a guitar festival in Miami I became acquainted with a talented classical guitarist and singer from Dubrovnik, Croatia, and instantly fell in love with the CD of Croatian songs that he handed me. In the seventies Srdjan Givoje had been part of a renowned duo, Buco and Srdjan, the “Simon and Garfunkel of Croatia.”
How had I discovered this man who could be an ideal duo partner with whom to try out my crazy idea of singing? We tested our voices and, indeed, they appeared to be a match made in heaven. Somehow his sweet, husky tenor cushioned my mezzo-soprano, and the resulting blend could not have been more perfect. Srdjan assured me that my voice had beautiful overtones and “colour” and that, in spite of my lack of confidence in the pitch and lack of strength, both would develop if I persevered. As for the guitar work, we decided that I could take the easier guitar lines, mostly relying on the rest strokes that I was still able to play well, and he would be responsible for any complex free stroke arpeggios and tremolo should our arrangements require them.
• • •
Srdjan and his wife Vesna lived with their two children in Bernardsville, New Jersey, which meant that working together was something of a challenge. I started to fly him down to Miami every few weeks in order to begin recording some songs. I commissioned for him a beautiful Vazquez Rubio guitar, which he still treasures today, and I purchased two Boss recording machines so that we could demo our music on our own and send each other downloadable files through the internet.
Srdjan arranged most of our repertoire while I selected the songs, wrote all the lyrics, and composed the intros and solos. He helped me to learn some of his folk-style techniques, which as a classical player one is never taught, and together we experimented with vocal harmonies. Finally I had a project to work on, and I was ecstatic as the demos of our planned CD started to take shape.
Inspired by the beautiful melodies I had heard on his album, I composed English lyrics to several Croatian songs, such as “Lula Starog Kapetana,” which became my “Little Seabird,” an allegorical song about the struggles of life that I had written in my head one afternoon while driving over the causeway to Key Biscayne. Likewise, I transformed “Dobro Jutro, Margareta” (“Good Morning, Margaret”) into “My Sweet Lover.” Years earlier, I had penned a love song to my guitar using the familiar melody of “Greensleeves.” It now fit perfectly into the new repertoire.
Mother of pearl and ivory
Scent of cedar and tones of gold
Curves of rosewood and ebony
Simple shape that my hands love to hold
Notes as soft as a child’s caress
Chords that soothe like a summer wine
Sounds that linger like memory
Fading slowly away into time
Oh guitar, you were meant to be
The gentle voice of my destiny
You are my peace and my harmony
Oh guitar, yes you are, my guitar
Strings that sing like a lullaby
Strings that slice like a silver knife
Strings that paint with my fingertips
All the colours that make up my life
• • •
Prince Philip, upon hearing a demo that I sent him, wrote to say my poetic lyrics were “brilliant” and that he wished me good luck as a singer, kindly adding, “Is there no end to your talents?”
His encouragement and support touched me, giving me confidence as I embarked on a new phase of my career. Along with his words of praise, however, he also sent me a gentle admonishment, teasing me for still using my gold embossed Beverly Hills stationery. “Get some new writing paper!” he wrote, but it would be years before I did. Yes, Prince Philip didn’t miss a thing and I smiled remembering how in Glasgow he had commented that my shabby footstool had seen better days.
• • •
At Srdjan’s suggestion, I decided to fly to Europe to meet his former teacher, Djelo Jusic, the “Beethoven of Croatia.” Hugely accomplished and highly regarded in his homeland, he was a man with a wide range of experience, having written symphonies, operas, ballets, and concertos — including one for the guitar — as well as many popular songs and ballads that drew on folk traditions. To my English ears, Croatian music seemed a fascinating blend — borrowing from the soulful qualities of Russian music and the romanticism of Italian melody.
On my birthday, while walking down from my hotel to the town square, I had written the lyrics to “Family Forever,” based on Djelo Jusic’s arrangement of “Nicoletta.” The same day I had a magical encounter with the maestro. I spoke no Croatian and he spoke no English, which perhaps made our brief rendezvous even more poignant. Here is an extract from my journal that I wrote in the form of a letter to him after I had returned to Miami.
How could I forget my birthday in Dubrovnik? The grey, rain-filled morning skies as I ran down the hill over puddles to meet you in the Stradun café, wondering if you would arrive or leave me waiting alone again as you had two days earlier.... The pilgrims in plastic raincoats who tied a silver saint medallion around my neck and handed me a knotted string rosary ... then you and the sun suddenly appearing together ... two frothy cappuccinos and your pipe smoke in the wind as I sang you my words to “Kapetanis” and “Dobro Jutro, Margareta.” A white bag filled with bright red tomatoes swinging in your hands as we walked up the hill past the old city walls and moat, our arms linked together under a black umbrella ... the steep climb up your steps to your house, walls full of posters, gold and platinum albums, your collection of sculptures, pipes, scores and erasers, and your unmade bed. And then your music ... your delicate, powerful guitar concerto, your film score evoking the sun and rain, the birds and the horrors of war in your beautiful city ... your love songs, your ballet. You cut the medallion off my neck and brought me tea from England, slices of cantaloupe from the market, marzipan chocolates and socks to warm my feet ... and then the summer skies exploded and the rain began to fall like crazy on the rooftops ... lightning striking over and over again the island Lokrum, while thunder crashed in time to your symphonic timpani rolls. You played some of my CD, “Moorish Dance” and Tárrega’s “Gran Jota,” until suddenly the power cut out and all we heard was the incessant pounding of the deluge as we watched in awe from your balcony, your arms around my waist. You played me the piano while standing there, then one of your CDs as the power returned and we started to dance a waltz ... your music, my music, your hands, my hands, your arms around me and the brush of your lips against my neck, the touch of your silver hair and our cheeks drawing closer to end in a gentle kiss as the music played and the rain weakened ... that unexpected birthday afternoon in Dubrovnik with you, the music, and the rain.
Maestro Jusic and I bid each other farewell after that one kiss, but I often thought of what a special moment it was: a tender gesture of mutual appreciation between two creative souls. His gift to me of the international publishing rights to his four songs had been accompanied by a precious memory, and I knew that it was now my mission to bring his melodies to the world.
Srdjan, anxious to show me his city, arrived in Dubrovnik with his brother, Givo, who had brokered a deal to open the new Hilton Hotel. We spent a star-filled evening at Givo’s magnificent home overlooking the Adriatic listening to a variety of singing groups and meeting Srdjan’s musician and dancer friends from his former folk ensembles, Liju and Maestral. At Srdjan’s insistence, I bravely sang with him our “Little Seabird” song, even though it was one o’clock in the morning. There was magic in the air that night. Dubrovnik left me feeling rejuvenated and inspired as a composer and as a singer.
• • •
Later that year, I flew up to Orlando to attend a three-day conference by one of my favourite New Age writers, Dr. Wayne Dyer. I had the good fortune to chat with him about music and even massage his foot since he had conveniently collapsed in front of me with an acute pain in his ankle that he thought was a spider bite. Wayne was as close to a “holy man” as any I had known, and was one not supposed to honour