Now I Can Dance

by Tina Arena

  When you’re in not just another universe but another’s universe, if you’ve got any sense you show respect, go with the flow and look and learn. And that’s what I did. The fact that I was now five months pregnant focused my mind. Sure, I was excited about making the album, and ready to promote its socks off. But stepping back from the songwriting might just give me the space I needed.

  And anyway, I couldn’t risk messing up this project by making demands or insisting things should be one way or another. Because I now had a child to think of. This other universe was about to become something else again.

  CHAPTER 26

  Aimer Jusqu’à l’Impossible

  In the end I collaborated on the writing of half the songs for my first French album, which I decided to call Un Autre Univers (Another Universe) for obvious reasons. The title was also the name of one of the songs on the album. For that track I had the idea to take the music from ‘Woman’, which was a song on Just Me, and translate or rewrite the lyrics. But my translation skills were never going to cut it, I knew. So I threw it at Vince. ‘You need to do this for me,’ I said.

  He tried to get out of it – he has never imposed himself on my work – but I wouldn’t let him. Vince had written quite a bit of poetry in his time, and I knew he was good, even if he didn’t. He finally agreed and wrote entirely new lyrics, changing the name and the sentiment of the song. It remains one of the most extraordinary lyrics I’ll ever sing, and my partner wrote it.

  Vince also helped me navigate the new and strange universe of French music. I relied on him to explain things from a French point of view and to understand the nuances of the language and the politics.

  Robert Goldman, still writing under the pen name of J. Kapler, wrote two of the tracks – ‘Tu Aurais Dû Me Dire’ (You Should Have Told Me) and ‘S’Il Faut Prier’ (Pray). Jacques Veneruso, who wrote ‘Tu Es Toujours Là’ contributed ‘Changer’ ( To Change).

  Then there were the songwriters Elodie Hesme and David Gategno. They wrote the track that became the first single off the album, ‘Aimer Jusqu’à l’Impossible’ (Love to the Impossible). That song spoke to all of us – it had the same indefinable quality that made ‘Aller Plus Haut’ so irresistible. It was a song about loving unconditionally, loving beyond reason, in the face of anything or everything, no matter what happens.

  But when I heard the finished track, I wasn’t happy. I adored the strings, which had been arranged by Stanislas Renoult, but I didn’t feel the production fully captured the anthemic power of the song.

  Bruce suggested I fling it to a couple of friends of his, Mark ‘Duck’ Blackwell and Paul Guardiani. Like me, Paul was an expat originally from Melbourne of Italian origin. Duck had come from the Bristol music scene around Massive Attack and Tricky, and he’d been a member of the band Straw. They’d since teamed up as a writing and production duo.

  So Bruce sent Paul and Duck the files. A few days later they came back with a pumping track, lush and full with a rich and round bottom end. It was exactly what I was looking for. All I had to do now was convince Valérie, which I did by telling her in no uncertain terms how much I loved it.

  While we were still in the middle of drawing up a short list of songs, Elodie and David had approached me directly to discuss a song they hadn’t completed writing.

  ‘We’d love you to have a listen and see what you think. We haven’t shown it to any record company yet,’ Elodie explained.

  ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘Because it’s a bit political and we’re not sure they’d go for it,’ she said.

  When I listened to it I fell in love with the song immediately, but I could see why they were nervous. Called ‘Je M’Appelle Bagdad’ (My Name is Baghdad), it was about the destruction of that beautiful city during the invasion of Iraq two years earlier. Unlike Britain and Australia, most European countries, France included, did not declare war on Iraq, and like many people all over the world the French had watched events unfold in horror.

  But the song was about more than that – it was about how humankind creates beautiful things and then tears them down, and how time transforms everything. The first verse spoke about what Baghdad used to be, an enlightened city of jewelled pavilions, but how so much had been lost and now bombs rained down.

  For me the song wasn’t political, it was reality, and it moved me. And anyway, I wanted to push the boundaries a bit. I hate doing anything that’s too obvious. The way I saw it, as a foreign singer I was out of the box anyway, so why not take a few risks?

  So the next time I saw Valérie I put my case for including the song on the album. I had expected her to say no, but she got it. We never imagined it could be single material, but once we heard the produced track and how the poetry of the lyrics meshed with the emotional power of the music we were blown away. In the end ‘Bagdad’ was slated as the second single.

  During one of our many boxing matches as we drew up a short list of songs, Valérie had asked me whether I’d like to do a duet.

  ‘I’d love to do one with Henri Salvador,’ I said. I absolutely idolised this great French singer-songwriter, but he was nearly ninety years old and I knew it would be a long shot. Henri was a classic all-round entertainer. As well as being a true crooner in the original sense, he’d been on television and in the movies. His music always put a smile on my face.

  ‘Well, it just so happens I know his wife, Catherine,’ Valérie said. ‘I’ll ask her to put it to him.’

  Trust Valérie. She always seemed to make things happen with a quick wave of her Gallic wand.

  Henri said yes straight up. Apparently he knew and liked my work and thought I did what I did well. Coming from him it felt like a great compliment – I’d figured Henri, being old school, wouldn’t be easily moved by contemporary music.

  Henri proposed the song ‘Et Puis Après’, which he’d written with singer-songwriter Lydia Martinico. It was just perfect – charming, witty, romantic.

  On our day in the studio together, Henri turned up with a killer bottle of red wine. I don’t know what it was, but it was delicious, and so we drank and we sang and laughed.

  We recorded the album quickly. I was like a woman possessed, full of energy, going at a hundred miles an hour. I was in love, I adored being pregnant and I was as happy as I’d ever been. Singing while pregnant was a new sensation. I was at ease, chilled, and I did most of the vocals in two or three takes.

  The fact I was working so late into my pregnancy, especially given it was all in the public eye, came as a shock to many of the French people I encountered. I remember turning up for a fundraiser for Pièces Jaunes, a charity that helps children in hospital and which is championed by Bernadette Chirac, the then president’s wife. Madame Chirac looked me up and down in trepidation. ‘Tu vas bien?’ she asked. ‘You’re not about to give birth right here, right now, are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine,’ I assured her. And I was. I felt great.

  So when I was asked whether I’d like to perform at the Paris Live 8 concert I said yes straight away. Bob Geldof had announced the Live 8 initiative on the last day of May and the concerts took place just over a month later, on 2 July. I have no idea how they pulled that off. It was a huge event – more than 1000 musicians performed at the eleven concerts, which were broadcast around the world. The shows took place just prior to the G8 summit and were put on in support of the Make Poverty History campaign and to pressure the G8 to pledge more aid to poor nations.

  The French Live 8 concert was staged at the Château de Versailles, just outside of Paris. The palace of Louis XIV has always represented the opulence of the French monarchy prior to the Revolution. The Live 8 organisers chose it for that reason – the place was a symbol of the wealth of the world’s eight richest nations, the participants in the G8 summit.

  Over 150,000 people turned out for the concert on an extremely hot summer’s day. I’d been slated to sing ‘The Prayer’ with Andrea Bocelli, but he was running late. Instead I did an
impromptu duet with English R & B star Craig David. We practised the Beatles song ‘Come Together’ in the car half an hour before we went on. I was five months pregnant and thought I was going to collapse in the heat. But we got through it and later I appeared again to sing ‘Aller Plus Haut’.

  Live 8 was a fantastic and worthwhile event to be a part of, and less than a week later the G8 nations pledged to double their aid to poor nations. (A year later, however, things were moving slowly, and no doubt the global financial crisis also had an impact on those pledges. Nevertheless, the Live 8 concerts raised awareness and focused attention on world poverty.)

  About a month later we made the video for ‘Aimer Jusqu’à l’Impossible’, the first single off Un Autre Univers, with wonderful French video director Thierry Vergnes. I was six months pregnant. The clip was filmed off the Champs-Élysées and in the Institut du Monde Arabe. I was wearing a gorgeous black Dior dress that was cut on the bias. From behind you couldn’t tell I was pregnant, but from the front it looked like I’d swallowed a basketball. Thierry did a fantastic job. For most of the clip, which was stunning, you wouldn’t have known I was pregnant, but occasionally there’d be glimpses of my belly or silhouette. It was great – they didn’t hide it but they didn’t emphasise it either. It just seemed so natural and so normal. After all, singers get pregnant too.

  ‘Aimer’ was released on 14 November and debuted at number 3 on the French charts. Two days later I was hanging out with Vince and our friends Jacques and Gilles at Jacques’ atelier downstairs in our building. It was 10.30 at night and what had started out as a quiet aperitif had turned into a party, as usual. We were always having little soirees around the square – someone would bring the wine, someone the bread (I was famous for my prawns!), and this was no different. Now the boys were onto their hundredth bottle of red.

  I interrupted proceedings with an announcement. ‘My waters have broken.’

  Vince, Jacques and Gilles nodded, then kept talking. Suddenly they all stopped and stared at me. They looked like the living dead – all the blood had drained from their faces.

  Then it was on for young and old. Gilles rushed around the corner to retrieve his work van. Gilles is an interior designer and the inside of his van always looked like a grenade had exploded in there. Five flights up, I changed for the fourth time, adding my previous outfit to the growing pile of wet clothes in the corner. Vince attempted to pack a bag, but that last glass of wine wasn’t helping. Still, being a very capable guy, he managed to get the job done with his trademark cool.

  My contractions started around 11.30 pm and an hour later I was in Gilles’ van and on the way to the American Hospital in Neuilly-sur-Seine.

  Vince and I had originally planned to have the baby in Australia. We were still technically living in London, travelling back and forth on the train as need be. But finally, my doctor had told me I had to stop and stay put in Paris. In the same breath she told me I’d be mad to fly back to Melbourne to have the baby. As she so delicately pointed out, I wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

  When we arrived at the hospital it seemed to be deserted. A nurse finally appeared and I was wheeled to a room. When the contractions grew stronger I was taken down to the delivery suite. Still I saw not another soul. It was quite surreal. My doctor was called. She lived some distance away and it would be a while before she arrived.

  In the meantime, they discovered that the umbilical cord had wrapped around the baby’s neck. The doctor on duty made the call to perform an emergency caesarian.

  Our little boy was born in the early hours of 17 November 2005. But after a quick kiss and cuddle, he was bundled up and whipped away and I was wheeled into recovery.

  I’d had an epidural and couldn’t feel a thing from the waist down, but I was determined to get upstairs to see my baby.

  The nurse would have none of it. ‘You must stay here to rest, Mlle Arena,’ he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  It’s one of the few times in my life they’ve been able to hold me down. I guess an epidural will have that effect.

  Our little man ended up spending the first three hours of his life with his father and godfather, Stéphane Dumontier, who’d rushed over when he heard the news.

  Finally I was wheeled upstairs to see the boys. My brand-new baby was just perfect. There wasn’t a mark on him – he was beautiful. In fact, he was a carbon copy of his beautiful father.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Look of Love

  When I looked into my darling baby’s eyes I fell instantly in love. We named him Gabriel Joseph. We both liked ‘Gabriel’ plus, being the same name in French, English and Italian, it would keep things simple for our son. As well, Vince’s great-grandmother had been a Gabrielle. We called him Joseph after my father, Giuseppe (Joe).

  I don’t remember getting much sleep during the first couple of months after Gab’s birth. In fact, I don’t remember much at all. I was a stunned mullet, terrified. I had no idea what I was doing – I didn’t have a clue.

  Luckily, Vince was a natural. He just rolled up his sleeves and got in there. He could bath Gab, burp him, rock him off to sleep, change his nappy – whatever needed to be done. Vince had had more experience with children than I had. He’d always helped friends out if they needed someone to look after their kids. He just wasn’t fazed.

  About two weeks after Gab was born my new album Un Autre Univers was released and I went back to work, doing promo. Morgane, my makeup artist, was working overtime to make me presentable and disguise the dark circles under my eyes. But I’m sure I had a vacant stare most of the time. I’d give an interview or do a TV appearance in between breastfeeds. Thank god for Vince.

  Christmas was approaching but this year I wouldn’t be going home. Gab was just too little and I was exhausted. Then, through the fog, I began to notice that Vince was acting strangely. He was popping out all the time, giving odd little excuses. He seemed distracted, busy with other things, although I wasn’t sure what.

  I asked him if anything was wrong.

  ‘Non,’ he said, putting an end to the discussion.

  Then, one afternoon, he told me that he had to go out and he might be some time.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I figured the poor guy needed a break. So did I, truth be told. Gab was a gorgeous little thing, but as any parent knows, your first baby is always a shock to the system.

  Before I could say anything else, Vince was gone, the door slamming behind him.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with your old man,’ I said to Gab, ‘but it’s just you and me now, kid.’

  I swear Gab’s eyes widened with fear.

  But we managed. A couple of hours later Vince still wasn’t home. Clearly he needed some time out.

  Finally he called me. ‘I’m at the door but I can’t find my keys,’ he said. ‘Can you come and open up?’

  I was in the middle of changing yet another pooey nappy. ‘You’ll have to wait,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

  When I was done I grabbed Gab and headed for the front door. I wrestled with the lock with one hand and pulled it open.

  ‘Hi, darling.’ Mum and Dad were standing in the doorway, huge smiles on their faces.

  I was so shocked I nearly dropped the baby. Last I’d heard, Mum and Dad were going to try and get over to visit in the new year. Now here they were on my doorstep clutching a big fluffy teddy.

  Vince had organised everything in secret. What a champion. It was a divine thing to do.

  Mum and Dad had rarely been able to visit me for all the years I’d lived away. They were too busy with the nursing home, and just couldn’t leave it. But this time, Mum had somehow found someone to hold the fort for four weeks.

  Days later, Silvana arrived from London, where she was now working as Sharon Osbourne’s personal assistant. Silvana and Mum and Dad stayed in friends’ apartments on the square. It was perfect – we saw each other every day, and Mum, Dad and Silvana helped out with Gab. Vince and I actually go
t some sleep! We felt blessed.

  We had a truly beautiful Christmas, there in our Paris apartment on beautiful Place du Docteur Félix Lobligeois. Vince’s parents came up from the south of France and his sister Sophie also came with little Matéo and her husband. Vince’s Uncle Alain and his wife, Chantal, were there too. Mum and Vince’s mum, Jeannick, did the cooking.

  Not long after Christmas, Nancy arrived with her husband, Walter, and little Sofia, who was now three and full of ideas she just had to tell you immediately. After Gab, seeing everyone all together was the best Christmas present ever.

  In January Vince and I attended the NRJ Music Awards down in Cannes. Gab came with us and Vince’s parents minded him while we attended the event. I’d been nominated for ‘Best French Female Artist’. I sang ‘Aimer’ with six other French female artists, including Natasha St-Pier, who I’d performed alongside in Notre-Dame de Paris. For the record, pop singer Jenifer won the award that night.

  In February, also in between breastfeeds, I participated in my first Les Enfoirés concert. ‘Les Enfoirés’, which can be translated variously as the Tossers, the Bastards or the Arseholes (I think you get the idea), is the name given to the artists and celebrities who perform in a yearly charity concert for the ‘Restos du Cœur’ (Restaurants of the Heart), of which there are around 2500 in France, feeding 600,000 hungry people every day.

  The idea to set up a charity to feed the hungry came from French comedian Coluche in 1985. But not long after he launched it, he was killed in a motorbike accident (earlier that week he’d broken the world speed motorbike record of 252 kilometres per hour).

  Coluche had given Jean-Jacques Goldman a week to write a song for a concert he wanted to put on to raise money for the charity. Jean-Jacques had come up with ‘La Chanson des Restos’ (The Restos’ Song), the chorus of which is now sung at the end of every concert.