In My Own Key by Liona Boyd

Author:Liona Boyd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2017-07-23T16:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

“Why Do You Need Royalties?”

In the late 1970s, I was becoming more and more frustrated by the comings and goings at Haber Artists, where a continuous stream of fresh-faced young assistants had to be trained from scratch. Eventually, Sandy Castonguay and Costa Pilavachi, who possessed a refreshing degree of business acumen, came on board, taking over negotiations on my behalf. Sandy, like several future agents and managers, suggested that signing autographs after concerts no longer befitted my ever-increasing stature as an international artist. “By allowing yourself to be accessible to the public, you destroy the mystique that classical artists should preserve,” he insisted. I had always been willing to meet members of my audience face to face, especially young guitar enthusiasts to whom it meant so much. What a thrill it had been during my student days to acquire Julian Bream’s and Segovia’s autographs backstage; what a treasured moment when Narciso Yepes had allowed me a close-up view of his nails. Resisting my agent’s counsel, I made a point of continuing to meet individuals from those seas of shadowy faces in darkened theatres. I remember the shy smiles of a little girl in a wheelchair who offered me a crayoned portrait, and the nervous eyes of pimply-faced teenagers presenting, like sacred offerings, pieces they had composed for me. I have signed everything from guitar straps, T-shirts, plaster casts, and the undersides of stage chairs, to thousands of programs, record covers, and music books. It is thanks to all those enthusiastic fans that my guitar career exists, and I will never take them for granted.

One thing that disconcerts me is to be rushed before a concert. I make every possible attempt to reach the venue at least three hours before a performance to adjust speakers, microphones, stage curtains, and lights. However, due to delayed flights, flat tires, traffic jams, or nonchalant promoters, pre-concert panic is sometimes unavoidable.

In Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, my plane touched down on the icy landing strip at 8:20 p.m. for a 9:00 p.m. performance. Trying to iron my concert gown on the backstage floor while tuning uncooperative strings was not the best introduction to a new country. People expect me to glide off a plane right onto the stage, unaware that guitar strings and their players need time to adjust and acclimatize. Latin American concerts are notorious for their late starts, but there the unperturbed audiences expect recitals to begin at least half an hour later than advertised, so nobody voices concern.

Every performing guitarist can relate to a recurring nightmare I have. In my version of this dreadful dream, I am frantically preparing to set off for a concert, having forgotten to practise and feeling totally unprepared. Usually, I am dashing around a hotel room, slapping makeup on my face, and sprinkling talcum powder into my unwashed hair in a vain attempt to resuscitate it. All the gowns I pull out of the closet are either torn or dirty, and nothing seems to match. One of my guitar strings has snapped and I cannot locate a replacement set anywhere.

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