by Tina Arena
I was running on empty, but singing ‘No More Tears’ with Donna Summer in New York had given me the extra little oomph I needed to keep going. And as each day passed my determination was growing. The pain had to end. Things had to change.
I kept it together and turned up smiling each day. Somewhere inside, though, I just knew ‘If I Was a River’ wasn’t going to work. But when you’re in a territory other than your own, you have to trust the locals. You also have to accept that music is an art, not a science – no one gets it right all of the time. Still, the fact was, I never connected with that song, not when I recorded it and not when I was on the road performing it and trying to sell it. And if I couldn’t connect with it, why would listeners? It’s a lovely song, but at that time in my life it was the wrong song. In retrospect, if they’d sent me out with a song like ‘No More Tears (Enough is Enough)’, then maybe the story would have been different.
As it was, for whatever reason – and the variables are as difficult to read as tea-leaves – ‘If I Was a River’ didn’t chart in the US. Nevertheless, Epic pressed ahead and released In Deep in the second week of March. They’d given it their best shot, and for that I am eternally grateful. Working with those guys had been a fantastically positive collaboration. I met so many interesting people and, despite increasingly difficult circumstances, had many good times.
After a detour to Europe, I returned to Australia, exhausted in a way I’d never felt before. On top of the collapse of my marriage and my business partnership with Ralph, I had to deal with my own disappointment and an overwhelming feeling that I’d let my American friends down. But, while I felt like a wreck both physically and emotionally, I had developed new resolve. Things couldn’t go on the way they had been. I wasn’t ready to give up but I was ready to make some changes. The question was, though, what would happen to Ralph and me? Without the other, could either of us survive, personally or professionally?
I now knew that I could and I would. A bit of good news had helped me come to that conclusion. ‘I Want to Spend My Lifetime Loving You’ had stayed in the top ten in France, Belgium and the Netherlands for weeks after it charted in October, and was still in the charts five months later. Not only that, but my version of ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ was climbing the charts in France. Ultimately it hit number 13. Suddenly just about everyone in France had heard of Tina Arena. Sony still hadn’t released In Deep over there but were keen to get it out. France would be my next stop.
First, though, I had a few things to do in Australia. Ann-Marie, Ralph’s assistant, had recently resigned. I rang Annie and asked her to work exclusively for me. I knew I couldn’t take the next step without her. Thankfully, she agreed. Then I moved out of the house Ralph and I had shared. Finally I contacted my lawyers, who drafted a legal letter informing him it was over between us.
It was time to take the next step. It had been a good partnership while it lasted, but as Donna and Barbra said, enough is enough.
CHAPTER 17
Aller Plus Haut
Suddenly my working life seemed to be full of women. After Ralph and I parted ways, I’d been on the lookout for a new manager. An old friend, Belinda Lewoshko, was in New York working in artist management with Wendy Laister. Wendy may have been sweet and polite in that English way, but she was a hardened veteran of the music business and had previously run a PR company that looked after the Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, Janet Jackson and Guns N’ Roses, among others. Wendy had recently set up her own management company and was looking after Aerosmith. She and Belinda agreed to take me on.
As well, I still had the wonderful Ann-Marie Meadows in my corner. A woman of integrity and depth, she saw me through some tough times, including the three years it took for the divorce to be settled, and she saved my arse on too many occasions to mention. Ann-Marie was based in Melbourne, but she travelled with me a lot, despite her fear of flying. One of the first things she did for me was find me a house in Melbourne so I had somewhere to live when I was there, which turned out to be not often that year. Instead, I travelled between London, which was my base, and Paris.
Then, in France, I began working closely with two inspiring women. Virginie Auclair was in charge of international marketing at Columbia. A year later she became boss of the label in France. Virginie was one of the smartest women I’ve ever met. Typically French, she was extremely cultured, plus she spoke great English (thank god). Virginie seemed to take a shine to me, and I liked her too. She was quite reserved – she was never a show-off – but was deeply committed to her job. We just clicked. Virginie was very senior, and back then Columbia France was buzzing with a full roster of local and international artists, but she spent a bit of time with me, which was extremely generous under the circumstances.
The other woman I worked closely with at Columbia France was Valérie Michelin. Valérie was tall, blonde, imposing and gutsy. She loved her rock ’n’ roll, and was a force to be reckoned with. I liked her a lot. Like Virginie, Valérie spoke English with an alluring accent. Valérie eventually took over from Virginie as Columbia boss in France.
It was a nice change to be working with so many women at that time in my life. Somehow the dynamic changed in a positive way, and those women supported me just when I needed it. They were all such strong, interesting characters, and their humour got me laughing again.
Virginie and I worked closely together to put the plans in place to release In Deep in France. One afternoon, at a meeting to discuss those arrangements, she said to me: ‘Tina, I know the record is going to be great, but we’d like to add a couple of tracks.’
That wasn’t out of the ordinary. The US and UK versions of the album included ‘If I Was a River’ and ‘Whistle Down the Wind’. I knew the French would want to include ‘I Want to Spend My Lifetime Loving You’.
‘Sure,’ I said.
Then Virginie threw me a curve ball. ‘In French,’ she said.
‘Wha-a-a-a-a …?’ I responded.
Virginie must have thought I was making a pathetic attempt to say ‘yes’ in French. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I just figured, you can speak Italian, and you did a Spanish version of “Sorrento Moon”, so why not do a song or two in French?’
‘Wha-a-a-a?’ I said again.
Virginie smiled. ‘Well, that’s settled, then. Let’s listen to some demos and see if we can find a couple of good songs.’
I just nodded. But on the inside I was terrified. What was I getting myself into? Spanish and Italian were one thing. French, while it might be a Latin language, was another world altogether. I need to connect with a song to sing it well. I need to understand what it says, believe in it and be able to sing it with conviction. Otherwise I feel like I’m just going through the motions, and the listener will feel the same. I couldn’t speak or understand French, so I had no idea whether I’d be able to connect with a song in that language. I do like a challenge, though, so I agreed to give it a go.
Valérie Michelin began trawling through demos, looking for something that would speak to us, even if, for me, it was in a foreign language. One evening, we were having an aperitif at her place. She pulled out another pile of demos and popped one into the player. As the song began she passed me the handwritten case. It was a fairly ordinary recording, and the song had virtually no arrangement, but something about the melody caught my attention, and in a strange way I connected with the chorus, even though I didn’t understand the words.
‘What does it mean?’ I asked Val.
‘Aller plus haut means “to go higher”,’ she said. ‘If you like the song, why don’t we get the songwriter in and you can ask him about it. His name’s Robert Goldman.’
I looked at the CD case in my hand. ‘No, it’s not,’ I said. ‘It says here it’s J. Kapler.’
‘Ah, that’s just a pseudonym,’ Valérie said. ‘Robert is Jean-Jacques’ brother and manager. Robert also used to manage Obispo.’
English-language readers may be unfamiliar with the music of Jean-J
acques Goldman or Pascal Obispo, but in France they’re universally known as celebrated singer-songwriters.
It turned out that ‘Aller Plus Haut’ was the first song Robert had ever penned solo. It had never been recorded or released. Robert had come to songwriting after years in music management. He’d collaborated with his brother on a couple of tracks for Celine Dion and Florent Pagny (another French singer-songwriter) that had been released a few years earlier. Robert has also been credited as ‘Jimmy Kapler’, ‘Jeannot Kapler’ and, in the Eurovision Song Contest, as ‘Jill Kapler’.
Robert and I met to talk through the song. The more we talked the more I loved ‘Aller Plus Haut’ and the more I connected with it. As with all great songs, the lyrics are something of a puzzle and it takes time to piece them together. Even then, the words and the song will mean different things to different people. For me at that time, the song was about being true to yourself, about accepting the past and looking to the future, pour aller plus haut – so you can go higher. It was exactly how I needed to think and feel at that point in my life and it was an inspiration. I needed to get out of the hole I was in emotionally and go higher. Once I understood the meaning of the lyrics, I could visualise what I was singing about. In the end, the French words weren’t too hard to learn and my accent wasn’t too bad.
Valérie wanted one more song in French for the album and asked me whether I had any ideas. As a matter of fact I did, but when I told her and her colleagues they were aghast.
My idea was to do the French classic ‘Les Trois Cloches’ (The Three Bells). It had been a huge hit for Edith Piaf, and I had loved it since I heard it back in Aunty Gisella’s sitting room when I was four. I wanted to pay tribute to that great chanteuse who had made such a big impression on me as a little girl.
But Valérie and her colleagues thought it was a daggy idea. Maybe they just didn’t have the distance I had to see the song for what it is: a brilliant classic that has struck a chord with people all over the world.
‘What if we did an updated version?’ I suggested.
‘If it’s a flop, remember it was your idea!’ was their response, which was fair enough.
When we went into the studio to record those songs, I had zero expectations. We’d agreed that if one of us wasn’t happy with how the songs turned out, we’d can them. Robert Goldman produced alongside a songwriter and producer called Christophe Battaglia. It was great to have Robert, the writer of ‘Aller Plus Haut’, producing that song. He was able to instil his sensibility and help us stay true to the mood and meaning. Somehow it all just came together.
In Deep and ‘Aller Plus Haut’ were finally released in France in July 1999. In Deep charted quickly but ‘Aller Plus Haut’ took a little longer. By early November, though, the song was number 2 on the French charts, and number 1 in Belgium. Having gone into that project with no expectations, it came as a huge shock. Like me, listeners fell in love with ‘Aller Plus Haut’. It was just that kind of song.
Suddenly, in the second half of that year, everyone wanted to talk to me. Though my French was still virtually nonexistent, I was popping up on French television shows regularly. Usually someone would translate live on the spot, but it was pretty scary.
Slowly, however, I was beginning to pick up a bit of the language. Despite the French’s reputation for intolerance of people who won’t speak their tongue, everyone was extremely patient as I blundered through with my dreadful French.
In fact, I was treated like royalty. In those heady days, before digital distribution and market forces halved the music industry’s profits, an artist with a hit record was pampered. Sony France were putting me up in the swish Hôtel Costes, favoured by supermodels and movie stars. I had a chauffeur, ate in the best restaurants and was given clothes and jewellery by top designers.
One day Ann-Marie and I wandered out of the Hôtel Costes to get something to eat. Halfway along the street I glanced back. There was a crowd following behind.
‘I wonder what they’re doing?’ I said to Ann-Marie, pointing.
Annie looked over her shoulder. ‘Are they a tour group or something?’ she said.
A second later she elbowed me. ‘They’re following you, you bloody idiot!’ she hissed. ‘They’re fans.’ My profile had risen so quickly in France I was unprepared.
We decided it was time to do a real concert in Paris. For me there could be only one venue. The Olympia is a landmark in Paris’s ninth arrondissement. Built in the late nineteenth century, it survived World War II and Nazi occupation only to almost be knocked down for a car park in the 1990s. It was saved, thankfully, and has been fully restored to its former glory. But what I love most about it is who has performed there. Edith Piaf made her name there. Jacques Brel, Marlene Dietrich, Charles Aznavour, Dalida, Johnny Hallyday – they all performed on the Olympia’s stage. More recent names include just about everyone from the Grateful Dead to Madonna and Christina Aguilera.
When the show quickly sold out we scheduled another one, this time at the Palais des Sports. We flew over a band of Australian musicians – Nick Sinclair on bass, Chris Kamzelas on guitar, Kere Buchanan on drums and Diana Rouvas and Chrissy Thomas on backing vocals and acoustic guitar. Then there was Paul Gray, once the frontman for eighties band Wa Wa Nee and a singer-songwriter himself. Paul was my musical director and played keyboards.
I don’t know why, but performing to a French crowd was incredibly intimidating and I was sick with nerves before I went on stage at the Olympia. When I got out there, though, it was fine. For one thing, the acoustics are just lovely in that hall, and when the acoustics are good, it always boosts my confidence. Plus the Aussie musos gave a knockout performance. But the French crowd was great, too. Lively, responsive and fun, they were not much different to the crowds back home. Many were young and they were very vocal, singing along and clapping. The place came alive. It was a fabulous night.
I will be forever indebted to Virginie Auclair (who, sadly, we lost to cancer a few years ago), Valérie Michelin and Robert Goldman. Thanks to their vision and effort, I found a new audience in France, and a whole new chapter of my life began. It was something I had never planned or expected, but as things unfolded, I found I was able to start getting on with my life, to spread my wings and go that little bit higher.
CHAPTER 18
I Want to Know What Love Is
The success of ‘Aller Plus Haut’ was only half the story that year. Other events in 1999 also changed me in ways I was not aware of.
First I met a tall, dark and handsome Belgian. His name was Jeremy, and he was the assistant engineer on the ‘Aller Plus Haut’ recording sessions. Jeremy and I struck up a friendship and began to see more and more of each other. We shared a love of music, but also a love of hanging out at home, cooking, eating, just being together. I was in and out of France that year, but whenever I was in Paris we met up, usually at his place. We were both working through stuff, and so were great companions for each other. Jeremy was an absolute sweetheart, but more than that, he helped me realise that I had worth. It sounds terrible, but I’d lost sight of that. He was a lot younger than me – eight or nine years younger – and maybe he found my lack of self-confidence strange, given my age and successful career. Whatever it was, he gave me the confidence to start believing in myself and my own judgement. He also helped me realise that someone could love me and I could love them back. I’d been living on barren land without any idea what to do about it. I think I’d forgotten what love was, or how you give and receive it.
Jeremy also introduced me to some of his family. His uncle David McNeil, a songwriter, is the son of the Russian painter Marc Chagall, and he and Jeremy’s aunt Leslie would invite us over on Sundays to their beautiful home in a secluded part of Paris (their neighbours were Carla Bruni and Nicolas Sarkozy). Jeremy, Leslie and I would make a trip to the local markets. Back at their place, Leslie and I would get to work in the kitchen, then we’d all sit around for a long, leisurely lunch. It was so familiar an
d familial, something I realised I had been missing out on for the last few years. I hadn’t seen enough of my family. Jeremy, Leslie and David and their son, Dylan, who was around Jeremy’s age, became my French family and reminded me that family and love make the world go round.
Something else happened in 1999 which, while it seemed like a little thing, gave me confidence and opened my eyes. It happened out of the blue. While I was in Australia for a quick visit, I got a call from an Italian singer-songwriter called Luca Barbarossa. Luca was recording an album that he’d licensed to Sony and he wanted me to sing a duet with him on the first single, a song called ‘Segnali di Fumo’ (Smoke Signals).
To be honest, I didn’t even know who he was, but of course I found out. It turned out he was a beautiful songwriter and a great singer and storyteller.
Following a bit of discussion with Wendy and Belinda, and after I’d heard the song, I agreed to do the duet with him. But he needed my vocals done quickly and I didn’t have time to make the trip to Italy.
‘Why don’t I send you the files and you can record the vocals in Australia,’ he suggested. ‘Do it how you want. I trust you.’
I was terrified at the thought. How on earth could I produce my vocals on my own? Usually I had someone there to get the right sound, and then decide how my voice should be in the mix. But I didn’t have a choice, so I talked to Steve Scanlon, the engineer who had mixed my live shows for years, and he agreed to record my vocals in his home studio.
With Luca’s blessing and Steve engineering, I produced all my vocals and backing vocals myself. There was no one there to direct me or tell me what to do. It sounds like a little thing, but it made me realise that I could create music on my own, that I didn’t always need someone there to call the shots. I actually had it in me to call the shots myself.
When I sent the files back to Luca he was thrilled, which was great, and of course the song was then finished over there. But doing that little bit of recording without a producer there to direct was a minor revelation. If the need or opportunity arose, I could produce as well as write and sing.