barking of dogs and screeching of motorcycles added touches of local colour to my Scarlatti sonatas; the concert proceeded like the calm after a storm.
A large turnout in Port of Spain’s Hilton ballroom, my second concert venue, delighted the Rotarians, who booked me again a year later. Afterwards, on the poolside patio, under a blue-velvet sky adorned with millions of scintillating stars, we were treated to an impromptu concert by a group of steel-drum players. With admiration, I listened to their amazingly complex rhythms and syncopations: a sensuous mix of African, Spanish, and Indian styles. In addition to popular repertoire, the talented band had arranged the music of Tchaikovsky, Rossini, and Chopin. Those European composers would have been amazed to hear their masterpieces interpreted by the agile brown fingers of the Caribbeans.
The president of Trinidad and Tobago, Sir Ellis Clarke, asked us to tea at his imposing residence in Queen’s Park Savannah, and later offered a guided tour of his racehorse stables. Although I knew nothing about thoroughbreds, I tried to sound knowledgeable while bravely patting their velvety foreheads, hoping they would not chomp off one of my fingers and thus put an end to my career. The president extended an invitation for us to join him in his royal box the following day. “This is probably the closest we will ever get to Ascot,” I opined, as we dolled ourselves up in frilly dresses and flowery sun hats. In between sips of champagne, Sir Ellis whispered the names of the horses he predicted would come in first — and invariably they did! We decided to take his tips and make cautious bets, but we later wished we had been braver. The charming president, we discovered, owned most of the animals himself.
Jetting to Europe, I sometimes flew supersonic from New York to Paris. A most efficient way to cross the Atlantic, the Concorde soared fifty thousand feet into the skies, destroying our ozone layer at Mach 2 — twice the speed of sound! The meals and service were superb, despite Air France’s annoying habit of handing out cigars, but I never grew accustomed to the fact that Concorde windows always felt hot to the touch!
There were so many interesting characters to meet on those flights. The producers, politicians, and tycoons who sat beside me offered their business cards and made me feel a part of an elite international club. During one trip, I chatted with Henry Kissinger and gave him a First Lady record. This led to his asking for my hotel name and phone number, but I did not feel quite ready to take on America’s secretary of state. Producer Mike Nichols shared confidences about his marriage, and the editor of Playgirl sent a year’s subscription in plain brown envelopes, much to my family’s amusement.
When I was returning from one of my jaunts to Europe, the Concorde lost an engine halfway across the Atlantic. Suddenly, the plane descended steeply from a cruising altitude of about fifty-two thousand feet, and in a somewhat subdued voice, the pilot announced that we were going to attempt to land in Reykjavik, Iceland. Hardly reassured, we passengers silently eyed each other, thinking our own disconcerting thoughts. A roughness to the engine’s sound kept us on edge as champagne was passed around by nervous stewardesses. An hour later, the captain returned to the intercom to say that they were going to “try to land in ’alifax, Nova Scotia.” What a relief that I could jump on a safe Air Canada flight! But several more hours passed before he informed us that plans had changed again: we would soon be “trying to land” in New York!
Flashing fire engines and ambulances were standing by — we apparently lacked brake power — but a long screeching landing brought us to a final stop. The catatonic Frenchman buckled in across from me had beads of perspiration glistening on his brow, which had turned ashen white. I swore I would never travel by Concorde again, but several years later, a Royal Command Performance forced me to fly supersonic. For someone with nerves of steel, it is a wonderful way to travel.
The head of CBS Records International called from New York in 1979 to say that Julio Iglesias was looking for a guitarist to contribute a short cameo appearance to his upcoming Madison Square Garden show. “You’d be perfect, Liona. Here’s the telephone number of his manager, Alfredo Fraile.” Having spent hours enjoying Julio’s sensuous renditions of “Abrázame” and “A flor de piel” after my introduction to his music in Puerto Rico, I thought this sounded like a splendid suggestion. The next day I called Fraile, who encouraged me to come to Miami the following week to meet Iglesias and discuss the idea. The only problem was that the next week I would be in British Columbia playing with the Victoria Symphony and would still be on the west coast five days later, playing in Seattle. But, without even considering the distance and the expensive airfare, I booked a gruelling twelve-hour flight to Miami with changes in Minneapolis and Atlanta. If Julio wanted me to play in his concerts, it would help expand my following in Latin America in the same way Gordon’s tour had in North America. Quite apart from the concert business, I was also intrigued to meet the Spanish singer with the seductive voice and irresistible smile.
I practised Spanish phrases on the plane and, close to midnight, wearily dragged my bags and guitar case into the Coral Gables Holiday Inn. The meeting with Julio was to be at noon the next day. After sleeping lightly, I rose early and, at eleven in the morning, called Fraile. “I am so very sorry, Señorita Boyd,” he told me. “Julio left Miami this morning and I’m departing for New York in two hours. My apologies, but we completely forgot that you were coming today.” I felt deflated and utterly miserable; that long trip had all been for nothing. The next day, knowing I had made a fool of myself, I took another three planes back to Seattle.
A few weeks later, Fraile called me in Toronto, apologized for his error in timing, and asked if I could come to Montreal, where Julio would be playing in two weeks. Why had he not suggested Montreal in the first place? Undaunted, I flew there and checked into the hotel where the Spanish group was staying. When I informed Fraile of my arrival, he asked if I would join them for dinner. “We’ll call for you in one hour, just before leaving,” he reassured me. One hour passed … one and a half hours … two hours … two and a half hours … and still no telephone call. Spaniards are often late, but this was getting ridiculous.
Eventually, the front desk informed me that Fraile and Iglesias, plus entourage, had left the hotel ninety minutes earlier. That same sinking feeling I had experienced in Miami returned as I spooned my lukewarm onion soup ordered from the room-service menu. Perhaps they would all be back around 10:00 p.m. and would call me then. By 11:30, becoming bored and sleepy, I screwed my hair up into a plastic shower cap and sank into a comforting hot bath. Just as I was scrubbing off my eye makeup, the phone rang. It was Fraile, apologizing that he had forgotten to call. Julio would now like to meet me and was up in his room waiting. Ninety percent of me felt like banging down the phone and crying, but 10 percent remembered those possible Latin tours. Using every Spanish curse word, I skidded around the bathroom, drying off and putting myself back together as fast as possible. “Probably these mix-ups are not Julio’s fault,” I rationalized, trying to remain calm.
Fraile met me and ushered me into a room full of people lounging around as if sated after a hearty dinner. Julio, lying on a couch draped by two Latin beauties, gave me the distinct impression he had drunk too much wine for supper. “Hi, Liona, wanna come to bed with us?” were his opening lines. Fraile laughed and told Julio that I had brought my guitar to play for him. This was hardly the quiet meeting of two artists that I had imagined. Sitting across from Julio, I played through a few Spanish numbers, while he let out approving grunts and winked at me with his dark Latin eyes. “You play great. Come and be my special guest in tomorrow’s concert. But tonight, let’s make love so that we can get to know each other better,” he continued, motioning to the bedroom, from which one of the half-clad, sultry Latinas had just emerged. While accepting his first offer, I declined the second as diplomatically as possible. However was he going to cope with all of these various women? I was not about to find out.
Miraculously, the next day Fraile remembered to pick me up for a sound check. A sober and much nicer Julio came over to talk backstage, expressing his appreciation for my record albums, which he had been given by CBS. My hopes for the Latin American tour started to climb. How thrilling to be playing in the same concert as the handsome singer whom I had spent so much time listening to on vinyl.
The stadium, which seated fifteen thousand people, was rapidly filling up with a Spanish- and French-speaking crowd. Several of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra musicians who had been hired for Julio’s orchestra chatted with me, surprised that I was part of the program. Julio promised to give me a good introduction midway through the second half of the show, and asked if I would play two selections. Presumably this was to be a kind of audition to determine if his public would appreciate an interlude of guitar music. Finally, I would be able to prove to Fraile and Julio what a great addition I would be to their upcoming South American tour and Madison Square Garden concert. As I sat in the dressing room, confidently rehearsing my pieces, Julio’s voice floated down from the intercom with fragments of my favourite songs. This was going to be an evening to remember.
During the intermission, Fraile came rushing into my dressing room. There had been a change in plan. He wanted me to open the second half of the show in five minutes’ time. “Don’t worry, Liona, we’ll give you a wonderful introduction, and Julio will say nice things about you afterwards. But we want you to play only one piece. Now, let’s go!” “This is not fair,” I despaired, as Fraile ushered me toward the gigantic stage. People were still returning to their seats and Julio was nowhere to be seen. At times like that, an artist really needs a manager. It was awful. Fraile steered me onto the stage without the promised introduction. The thousands of people, expecting Julio, were no doubt confused when a classical guitarist started to play, totally unannounced. I had hardly risen from my seat when Julio launched into his first song, from the opposite side of the stage, giving me no word of thanks or recognition. Mortified, I slunk off to my dressing room, remembering the kindly consideration that Gordon Lightfoot had always shown me on the road. They had misused me in a most embarrassing way, and I felt sick inside. Instead of a professional artist with a huge following of my own, I had been treated like some amateur groupie by both Julio and his manager.
Feeling dejected because of their lack of respect and sensitivity, I packed my guitar case and called a cab to take me back to the hotel, in no mood to talk to either of those selfish Spaniards. Once again, I had made a total idiot of myself. “Liona, you have only yourself to blame for this disaster,” I reflected. “When are you going to come to your senses and realize that most of these pop stars only care about themselves?” The international division of CBS New York had meant well in suggesting a cameo appearance in Julio’s concert, but after Montreal I knew it was patently foolish to expect anything to result from my efforts. My disappointment was exacerbated when I calculated that, between Miami and Montreal, the bill for my expenses was several thousand dollars.
A few years later, CBS invited me and my parents to one of Julio’s Toronto shows, and after some hesitation, I decided to accept. Backstage, Julio apologized. “Liona, I’m so sorry for what happened at the Forum.” “You have a beautiful and talented daughter, Mummy,” he told my mother, giving her a hug and a kiss. Julio’s music meant too much for me to hold on to any resentment. I have met Julio several times since, and whenever I hear his voice, the magic is always there. A few measures of his songs never fail to lift my spirits. Although Julio Iglesias was responsible for one of my most embarrassing concert experiences, I admire him as a fellow artist and will always be grateful for his songs, which have meant so much to me over the years. As proof of my devotion to his music, I turned down a 1982 invitation from Pierre Trudeau to be his partner at a dinner for Andreas Papandreou. With a certain Spanish singer performing that night in Toronto, even the Greek and Canadian prime ministers did not stand a chance!
In April 1980, I was invited to give a concert tour in Japan, and I asked my mother along. This was to be the first time for either of us in the Far East, so we requested a few days to visit the holy Buddhist shrines of Kyoto. There would be concerts in Tokyo, Obihiro, Kumagaya, Hakodate, Yokohama, as well as Fukuoka and a number of television shows, including an hour-long documentary for NHK.
On the day of our arrival, a strange and alarming phenomenon occurred. Whenever I picked up the guitar to run through repertoire, my fingers refused to function; all strength seemed to have ebbed from my hands. As I stumbled through Lennox Berkeley’s Sonatina, I looked helplessly at my anxious mother. “I’ve no idea what’s happened, but I can’t seem to play, and the tour begins in two days!” I despaired. Collapsing into a restless, jet-lagged sleep, I tossed and turned in desperation, feeling utterly incapable of performing. The next morning, I was awakened by my mother, who had dreamed in the night of the word calcium. “We must get you some tablets at once!” she insisted and set off, fuelled by her night’s inspiration. Without knowing a word of Japanese, or where she was going, she was able to purchase some calcium pills from a druggist by writing out the chemical symbol Ca, which he recognized. After I swallowed them intermittently, the strength miraculously returned to my hands. Never doubt your mother’s intuitions!
We took an immediate liking to Tokyo and spent our free time strolling around the parks and temples, glorying in the cherry blossoms that beautified the city in April. Mr. Tanaka, our host and promoter, was a model of courtesy, constantly bowing to us and making sure that our smallest concerns were met. For three weeks, his assistant, Mishi, struggled valiantly around airports and train stations with my guitar case and a bag stuffed with bulky concert programs. Taxis driven by polite, white-gloved chauffeurs whisked me from concert halls to TV stations, where I appeared on several widely viewed shows such as Good Morning Tokyo.
In that amazing country, with thousands of amateur classical guitarists, Japan’s two thick, glossy guitar publications featured me on their covers. Never before had I been interviewed and photographed so much as I was during that first visit to the “land of the rising sun.” They photographed me in the park picking cherry blossoms; they photographed me in the early-morning produce market eating strawberries; they photographed me tuning my guitar during sound checks before concerts; they photographed me at a reception held by the Canadian embassy. They even insisted on photographing my mother and me as we arrived, exhausted and travel-weary, at each new hotel. It seemed the press could never get enough photographs — an obsessive compulsion in a land that seemed to be run by Sony, Fuji, Sanyo, and Canon.
CBS Sony was jubilant to finally have me in Japan. The entire Masterworks division had been decorated with The First Lady of the Guitar posters. My surprised mother and I, called on to give speeches to all of their smiling employees, received rounds of applause for our impromptu efforts. Strolling through Tokyo one evening, we came upon an area where my concert flyers had been plastered on every lamppost. How appreciated I began to feel in this strange country where they loved the guitar. What an extraordinary fuss everybody was making. My records, including the newly released Spanish Fantasy, were apparently selling like hot cakes. To profit from the CBS promotion, King Records had obtained distribution rights from London Records and issued my two earliest recordings. For the Japanese market, they used poetic titles: A Teardrop and The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.
A performance with the Academia Orchestra enticed young Prince Ayanomiya, the grandson of Emperor Hirohito, to attend. His presence was considered such an honour that Mr. Tanaka bubbled with excitement. A private tea party had been arranged during my precious twenty-minute intermission so that the prince, an enthusiastic guitar student, could meet me. It became quite a challenge for me to keep the conversation flowing while balancing my dainty cup, swallowing the proffered sweetmeats, and smiling at the silent, reverent guests. And all the while, His Highness, a shy and nervous teenager, giggled at everything I said.
The acoustics were good, the hall full, and the responses as enthusiastic as could be expected. Haber had warned me that, in Japan, audiences would clap very softly. In North America or Europe, we are used to more expressive applause, and to an artist who has not been forewarned, it can be disconcerting. Everywhere we went, people bowed to us, and soon my mother and I were bobbing up and down like yo-yos. Actually, this is a great hand-saver for guitarists; so often my fingers have been crushed to the point of pain by forceful handshakes from enthusiastic fans.
Everywhere we went, the concert promoters and television-station managers gave us little souvenirs — usually silk-brocade purses or scarves — and we soon ran out of our Canadian maple-leaf spoons and small Inuit carvings. Fans overloaded me with gifts as well: paintings, flower baskets, and a mobile of a thousand tiny paper birds made by schoolchildren. Obihiro, on the northern island, was perfumed by the irresistible aroma of white chocolate, which the town manufactured, and several delicious bars were bestowed on us on our arrival. In Hakodate, however, the pungent odour of drying fish and various foul-smelling seaweeds assaulted our western nostrils. The prices on our room-service menus were steep by Canadian standards, and we were never quite sure what we were ordering, so my thrifty mother went out foraging in the streets, returning to the hotel laden with cakes, pears, and tangerines, which she had negotiated from the tiny grocery shops in the neighbourhood. We were highly amused by two signs we saw: step-by-step illustrations in the trains graphically instructing how to use a western-style toilet, and a notice in our hotel that read “No Swords Allowed and No Disgusting Behaviour Permitted!” Things were indeed different in the land of the samurai.
After I played a concert in Yokohama, the local agent seemed in a hurry to close the hall and refused to let any autograph-seeking guitar enthusiasts backstage. He ushered me into a car at the rear of the building, and as we drove away, I caught a glimpse of many disappointed-looking teenagers clutching my concert programs and being turned away from the stage door. Knowing how much an autograph or a smile from one of my own guitar heroes had meant to me in the past, I was overcome with guilt at denying those students the same pleasure.
Toward the end of the tour, I was booked to perform with the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra in the cavernous Tokyo Bunka Kaikan hall. The guest conductor, Argeo Quadri, an elderly Italian from La Scala in Milan, told me during rehearsal that he would not permit the use of a microphone. So that I would not be drowned out, he began dismissing members of the orchestra, until only a handful of musicians remained on the stage and it appeared I would be accompanied by a string quartet rather than a symphony orchestra. “This is becoming ridiculous,” I informed him. “I insist on using a small microphone so the guitar can be heard and all the strings won’t have to play pianissimo.”
We had a heated showdown onstage, the maestro angrily gesticulating and waving his baton threateningly in my direction. He stomped his feet on the wooden stage like some enraged Rumpelstiltskin, growling that Segovia would never have condescended to use a microphone. I felt certain that Segovia would never have agreed to play with an orchestra in this four-thousand-seat auditorium, where a guitar could barely be heard past the third row in a solo concert, never mind with the Philharmonic to drown it out. Sticking to my guns, I fought back in French, throwing in a few Italian expressions remembered from my university classes. Meanwhile, our bewildered Japanese representatives, not understanding the languages and unable to comprehend our histrionics, tried to resolve the situation by bowing apologetically to each other, exercising the Japanese propensity for maintaining harmony. The maestro’s host, with a hang-dog look of pleading in his eyes, informed me euphemistically that “the kind and understanding gentleman would be so very grateful if you would please be so graciously accommodating to perform without audio amplification, as it would make him wonderfully happy.” My enraged conductor had just spat out some choice Italian words and stormed off the stage! But without subtle support from electronic amplification, in spite of the orchestra’s reduced numbers, my playing, with its variety of tonal shadings, would be perceived as scarcely audible scratching, so I also marched away, leaving the puzzled orchestra members patiently awaiting a decision. Mr. Tanaka and the Philharmonic manager must have eventually talked some sense into the conductor, and he finally conceded to share the stage with my offending microphone.
The concert went splendidly. Afterwards, the charming maestro dissolved into smiles and hugs, magnanimously inviting my mother and me to be his guests at La Scala. After weeks of being immersed in oriental politeness, he must have found his volatile Latin temperament craving a catharsis. I had come to Japan at the perfect time to help restore the conductor’s equilibrium!