"Think of him,"
he told me. "Think of Bozo. He's a poor nut who loves a girl who doesn't
exist." But actually I just
thought of myself. I wanted to love and be loved. But I was alone, a poor
loveless nutcase, like Bozo. When I finished my song the evening of the
inauguration, a tear rolled down my cheek and I didn't bother to wipe it away.
The next day the critics were full of praise and frankly astonished, all of
them saying I'd sung with a great sense of inner meaning. Of course I did: I was singing my life, my
pain. Bozo was me. A few days later, at the
Adisq awards ceremony, I won four Felix awards, including best new star of the
year and best female performance of the year. The Felixes are to Quebec what
the Victoires de I cried a lot when I went
up to accept my first award, and even more the second and third. What a thrill! But when I heard my name
the fourth time, the entire house was seized by a fit of giggling. And I began
to sob and hiccup in the aisle leading to the stage. The next day, the main
paper of Quebec showed my face swollen with tears and all puffy from sobbing. A lot of girls are moved
to tears when they walk up to receive a prize, but I think I hold the absolute
crying record. For two or three
103
years, my crying jags were the delight of critics and commentators in Quebec. Several times I was the butt of hilarious imitations in the end-of-the-year television revues.
I had to exercise control over my emotions. Rather than waste them in crying and hiccuping, I had to put them in my voice, in my songs. If I cried too much, I wouldn't be able to sing, I'd lose control of my voice.
But nothing moves me as much as an ovation. Even today, when I see a crowd stand up to applaud an artist or athlete who has just given a fine performance, I automatically start to cry. On a few occasions, I didn't succeed in getting control of myself and missed doing the next song.
Главная
Классика в лицах
Интересное о классике
Статьи
Литература
Ссылки
Контактная информация: