When people visited—my brothers'
friends or girlfriends or pals of my sisters—the
atmosphere was completely different. For me, anyway. I would never have climbed
on the table or even sung alone. Unless these outsiders were themselves
musicians or singers, which often happened to be the case. In fact, our house
attracted all the young people in the area who liked to make music. And we often had "guest
stars" appear with our band. Those times, I stayed quiet. I just listened.
And when I felt confident enough, I added my voice to the others'. But for a
long time, my singing was private, purely a family affair. As a result, I'd never sung for an audience as important or as unfamiliar
as the one that was gathered at Michel's wedding. When it was my turn to go
onstage, I became paralyzed by stage fright. Everyone was watching me and
waiting for me to begin. These people intimidated me: cousins I'd hardly ever
seen, friends of my brothers and sisters who probably knew nothing about music
and didn't really want to hear me perform. A friend of Michel, Pierre Tremblay, played the first chords of
"Mamy Blue." I was standing next to him, staring at the floor, a very
unpleasant ringing in my ears. So I stepped
forward and sang. I don't remember exactly
what happened after this, but I do remember not wanting to stop and begging
Michel to let me sing other songs. I also sang in all the groups formed by my
brothers and sisters. That day gave me great pleasure, a feeling of having conquered my fear,
my stage fright. And I definitely knew for the first time in my life that
unforgettable sensation felt by a singer when she realizes that she's
captivated a listener, that she's being heard, applauded. That day I knew I would be
singing my whole life. And that I'd
discover my happiness in doing so.
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