Sweet Judy Blue Eyes: My Life in Music by Judy Collins

Author:Judy Collins
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Singers - United States, Entertainment & Performing Arts, General, Singers, Judy, Music, Folk & Traditional, Biography & Autobiography, Collins, Genres & Styles, Composers & Musicians
ISBN: 0307717348
Publisher: Crown Archetype
Published: 2011-10-01T05:00:00+00:00

IN 1965, after I had been living on the Upper West Side for a few months, and as preparations for the USSR trip were taking shape, I suddenly found myself facing an unexpected roadblock: I was having terrible trouble with my voice. I asked around for names of people to whom I could go for help, maybe a voice coach or singing teacher. They said I should seek out Max Margulis. I carried his phone number around on a tattered piece of paper.

One day when I was so hoarse I could barely speak, I called the number I had been given for Max. A man answered, and I introduced myself in my croaking voice and told him he had been recommended to me. He asked for the names of those who had suggested I call him, and I mentioned Irma and Mordecai Bauman, who ran Indian Hill, an arts camp in the Berkshires, where Carly Simon, Arlo Guthrie, and many gifted musicians and artists had gone. Ray Boguslav, who played guitar for Harry Belafonte and was a serious, gifted pianist as well, had also told me that Max was the only game in town if you were looking for a great teacher. Max seemed pleased.

Then Max asked me what kind of music I sang, and I told him.

“Oh, you people are never serious,” he said, the graciousness gone from his voice. “I don’t want to waste my time.”

“But I need help—I’m losing my voice all the time. I don’t know what to do.” I was truly becoming desperate. “Please, just let me come and talk to you,” I begged.

He said no again, but less firmly. His voice softened. Finally he told me, “Well, perhaps we could talk. But only talk, you understand!” Then he gave me his address and went on, “You just ring the bell for 8B.”

My mouth dropped open. I said I would be there within two minutes.

Surprised, he said he just might be able to squeeze me in, and asked where I was.

“I live next door to you, in 8A.”

I walked out my door on the eighth floor of my building, took two steps past the elevator, and rang his bell. When he opened the door, of course I recognized him, a slight man with glasses—looking very much unlike the ogre I had spoken to on the phone. I could see he was prepared to frown, but a small smile came to his lips, and I sensed playfulness somewhere behind the frown. We had spoken in the elevator a couple of times, exchanging only the briefest of hellos, but our encounters had been pleasant.

Max shook my proffered hand and invited me into the room. There was a blue rug on the floor. The walls were hung with original works of Arshile Gorky and Willem de Kooning, paintings and sketches. A parakeet sang from a small cage in the kitchen, and the scent of roasting chicken filled the room. Max gestured toward the Steinway grand that took over one corner, and we began.

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