by Tina Arena
I was keen to write and record with Paul Manners, the guy who had helped create that retro sound for Kelly Joyce and who had recorded a version of ‘Tu Es Toujours Là’ and produced ‘I’m Gone’, the track I’d ended up including on Just Me. I always want to start afresh with each album, an approach, it must be said, that the Sony guys were never particularly comfortable with.
Despite the tight budget, Paul was keen. So in mid-2003 I found myself in a gorgeous little village called Montefiore Conca outside of Rimini in the Emilia–Romagna region of north-east Italy. Paul’s studio was just out of town, in a magnificent old farmhouse set in a stunning valley.
On Paul’s recommendation I booked myself into the Villa Leri. When I arrived, I discovered that it was also a retreat for kids with drug problems. The place was associated with the Catholic Church, and the idea was that the kids would heal and recover by expressing themselves via theatre and the arts, as well as growing all their own food. They grew everything – vegetables, wheat for bread, grapes for organic wine, olives for oil – and also produced their own meat, and milk for cheese. The villa was set against a vista of rolling green hills, ancient fortifications, cobbled streets and medieval houses clinging to the hillsides. All in all, it was an inspirational place to record.
Everyone was so friendly – being able to speak the language no doubt helped. They knew I was a singer, and they seemed to like having me there.
While I was there, the kids at Villa Leri staged a beautiful musical called Chiara di Dio (Clare of God), the story of Saint Francis of Assisi and his chaste love for his follower Chiara, who went on to set up an order of nuns called the Poor Clares. On occasion I’d get up and sing a song with them. It was just great to get back to basics. Nature, music, good food.
I made two or three trips to Montefiore Conca and Falcon Valley Studios that year, staying a week or so at a time. Paul and I had a ball. Paul was impossibly talented and yet a warm and open individual who was fun to be around. We were on the same wavelength and we recorded some great demos: ‘Talk to Me’, ‘Peel Me (Like an Orange)’, ‘Doesn’t It Feel Good’, ‘No Apology’, ‘Italian Love Song’ and ‘Take Me Apart’. We wanted to create a sound that paid tribute to 1960s legends like Petula Clark and Dusty Springfield, two inspirations for me over the years. To get a warm vintage sound we recorded in analogue rather than digital and we went back to basics, with the voice smack in the middle.
When the demos were done, we sent them off to Sony. This would be the last album of my contract. At the same time, three dates in November were locked in for concerts in Australia – two in Melbourne and one at my home away from home, the State Theatre in Sydney. It was a joy to get home and touch base with my Australian fans.
It had been a good year. I was head over heels, which always adds a glow to life, and I’d slowed down, just a little, to try and learn how to smell the roses again. It had been so long. And I was excited about the new album. On a tiny budget Paul and I had created something I was proud of, some good songs, beautiful melodies, heartfelt lyrics. I couldn’t wait to get into the studio to work on them.
Soon after Christmas, I was back in London for a gig at Shepherds Bush. It had been lined up by Penelope Young, who was based in the UK and had temporarily taken over from Wendy Laister as my manager. Now that I was living in the UK and working so much across the Channel it made sense for my manager to be based there, rather than in New York. Penelope was looking after me until I found someone permanent.
An Australian bloke called Bruce Pawsey had organised the Shepherds Bush show to celebrate Australia Day. I knew Bruce, who had started out as a drummer in Melbourne working with the Ceberanos. He’d been my UK tour manager back in the 1990s when I was promoting ‘Chains’ and Don’t Ask over there. I’d always liked him, a clever, warm and generous bloke who was tall and good-looking to boot. They’d been tough tours and he’d done a great job.
Penelope also liked Bruce when she met him and thought he might be the man to take over my management. When we put it to him, he agreed. Penelope was relieved and I was, too.
I was gearing up to record the album with Paul. Bruce and I were just waiting for the go-ahead from Sony. But we hadn’t heard anything in a while. Then, in a phone conversation, it was made clear to us that they didn’t like the demos – that they weren’t commercial enough, or something. Whatever Sony were looking for, it apparently wasn’t there.
Not long after, Bruce received a letter. Sony were not prepared to record or release my new album. Instead, they’d like to release a Greatest Hits instead.
I’d been dropped. Sony and I were, as the song says, past tense.
I’d been retrenched, lost my job. It was devastating. I just kept thinking, How can they sack me? The usual worries that everyone has when they suddenly find themselves unemployed kept me awake at night, not least the fact that I had only recently mortgaged myself to the hilt. I wandered around in a daze for two weeks, not knowing what had hit me or what to do.
Finally, I sat down and wrote Sony boss Denis Handlin a letter. I thanked him for giving me a chance, and for all their support over the years. I said that, while I didn’t understand their decision, I was grateful for everything they’d done for me. It seemed the right thing to do and I’ve never regretted it.
It was true that I didn’t understand it back then, but I do now. They wanted to cut their losses, and had found a way out. That was why they’d given me so little to make the demos with. Back then, recording music was still an extremely expensive business and now the industry was in trouble.
My only consolation was that so many artists before me have found themselves without a contract at various points in their careers. Now I’d joined the list. It was a bizarre feeling, like I’d been thrown overboard in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. Maybe, if I could only swim to shore, I could go back and study for that law degree …
CHAPTER 25
Un Autre Univers
In Australia, Sony released my Greatest Hits 1994 – 2004 album in October 2004. To justify the ‘2004’ bit, they included one new song on the album, which was released as a single a few days later. ‘Italian Love Song’ was written and recorded with Paul Manners. It was a tongue-in-cheek song about a love affair with a certain type of Italian man (the kind who might chat up his best friend’s mum), a man who needs forgiveness, probably because he’s been up to no good.
It was witty and fun, but what I liked best about it was the video clip, because it featured my favourite non-Italian man – Vince (though in fact, his great-grandmother was Italian). Australian director Anthony Rose made it on a slim budget with just a couple of crew. We filmed it in the stunningly picturesque seaside village of Collioure, in the south of France, not far from the border with Spain.
Vince played the handsome, mysterious Italian to a T. The fact he is French and looks Scandinavian didn’t matter. It was the first time Vince and I really collaborated creatively. Following my experience with Ralph, I’d been wary of mixing business and pleasure, but working creatively with Vince was a different proposition and we’ve done it many times since.
To promote the album, which went gold and made it into the top ten, I toured Australia at the end of 2004. It was a huge tour of sixteen concerts, across every state, from Hobart in the south up to Cairns in the far north, and Perth in the west. Vince came with me, and we had a blast. The band – Paul Gray, Kere Buchanan, Chrissy Thomas, Nick Sinclair and Chris Kamzelas – were not only musos at the top of their game but also a great bunch of people, and everyone got on brilliantly.
In Queensland we went to places that artists rarely go, such as Rockhampton and Townsville, and it was wonderful to connect with all those people. I don’t know whether the fans realised, but to me it felt like a farewell tour. I had no idea if I’d ever be back working in Australia, so it seemed right to be getting out there, performing my songs and bringing that chapter to a close. It was the end of an era.
My home would now
be in London, although I had no idea what I’d be doing over there, either. Without a recording contract in Australia, I had no contract anywhere, including France.
One thing that was working out was Vince and me – we never tired of each other and we were just getting started. There was still so much to find out about each other. And with no record contract, I actually had the time to get to know him.
Vince was still doing a lot of theatre work and a few months prior to the Australian tour I’d gone on the road with him for ten days of shows in the north of France. We stayed in B & Bs and for once I wasn’t the one getting up on stage. It was fun.
When we’d returned to Paris, Vince’s god-sister, Nathalie, had rung to say she was organising a surprise party for Vince’s thirtieth birthday. I’d been touched that they considered me enough of a friend to share the secret with.
The party at Nathalie and Laurent’s studio just outside of Paris was fabulous. The theme was the circus, and I dressed as a contortionist, with a pair of fake legs around my neck like a stole. Vince got the shock of his life when he saw us all, a bunch of circus freaks ready to party.
So Vince was family, now, and to have my nearest and dearest by my side felt so right after years of being apart from my loved ones and so often feeling alone.
But having lost my job, it seemed like my life would be forever swings and roundabouts. Trying to get a balance between family and work still seemed to be eluding me.
In early March 2005 I flew back to Sydney to perform at the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras after-party. I had never forgotten my last Mardi Gras experience, when I sang ‘I Need Your Body’ and the crowd were so supportive and generous. This one was going to be good, too, I could just feel it in my bones.
As usual, the costumes were fabulous and so were the dancers. With big sixties-style hair and wearing a skimpy little outfit teamed with white stockings and suspenders, I sang ‘Never (Past Tense)’ followed by ‘Dare You to Be Happy’. It was another great night to remember.
But now that was it. My recording career had come to a big loud full stop. I had no idea what I was going to do from here on. The one thing I did know was I had a mortgage payment to make the following month. And another one the month after that.
Back home in London, I’d barely unpacked my bags when I got a call from Valérie Michelin. That was hardly extraordinary. I was still doing the odd bit of promo in France and popping over there on and off, doing shows or performing on television.
‘I’d like to sign you for three albums,’ Valérie said after a brief exchange of pleasantries. ‘Now I can have you all to myself and I don’t have to talk to those bloody Aussies anymore,’ she joked. In fact, Valérie adored Australians. I think she found our forthright honesty endearing. But on previous records, Valérie had had to negotiate everything we did in France with Sony Australia, and it had often been tricky. Now she would have the reins, and she was obviously delighted by the prospect.
I was delighted she’d offered. In fact, I was overjoyed. ‘Wow,’ was all I could say to begin with.
What I learnt that day is, never underestimate the universe. Have faith, always. Not that this was going to be a walk in the park. Singing the odd song in French was one thing. Signing up for three French-language albums was another altogether. It was not only the language issue – in fact, my French was improving every day. But anyone who has tried to work in another country knows how confusing and foreign it can be. The language is different, sure, but so are the rules, the practices, the politics, the people. My experience on Notre-Dame de Paris and my previous work in France had already opened my eyes to the cultural divide that exists between the Anglo and French approaches to just about everything.
But, hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I said yes. How could I say no? Valérie had thrown me a lifeline, but not only that, I loved working in France. The French had been unbelievably good to me and I had enormous respect for their music and their culture.
Very quickly, though, my excitement turned to terror as I began to contemplate how on earth I’d navigate that new world with the most basic of maps. My terror was amped up to eleven two weeks later when I found out I was pregnant.
We hadn’t planned it, especially since I’d just taken on a mortgage you’d need mountaineering gear to scale. But funnily enough, despite those worries, when I’d come home to London after Mardi Gras I’d felt relaxed in a way I hadn’t in years. It had helped that when I arrived my two dear old friends Mel Harris and Tim Page had come to stay while they visited a sick rellie in London. Tim is a much-celebrated Vietnam War photographer. He covered the war along with his friend Sean Flynn, Errol Flynn’s son, who went missing in Vietnam in 1970. Tim has been searching for Sean’s remains ever since, which led him to jointly produce a book and then a travelling exhibition in memory of photographers and journalists killed during the Vietnam War. Mel, a documentary producer, is one of my best mates.
Tim speaks good French and he and Vince were having a fine old time. Coming home to find Vince and my darling friends enjoying each other’s company had cheered me enormously. We hung out, ate, drank, ate, talked, and ate and drank and argued and talked some more. After the events of the previous year, it was such a happy and relaxing time. And it was just before or during Tim and Mel’s visit that it must have happened. It was as if the baby decided we were ready and chose us.
When the pregnancy was confirmed I went into shock. I’d always known I wanted to have children, but right now? Vince, on the other hand, was thrilled. Once I was through the shock, so was I. It suddenly seemed exactly right. Soon we were ecstatic.
Now I just had to tell Valérie, who had already leapt into action and was busily getting contracts drawn up, song demos sent over and marketing plans mapped out.
When I broke the news to her I think her words were, ‘Even better!’ Which was very supportive on her part. I guess it didn’t hurt that the father was French.
Valérie took the opportunity to ask where I planned to live – London or Paris.
I’d thought about it and already decided I wanted to stay in London. My manager, Bruce, was based there, plus I had my little structure set up – my stuff, my neighbourhood, my friends, my bearings.
‘Fine,’ Valérie said. ‘But we’d like to get you an apartment over here. It’ll be cheaper than putting you up in a hotel all the time.’
That made sense. So in May, Vince and I flew to Paris in search of an apartment. Valérie had given us a budget, and it sounded very generous. But when we began to view properties it quickly became apparent that all we’d be able to afford was a dump or a dog box. Space is at a premium in Paris, and everything we looked at was either too small to swing a poodle or grungy or noisy or out of the way – or all three.
Virginie Couarc’h came to the rescue. Virginie was working at Columbia, and she got in touch with some real estate agents in the seventeenth arrondissement.
One morning she rang with information on yet another place for rent. ‘Check it out. It sounds like it has potential,’ she said breezily.
‘Where is it?’ I asked doubtfully. We’d seen so many shockers I’d just about given up.
‘Batignolles,’ she said. ‘Place du Docteur Félix Lobligeois.’
‘You’re kidding?’ I said.
Virginie was taken aback. ‘No-o-o-o … Why? Do you know it?’
‘I’ll fill you in later. I’ve got to tell Vince.’
The universe was clearly working overtime. Paris is a big city but I knew Place du Docteur Félix Lobligeois well. In fact, I’d fallen in love with it many months earlier, when Vince and I had strolled through there one day, hand in hand. It was a classic Parisian square with a pretty church, stunning old apartment blocks with balconies, little shops and a park at one end. With stars in my eyes, I’d said to Vince, ‘Wouldn’t it be heaven to live here on this square one day. It’s so beautiful!’
‘Putain! And expensive!’ Vince had responded, deflating my fantasy with good o
ld French frankness.
But now that dream might just become a reality – unless the apartment was another dog box.
It wasn’t. It was a lovely place, roomy and bright, on the fifth floor of the best building, and we took it.
A month or so later Vince and I were ensconced there while preparations were in train to record my first all-French-language album. My pregnancy was going well. Once I got through the first trimester, my energy had bounced back with a vengeance. In fact, I couldn’t be stopped – I was like a woman on a mission. Which was lucky, because I was beginning to feel like I’d fallen out of the sky onto another planet in another universe. The French music world was just so different to what I was used to in Australia, the UK or America, and for the first time I was finding out how different.
For starters, while the French revere their singers – which is a wonderful thing to see and experience – they revere their lyricists and composers even more. Most highly esteemed is the lyricist, or auteur (author); the compositeur who writes the music comes second; and the singer, known as the interprète (interpreter), is third. So the song rather than the singer is at the heart of the chanson Française. French people will argue endlessly about whose version of a particular song is best, that is, who best interprets a song.
If I’d known all this when I had the idea to sing ‘Les Trois Cloches’ I’d have probably packed up my mike and gone home. But as it turned out, my efforts were recognised and rewarded, I guess because I paid tribute not only to an extraordinary singer but to a great song.
So songwriters are the genuine and lasting stars in that firmament. It’s fantastic, really – in Australia we often don’t have a clue or care who writes the songs. On a practical level, though, because the French so keenly guard their history and culture and support and protect their artistic community, it meant there’d be fewer opportunities for me to write. Columbia would take a much greater role in choosing the songs for my album, most of which would be written by known and revered French songwriters. Creatively, I would have to take more of a back seat. It would be frustrating, no doubt about it, but that was just the way it was.