I thought that once Amelia was at home, it would feel as if she were making, or had made, some form of progress, and I wanted her to feel that way as long as possible. I decided to have her hospital bed put into the TV room that had once been an extra piano room, then a partial editing room, but was also a lovely spot that allowed her to lie in bed and look out at the canyon and mountains in the distance.
When friends came, it could seem more like a social time than a visit to her bedside, since we were in a room associated with beautiful scenery, music, and being together. John was there frequently, and one remarkable time the three of us listened to the final edit of Heroes and Villains, an album Constantine and Dmitri had recorded in Moscow. Afterward, our conversation was animated, and Amelia even recalled some earlier recording sessions. John was thrilled, and as he was leaving, exclaimed to me, “She’s back!” He was jubilant, but at the same time we both realized that it was temporary. The unthinkable had permeated everything, and all I could do was treasure any time when my dear friend could, by some miraculous means, find her way “back” for a few precious minutes.
Two months after we had brought Amelia home, her doctors began to say we should let go and stop the life-support measures. Amelia was increasingly in pain and would need a proportionately increasing dose of morphine. To this day, I can hardly bear to think of that heartsick time when the decision had to be made. Once I had given in to the inevitable, the hospice caregivers stopped the intravenous feeding. As the Perchance to Dream CD played continuously for an irreplaceably beloved person, Amelia was slowly drifting away. She died on March 19, 2007, at age eighty-seven.
My best friend was gone. John stayed close, extending his hand to me, sometimes beginning to talk about practical matters that I couldn’t even take in, but mostly just saying, “Lean on me, Carol. Lean on me.”
Constantine, who was on an American tour with the MCO, stayed in touch almost daily. He wanted to make sure he could be there for the memorial party, just as Amelia had requested. The best day turned out to be April 1, a Sunday, and doubly appropriate since it had been her husband, Doug’s, birthday.
Tributes poured in from far and wide—newspapers, artists, music journalists, publication editors, radio commentators, and, of course, friends. I welcomed them all, and wished Amelia could have read these heartfelt messages with me. One from our dear Santa Monica friend Phyllis, who after her collaboration with “Baby Delos” on the jazz series had stayed to work on many a classical project, summed up many people’s sentiments:
Amelia thought of the large picture and lived by her convictions—she had no ambivalence on a matter of conscience. She lived by her courage . . . was ageless in outlook and focus. She was one singular, admirable, complete and outstanding woman who lifted all those around her.
Jimmy DePreist spoke for many Delos artists when he wrote:
Amelia was there from the start . . . it was her dedication to American artists without an entrée into the world of commercial recordings, her feistiness and her humor . . . Amelia was the plow that broke the status quo plains of American recordings, but beyond that she was a passionate advocate for her artists and a friend now truly, truly missed.
KUSC Radio host Jim Svejda, hailed as The High Priest of Classical Music by the Los Angeles Times, dedicated a special radio program to Amelia’s memory, reminding his listeners that she was one of his inspirations and commenting between selections from the Delos catalog:
Yesterday I got the sad news that one of my genuine heroes passed away. Amelia Haygood, the Founder and President of Delos Records, died after an heroic—I should say typically heroic—twelve-year struggle against cancer. Over the years, I knew that if Amelia was bringing something out it was going to be a recording of the highest possible quality, not only in terms of the performance but the recorded sound. And it was going to be immensely interesting and worth hearing, for the simple reason that Amelia Haygood and Delos never brought out anything that wasn’t. . . . One of my White Knights passed away this Monday at the age of eighty-seven.
Dmitri Hvorostovsky wrote a touching dedication on his Heroes and Villains album:
I remember my first talks with Amelia, strolling in the little forest just outside of Moscow, where she listened to my life stories and talked and talked in return, with charm and wisdom. . . . Ever since, whenever we’ve been together, something important was happening in my life. . . . And through it all, Amelia’s wholehearted interest and enthusiasm, her great knowledge and experience, her ongoing advice, have protected me from many mistakes and have encouraged me to be brave and honest with myself and with other people. . . .
I loved Amelia and love her still. I am sad that I won’t see her coming toward me, with her outgoing, warmhearted smile, holding her usual glass of vodka in her hand. . . . I am honored to dedicate this album to Amelia.
When we made a special Thirty-fifth Anniversary Delos Opera Gala album, Constantine wrote this dedication:
In my opinion, Amelia DaCosta Stone Haygood was one of the truly great artists of the twentieth century. Not that she danced or sang (publicly at least), but in the thirty-four years she created and developed Delos, she was an inspiration and guiding light to everyone who had the very good fortune to meet her and work with her.
During recording sessions at the Great Hall of the Moscow Conservatory, which typically would begin at 11:00 p.m. and go through to 3:00 a.m., Amelia was there. Music in hand, she would turn to us as soon as we walked into the control room, greeting us with a big smile and words of encouragement. She would give us the impression that this sounded great, that that sounded wonderful, that we were creating something very special, that it would be a glorious recording of the aria, that no one has ever sung it better. . . . Nerves and throats relaxed and invigorated, we would all go back to the stage, reassemble the orchestra, and do another take, probably the one you are listening to now. . . .
A superb clinical psychologist before she founded Delos, Amelia was highly educated, idealistic but worldly, and downright smart. She had the optimum of what many call women’s intuition, was keenly interested in her fellow human beings, and was a joy to be around. And Amelia’s greatest joy was to be around her beloved artists and the music they made. So Amelia, this is for you! Missing you always.
Not long after our memorial party, John began to talk with me about living situations, now that I was alone. He knew that, over many years, Amelia and I had put a lot of debt on the Santa Monica house to keep things going for numerous recording projects and other “Baby” matters. He also knew that I had turned my back on everything but Amelia’s condition for six months. He had found a retirement community not far from Claremont that appeared to be appropriate for both of us and suggested that we might want to move there together. He was seventy-six at the time, and I was seventy-three. I couldn’t focus so soon on any thought of moving, but agreed to go with him to look at the place. Through the fog of grief, I was also thinking that if John wanted to make a change in living situations, maybe he could move into my house instead.
But before we had even decided on a date to check out the retirement community, I had a call from one of John’s friends at JBL. He said that he had some things to discuss with me and suggested that I sit down somewhere while we talked. Assuming John’s friend wanted me to take some notes about a potential project, I picked up pencil and paper and sat down at the round glass table in the little dining-conference room that now seemed so forlorn. He mentioned something about an audio engineering meeting the evening before, and I replied that I knew John was going to speak at that meeting.
Then he told me that John had not shown up, whereupon he and another friend and colleague had tried to call John, with no response. My anxiety level was rising rapidly. He went on to say that he and the other friend had driven to John’s house, had managed to get in through the side door, and had found him lifeless on the couch. John had apparently died in the early evening—on May 9, a scant six weeks after Amelia’
s memorial.
How could this be? I had scarcely begun to take in the enormousness of Amelia’s death. And now my dear friend John, who was encouraging me so lovingly to “lean on” him, was also gone? I tried to look back and recall any sign whatsoever of health concerns on his part, but I could come up with nothing. What had taken him must have been completely unexpected. As Dad, who had loved getting to know John, would have said, “But that’s the way to do it!”
John’s audio engineering and JBL colleagues set out to arrange a memorial for him, a more formal one than the memorial party I had hosted for Amelia. The event in John’s honor, too, seemed unreal. I couldn’t bring myself to read all the touching tributes others left in the memorial book. Leslie Ann Jones from Skywalker Sound, who had become a good friend of Amelia’s, John’s, and mine since our recordings at Skywalker, flew down to Los Angeles for John’s memorial. She had made that same trip just six weeks earlier to participate in the memorial for Amelia in Santa Monica. At John’s memorial, Leslie sat reassuringly by my side, and at one point went up to the podium and gave the most eloquent tribute of the day.
An incident during the weeks that followed illustrates my own state of mind after two such devastating blows. I was picking up some mail at a business mailbox service we had been using for Delos in Santa Monica and was on the way back to where I’d parked my car. As I began to cross a side street that led to Wilshire Boulevard, a car sped up to the crossing, slammed on the brakes, and came within an inch or two of running me over. I was aware that the vehicle was headed straight for me, and had quickened my pace to avoid it, but there was no rush of adrenaline, no instant reaction to danger, no feeling at all. As I reached the curb, a woman who had stopped in her tracks when she witnessed the near-accident, asked me anxiously, “Are you OK?” It was obvious why she, as a witness, would be startled, but I couldn’t feel anything. I was numb even in the face of acute danger.
In the months that followed, I kept trying to care for Delos as well as I could. One by one, our group of volunteer friends had died, or moved away, or were no longer able to help. “Baby” was ailing. I tried to learn some of the business side, but it was slow going, and I made mistakes. Ana Poveda, a lovely person at one of the sub-distributor accounts, patiently explained some essential business practices to me. I knew that she had a demanding job as Alliance Entertainment’s music media buyer, and I was touched that she took the time to help me. I’ll never forget her kindness. But it was looking as if I couldn’t keep Delos alive by myself.
Then one day, out of the blue, a call came in on my cell phone. The caller identified himself as Jim Selby, CEO of Naxos of America. Evidently Ana had told him that I was floundering and had given him my private number. Jim asked if I might welcome an offer from Naxos to take over the distribution—worldwide, if I wished—of Delos. At one point during our conversation, as I was explaining some things very openly to Jim, he exclaimed, “If Delos were to go under, that would be a tragedy!” I was surprised and touched by the emotion in his voice.
When I explained that I wouldn’t even have the funds to get the inventory to him, he assured me that would be no problem. His company was willing to fund and carry out the entire transition. Costs could be taken care of over a period of our first year or so together. When could I make a trip to Nashville to meet him and his staff? As I took a moment before replying, he quickly added, “We’ll send you a plane ticket!” The entire conversation felt like a hand extended to me from heaven. And so it was that Baby Delos was rescued and able to live on to celebrate the legacies of its founder, Amelia, and its chief engineer, John.
Another chapter in the Delos rescue was coming to terms with selling my cherished Santa Monica house, which was overloaded with debt. I went through that painful process about a year and a half after Amelia’s death. At Constantine’s suggestion, I relocated to Sonoma, California—with the help of my nephew, Karl; Amelia’s nephew, Doug; one of my USC students, Carl Dominic; and my dear friends Dena and Brad Horton. Constantine and Vera welcomed me into their family-and-friends circle, and Vera became an even closer friend and confidante, as if she and I were “family.” We lost her in May of 2015, when she had a stroke at age ninety-six.
Since Sonoma is the place Constantine always returns to when he is in California, he and I are able to spend quality time together and work on new projects for “Baby.” Recently created treasures, under Constantine’s direction, have been American tenor Lawrence Brownlee’s Grammy-nominated Rossini album, Dmitri Hvorostovsky’s Wait for Me, and the complete opera Simon Boccanegra, starring (who else?) Dmitri as the title character. In the works, as of this writing, are a second album with Larry Brownlee, a new aria and duets album with Dmitri, and other projects with international opera stars.
As I continue as caretaker of Delos, there are always exciting developments on the horizon—some carefully planned and others completely unexpected. And I always wish I could share them with Amelia and John. One such delightful surprise project was American composer Mark Abel’s The Dream Gallery.
I had settled down one afternoon to listen to a stack of demo CDs, which usually means listening to about ten minutes of each demo and then putting it into one of two piles: “To Be Explored” or “Not Right for Delos.” When I got to The Dream Gallery, however, time stopped. The song cycle for seven different vocal soloists and orchestra drew me into its drama for its full seventy minutes. All I could do was marvel at the musical and dramatic ingenuity that made me eager to know more about each of the seven California characters I was meeting during the cycle. I laughed in some places and wept at the end, when the last character sings of picturing “the setting sun over the Pacific’s horizon . . . it will inspire eternally.” I kept thinking how much Amelia and John would have loved it. And now we are working on another of Mark Abel’s unique creations: a poignant new opera Home Is a Harbor, about a California family and a veteran of the war in Afghanistan. Amelia and John would have loved this one, too.
Amelia used to say that immortality is the extent to which those left behind can incorporate the qualities they most admired in the departed person. I hope that I have incorporated even a fraction of what I admired in my parents, Nana, Bredshall, Webster, Eve, Chris, John, and, of course, Amelia herself.
I am still working around post-polio problems, and some have worsened as I inevitably experience the long-term effects of post-polio syndrome. But my beautiful Boesie is still singing joyously. Lately I’ve been playing through Beethoven’s glorious Sonata, Opus 110, almost daily. This timeless masterpiece weaves beauty, joy, sorrow, acceptance, and finally redemptive triumph through its twenty-minute journey, and never fails to thrill and inspire.
Carol Rosenberger, November 2015
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to the wonderful composer/writer Mark Abel, who consistently encouraged me to finish this book, helped greatly with the shaping and editing, and has become a dear friend in the years since I first discovered his unique compositions. Thanks also to Anne Maley, our Delos copy editor par excellence, who cheerfully surveyed every sentence for clarity and readability. And thanks to cellist/music scholar David Brin, who offered his personal and musical perspective in reassuring me about this book’s value and in making many helpful suggestions along the way. Thanks also to my friends, relatives, and colleagues who cheered me on and kept expressing their interest in this evolving project: Henry Bargert, Phyllis Bernard, Sharon Burt, Kathline Colvin, Thu-Nga Dan, Suzanne Denison, Elena Fadeeva, Katie Hackett Ferguson, Caroline Greenleaf, David Hedden, Sean Hickey, Dena and Brad Horton, Ali Khan, Lindsay Koob, Lonnie Kunkel, Lea Maitlen, Constantine Orbelian, Augusta Petroff, Gary Rosenberger, Karl Rosenberger, Gerard Schwarz, David Shifrin, Keiko Shimizu, Matthew Snyder, John Douglas Stone, David Weuste, Kira Bielfield Williams, Brian Zeger, and Jane Zimmerman.
Please visit www.carolrosenberger.com for in-depth information about a variety of topics.
Quotes from Recording Reviews
&nbs
p; Water Music of the Impressionists
Critic’s Choice, Gramophone
All-Time Great Recording, Billboard
Best Classical Compact Disc, Stereo Review
“Defines the state of the art in piano recordings.” CD Review
(Delos DE 3006)
Beethoven: Sonatas Opus 57, Appassionata, and Opus 111
“A splendid, large-scale recording. Carol Rosenberger is a formidable talent, and her performance of these Beethoven piano sonatas is powerful and intense.” Audio
(Delos DE 3009)
Night Moods
“Performance: 10. Sound: 10. Rosenberger is absolutely marvelous.” CD Review
(Delos DE 3030)
Mozart and Beethoven: Piano and Wind Quintets
“Rosenberger’s playing sparkles with wit and intelligence, as does that of her colleagues.” Los Angeles Times
(Delos DE 3024)
Beethoven: Piano Concerto No. 4 in G Major
“Rosenberger’s playing is poetic as it is brilliant . . . remarkably impressive.” Gramophone
(Delos DE 3027)
Reverie
“Serene renditions of contemplative piano pieces . . . perfect for late-night listening. . . . Dreamy in every sense of the word.” Stereo Review
(Delos DE 3113)
A Concerto Collection
“Hanson’s concerto is one of his most attractive pieces. Rosenberger has fun with the piece and plays it for all it is worth. Schwarz shares her enthusiasm . . . a brilliant, exciting performance.” American Record Guide (DE 3306)
A Concerto Collection
“Rosenberger brings to these three nocturnal movements (Nights in the Gardens of Spain) improvisatory, introspective subjectivity.” High Fidelity (DE 3306)
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