Hayley Westenra

by Hayley Westenra

  After I had finished recording Pure, Giles and his team worked on making the album ready for presentation to the record-company bosses. One particular song that we had recorded was to prove to be a big sticking point for everyone concerned. I fell in love with 'Wuthering Heights' after Mum played me the original Kate Bush version back home in Christchurch. We were working through the family's record collection looking for potential songs for me to record and she put the disc on the turntable in the living room. Out came the utterly unique sound of Kate Bush.

  'What on earth is this?' I asked her incredulously. I really didn't know whether I liked it or not, but it was very different from anything I had heard before. It's one of those songs that really grow on you, and I listened to it again and again, letting it whirr over in my mind. Soon, I was dancing around the house to it. I couldn't get the song out of my head.

  'I have to record this song,' I said to Mum. And that is exactly what I did with Giles when we came to work together on the album. The Decca bosses had other ideas, though, when they heard the album. The ominous message came back: 'We just don't think that "Wuthering Heights" fits.'

  I was not happy and I was not backing down.

  There were an inordinate number of phone calls and then suddenly it came to the big meeting. It had turned into a big deal and I was called into the Universal building, where all of the senior executives had turned out. There were a lot of them there, so it was just as well that I had brought along my whole family as my support crew. It was quite an intimidating environment for a fifteen-year-old girl to find herself in, but, strangely enough, I felt quietly confident.

  I was very firm with myself ahead of the meeting: 'Hayley, you're not to back down,' I instructed myself. 'Don't be nice. You believe in this song, so go for it.' I knew that I was resolute on this. There was nothing they could do to slay me.

  They soon got the message when I started crying. The meeting had dragged on with the bosses going on and on about it, but I was quietly sure of my opinion. I was not cynically turning on the tears. At the time, I didn't realise they would help me, but, of course, large groups of middle-aged blokes always struggle to cope with a girl bursting into tears. The waterworks worked.

  'I think that this meeting has come to an end, so we'll think about it and then we'll get back to you,' I was told. Later, Costa Pilavachi called me up.

  'We now know that you feel really strongly about this song,' he said. 'And, if you feel this strongly about it, we don't feel that we're in any position to stand in your way. One thing I always say is that the artist is always right.' As ever, Costa had been very diplomatic and very sweet. He always instinctively knew how to say the right thing at the right time. So 'Wuthering Heights' stayed on the album.

  Pure was first released in New Zealand in July 2003 with the UK release coming a couple of months later. Back home, I toured around all the radio stations accompanied by the guitarist Kurt Shanks. This allowed me to give impromptu performances of the songs, which always went down a treat. The presenters seemed genuinely surprised to discover an artist who was prepared to sing the songs from her album on demand and without the safety net of the recording studio's electronic wizardry. One of the upsides of the promotion phase of a record's life is that all the expenses are paid for by the record company, so you tend to be well looked after. The artist's meals are paid for and you are put up in nice hotels. Each territory around the world vies to look after you the best – probably just to make sure that you actually come back again next time.

  One of the more challenging parts of doing promotion is the relentless round of interviews, which can become very monotonous. Sometimes, I have to sit in a hotel room for a whole day, which has been divided into ten-minute blocks, one for each different journalist. That is a tough call when they come in through the door one after another. I often find myself struggling to remember what I've said to the other journalists who have already interviewed me and whether I'm repeating myself or not.

  Sometimes I try to change my answers, just to keep myself alert. I try to think about each question in a new light, rather than just giving the same answer over and over again, because, if you repeat the same reply all the time, it can come to sound too rehearsed. The risk of attempting to vary each answer is that it does not come out right because I'm trying to avoid saying what I would usually say, when it would be much easier to have just given a tried and tested answer. The best interviews are those that seem more like conversations, as opposed to my being thrown a series of questions in the order that they are written on the interviewer's notepad.

  One of my favourite interviews happened in Japan. Rather than the normal session about how I came to have an album deal, what my school friends thought of my having an album and the ubiquitous Charlotte Church question, all I had to do was give my verdict on a series of different Japanese sweets and cakes. It was a bit different and didn't require me to do too much thinking; it was more a workout for my taste buds than anything else.

  I also enjoy it when I'm asked random questions, usually at the end of an interview after all the normal stuff. This particularly happens on local radio stations, where the presenter asks me a series of completely unpredictable questions, such as whether I prefer fish and chips or curry. (It's fish and chips, by the way – although Steve, my manager, is forever trying to convert me to curry.)

  Pure went straight to the top of the charts in New Zealand. At that stage, we were not to know that it would go on to become the country's biggest-selling album ever by a local artist. As I read that sentence back, it still sounds like the stuff of dreams to me and I can't quite believe it, even now. There certainly was no time to take it in back in 2003, because no sooner had I finished promoting the album at home than I jumped back on a plane to London to work on the UK launch. In terms of sales, if we got it right, this would be the big one.

  Just before that album's release in the UK, I performed at Bryn Terfel's Faenol Festival in North Wales. This is an annual event, organised by Bryn, near to his home. As it turned out, Faenol was one of the most significant events in my career, although at the time I had no idea just how important it would prove to be. It was my first introduction to Wales and, at this stage, I was still pretty much unknown in the UK. I did some interviews in a magnificent part of North Wales. We stayed in a beautiful hotel that was surrounded by grassy hills. The contrast with London and city life was wonderful; it felt as though I had been transported to a picturesque, tranquil wilderness, filled with some of the most friendly people I've ever met.

  When I walked on stage, I was blown away by the huge response from the audience – and this was a group of people who didn't know me at all. The people were so lovely and the warmth of the welcome was very genuine, not least from Bryn Terfel himself. He is an incredibly nice man and is one of the greatest singers I've ever had the privilege to hear.

  What amazed me the most was how at one moment he could be standing at the side of the stage in fits of laughter at someone's joke, and then, within two seconds, walk on stage and sing magnificently in full character. I've never seen anyone to whom singing comes so easily. As I've got to know him better over the years since, I've warmed to his larger-than-life personality even more. He always takes time to ask about my family whenever I see him and I always ask him about his home in Wales.

  One of the highlights of the day was rehearsing with Bryn and Jose Carreras in a caravan that was parked around the back of the temporary stage that had been put up specifically for the festival. They made it great fun and there was probably more laughing than singing, if I'm totally honest. Walking out on stage with them later that evening was a magical moment. It sealed a very special relationship that I've enjoyed with the people of Wales ever since. I was thrilled to be invited to sing at the International Eisteddfod in the summer of 2007. I always love going back there to perform.

  The other significant event about Faenol was that it was the moment that I first met the man who was to become my manage
r, Steve Abbott. Years after the event Steve (or Abbo, as he's known to his friends) confessed that he had been really nervous about meeting me. So much so, that he had been out and bought a whole lot of new shirts and a suit, thinking that, if he was going to be working in the classical-music world, he had better make himself look respectable. When I met him, I had no idea that he had made such an effort, so, when I was told, I was quite chuffed.

  Steve had been brought to Faenol by a couple of the record-company people. I needed a full-time manager, because it was becoming too big a job for Mum and Dad to do on their own. Things didn't go completely in Steve's favour on the day. He had an umbrella sticking out from his bag and, as he walked along the side of the catering marquee, it knocked all the wineglasses off a table on to the floor in one fell swoop. Not only was he trying to impress us, but he also wanted to leave a good impression in the minds of the record-company people. He must have wanted the earth to swallow him up.

  Steve is not your typical manager. He amuses me enormously. He's a very hands-on manager and he doesn't just sit on his own in his office. Instead, he likes to get out on the road, as we found out shortly after Faenol when I sang at a series of concerts with Aled Jones. Steve used to pick me and Mum up at our flat, having stopped off at a health-food shop to buy vegetable pasties and muesli bars to fortify us on the journey. We would then hit the road with Steve at the wheel of a car that was definitely not at limousine standards of luxury!

  He is very down to earth and that is one of the reasons we work so well together. He became part of the family; it was a big trust thing for Mum and Dad to hand over their daughter to a manager, but he's always worked very closely with them. He continued to consult with them and has had to work more closely with my family than other managers might have had to do, because I was so young. I suppose he's like an uncle to me.

  As things have grown, so has the team at Steve's company, Bedlam Management. First, he worked with Giselle Allier, who is now a showbiz lawyer. She's a very sweet and caring personality and we developed a very close relationship. When she left to practise law full-time, Kathryn Nash took over. Along with Steve, she's now my co-manager and, whereas Steve takes on an avuncular role, Kathryn is like a big sister to me. The other two members of the Bedlam team are Nicola Goodall, who looks after the diaries and ensures that everything runs smoothly behind the scenes, and Erica Sprigge, who has recently joined to run the concert agency part of Bedlam's activities.

  I'm also very lucky to have been working, from the start of my time in the UK, with Dickon Stainer and Mark Wilkinson, the bosses of the UK arm of Universal, which is called Universal Classics and Jazz, or UCJ for short. Although I'm signed to Decca, Dickon and Mark are responsible for selling and marketing my albums in the UK. They have always been incredibly supportive of what I do and, between them, they masterminded the most amazing campaign to launch Pure.

  At the end of the first day's sales, we were all shocked to discover just how effective Dickon and Mark had been, with the album sitting at number twelve in the pop charts. That meant that there was a very real chance that it could take the record for the best-selling first-week sales by a debut artist in the UK classical charts. The UCJ team flicked back through the history books and discovered that the record was held by none other than my old friend, Charlotte Church. I really wanted to wrestle the title from her grip.

  I was aware that first-week sales were particularly important in the British marketplace, because, if you don't do well, then the record company and retailers quickly lose interest and you find yourself being dropped by the important shops. It's different in the USA, where the expectation is that you will gradually work your way up the charts.

  Most of the interviews had been done in the run-up to the launch of the album, so my schedule was quieter in the week of the actual launch than it had been for weeks beforehand. On the Saturday of that first week, the final day that would make any difference to the initial sales, I was sitting in my flat twiddling my thumbs.

  'I need to be doing something. I know it's going to be tight,' I said to Dad. 'I'd hate it to be just a few album sales that's the difference between my getting the first-week sales record and not.'

  So, I hatched a plan to visit as many big record stores as I possibly could in central London and to offer to sign CDs, which I had been asked to do in the past on organised record-store visits. I travelled around to each of them on my own on the Tube. When I first walked into HMV in Covent Garden, I was halfway around the world from home and it gave me an incredible buzz to see a whole column of my albums facing me. Wow! This is so cool! I thought silently to myself. I stood there watching people pick them up. I tried mentally to send them messages saying, 'Buy it! Buy it! Buy it!'

  If I discovered a store where the CD was not prominent enough, I would surreptitiously start moving CDs around on the shelves. By the time I had finished, it would sometimes remarkably be sitting at numbers one, two, three and four in the charts. Looking back on it now, I'm amazed that I didn't have a troop of store detectives following my every move. It was a little like a military operation and, once I had eyeballed the shelves, my next tactic was to sidle up to the counter and engage the shop assistant in conversation.

  'I just happened to be passing the store,' I would say, my eyes wide with innocence. 'You've got some copies of my new album on the shelves over there and I wondered if you'd like me to sign some of them for you.'

  The final part of the operation was for me to suggest that they play the album on the in-store PA system. When I had achieved all three of these objectives, I would move on to my next target, a few blocks down the road, leaving a bemused shop assistant in my wake. It was quite an effective campaign, but I want to assure you that it's something that I've never done since – and I don't have any intention of doing again in the future!

  Over the preceding few months, I had been working with Lisa Davies, who handled the booking of my television and radio interviews, as she does for a whole range of different classical artists. The UK charts are published on Sunday lunchtimes and I was sitting with Dad in her garden when the call came through. She turned to me and said, 'You're number one in the classical charts and number eight in the pop charts – and you've broken the record.'

  I was thrilled and we all drank a glass of champagne – something that I wouldn't usually have done at the time, but, if you can't have a glass of champagne when you've just broken the record for best-selling first week by a debut artist in the UK classical charts, then when can you?

  We had seen the midweek charts, which are circulated around the record companies but not released to the public, and things had looked good. But I had been scared that the sales for my album might drop off at the weekend. I had been told that my pop-music competitors tended to do better at the end of the week because they had promotion from the television shows such as Top of the Pops and CD: UK, so I was concerned that I might be eclipsed by a pop act. I so much wanted the album to be successful because of all the hard work that everyone had put into it. This was crunch time.

  For a moment, I thought that the pressure would be off after the strong first week's performance, but in fact it increased dramatically. I had been so focused on doing everything I could for it to be a good first week. Then I realised that I would have to redouble my efforts to ensure that Pure sustained its success. I carried on like a hamster in a wheel, going round and round doing promotional interviews and appearances. Whenever I had a day off, I would get stressed that I should be doing something. I was not happy to sit still and just take time out. Instead, I was willing to do anything for the album's success. I realise now that it makes me sound desperate, but in reality I was just extremely determined.

  The international success spurred on sales of Pure in New Zealand. It really started to take off when my fellow Kiwis heard how well it was doing abroad, with huge coverage in the New Zealand media. In the end, Pure went eighteen-times platinum back home.

  It's funny, but som
etimes we need someone else to give the nod of approval before we Kiwis accept something as cool. It can be quite hard for local bands to break, unless they have had an element of international success. I think we sometimes look abroad for a stamp of approval on our home-grown talent, which can occasionally be taken for granted.

  CHAPTER 8

  SINGING FOR MY SUPPER

  After the success of Pure in the UK, I made brief visits to countries all over the world to promote the album. It was late in 2003, just after Dad and I had returned to our flat in London's Covent Garden. That same day, Dad took a call from Steve Abbott. I could hear only Dad's end of the conversation, but I could tell that he was excited about whatever it was that they had been talking about. When he put the phone down, he seemed almost reluctant to pass on the message, because he knew the effect it would have on me.

  'Andrew Lloyd Webber wants to meet with you. You have an audition with him,' he said with a broad grin on his face. 'And the audition's tomorrow'.

  It was this last part that worried Dad. He knew that I was already exhausted after a particularly arduous trip to Japan and, as we had only just arrived back in London, the jetlag was still to kick in.

  'This is fantastic,' I said, hugging Dad. 'But couldn't he have given me a week's notice?'

  Let me say right now that absolutely nobody is a bigger fan of Lord Lloyd-Webber's music than I am. From my very earliest days I've sung his songs. His music speaks volumes to me and even my earliest demo CD featured some of it. Even though it felt like an impossibility that I would be ready to audition for him in the morning, I knew that it was something that I had to do. That night, I had trouble sleeping, since not only was I full of nerves, I was also completely jetlagged. My mind was buzzing with questions about the following day. What would I be auditioning for? Would I manage to perform to the best of my ability? What should I sing? And what would happen if Andrew Lloyd Webber didn't like what he heard?