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Liona's speech, writings, poems

Liona Boyd - Autobiography
In My Own Key - My Life in Love and Music
Hard Cover, 360 pages, 24 pages of color and b&w photos.
To read more information or to purchase please follow this link to Liona's on-line store.

Liona received an honorary doctorate from the University of Toronto. For her convocation speech follow this link.

Memories of Pierre Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada

(written in 2004 for a magazine)

Pierre Trudeau loved philosophy, the literature of the classics, the lakes and rivers of the Canadian wilderness, the challenges of politics, the transcendency of classical music... and of course he loved women.

I was one of the women Pierre loved, and for eight years I loved him in return. Ours was not "un amour fou" that inspired the poetic outpourings of some of my other romances, but it was like the man himself-- rational, gentle, and interspersed with moments of risk and humour. How could I not be infatuated by his attention and affection? - I, the daughter of immigrant parents who had chosen the itinerant, gypsy life of a concert artist, and he the brilliant idealist, the dashing leader of our adopted country...he with three children to raise after a failed marriage, and me the young romantic, fresh from living in Mexico and Paris -both of us pursuing grandiose dreams fueled by unswerving ambition. For years we were a perfect match, with no strings attached except those of my Spanish guitar that serenaded him in the chill of winter on fireside nights at Sussex Drive, and soothed his soul on those languid days we shared every summer at the lake. We gave each other solace, necessary escape from our two frenzied worlds, and we gave each other playful times filled with laughter . "Lioná je t'aime ma belle princesse" he would whisper as I lay in his arms.

My relationship with Pierre Trudeau appealed to my adventurous spirit and love of intrigue- secret staircases, occasional disguises, code words, silent RCMP officers transporting me to clandestine rendez-vous, exotic encounters in New York, breaking protocol at the G7 Summit Conference...a romance novel complete with candlight evenings, sensuous escapades and political intrigue. When the years dimmed our passions and I decided to end our romance we had several heart to heart conversations about our future. Pierre asked me if I would come to live with him and the boys in his Pine Avenue house in Montreal and consider giving him a daughter. He was convinced I could produce "une petite fille", and that his staff could look after her while I maintained my concert schedule. But I knew then that we were both incapable of being completely "in love" with each other and that my destiny was tugging me West. I was thrilled when he eventually called me to share the news that at long last he had a daughter.

While writing my autobiography "In My Own Key, My life in Love and Music" , with some reservations I asked Pierre's permission to recount some of the details of our relationship. He paused for a moment reflecting on my request "Pourquoi pas ma cherie" he answered accompanied by his characteristic French shoulder shrug... "I'm proud that you chose me as your lover. Reading it will bring back "toutes les belles memoires."

I visited Pierre several times at his home in Montreal and strolled arm in arm with him along Avenue Rene Levesque where he maintained a law office. In 1995 he paid a visit to my husband and me in the City of Angels. Our ecstatic Sri Lankan houseman prepared lunch at our home and I played him his favourite Gymnopedie#1 by Eric Satie for the last time.

During my 1997 concert at L'Eglise de Notre Dame in Montreal Pierre came alone to sit in the front row. My friends said he had a slight smile and distant look in his eyes as he watched my fingers making their music. I'm sure he was remembering the countless times I had played my guitar for world leaders at his initiative, or dedicated pieces to him from the stage of the National Arts Center in Ottawa, and also reminiscing about our romance that was now a nostalgic friendship. He and my husband and I  had a post-concert dinner with friends in Montreal, and as we hugged eachother goodnight I somehow knew that even though we would keep in touch by phone I would not ever feel his arms again.

I spoke to Pierre after his youngest son Misha's tragic accident. His spirit had been broken and his voice could not help but reveal the anguish. That winter and another summer passed as we slowly faded from eachother's lives. Pierre died in September of the year 2000 at the age of eighty. Out of consideration to Margaret Trudeau I decided not to attend his funeral and thus watched the proceedings from my television screen thousands of miles away. My eyes welled up with tears as so many memories came flooding back. Trudeau was a great man, not without his human flaws- which in many ways endeared him to us all- a unique visionary who changed both my life and that of my country. The tremendous outpouring of love from around the world was a magnificent tribute to this man of extraordinary ideals and inner strength.

For two years on the anniversary of Pierre's passing I  returned to Toronto to participate in a series of special events staged by the Latin-American Cultural Centre of Canada. All the activities are dedicated to Pierre Trudeau, their beloved father of multi-culturalism. This is the dreamchild of David Palmer and the many recent immigrants from Latin America for whom Pierre has become their hero. I know Pierre would have savoured every moment of the concerts staged in his honour. A single red rose was handed to every woman in the audience upon entering the theatre. But I have several very special red roses, pressed into one of my childhood books.... mine were worn by Pierre in his buttonhole and given to me with a kiss.

LB

THE STORY OF MY FIRST GUITAR 

The summer holidays had come to an end. The next day we would leave my grandparent's home in Spain, and jump on the rickety-rackety train to the French border, catch the night train to Paris and then the ferry back across the Channel to England.

Our bags were packed, but I heard my mother pestering my father about a classical guitar she had spotted that afternoon in a shop window as we strolled for the first time through the back streets of Bilbao and up the Gran Via. "What does Mummy want a guitar for?" my six-year old mind wondered.

"Oh, lets buy it! It's so cheap and it would look lovely on the sideboard" she pleaded.

"Too late, darling. The shop is closed and it's impossible for me to carry a guitar along with these over-packed cases" my father stated matter-of-factly.

Next morning as we prepared for our departure my persistent mother was still trying to persuade my father to buy the guitar. Finally he capitulated and together they dashed around the winding streets in search of the music shop. My mother returned breathless but triumphant! My father stuffed the delicate instrument with its canvas cover into his rucksack so he could carry it to England on his back.

The guitar was an attractive addition to our sparsely furnished living room and a constant reminder of our holiday in Spain. Occasionally, while my baby brother slept, my mother placed it on her lap to pluck a single tune she had taught herself. Its simple notes delighted my six-year old sensibilities as I listened with fascination to the familiar melody.

A year later when my family emigrated to Canada, the guitar was once again shoved into the old rucksack. It found a place on a ledge over a heating vent in our new Toronto home until one night a shattering noise woke us as the bridge and taut strings had flown off, cracking the guitar's wooden body. The hot, dry air had almost proven fatal for the guitar. Fortunately
my art teacher, my father, was able to use his skills to glue the guitar together and repair the damage.

After three years we packed up our belongings again and headed back to England. This time the guitar seemed too cumbersome so my mother was reluctantly persuaded to give it to a friend who owned a summer camp in northern Ontario. Sadly, she let it go after being reassured that it would have a new life; strumming would be the accompaniment to children's songs
around the campfire.

Unexpectedly after a year we returned again to Canada and who should show up to welcome us back but the friend with guitar in hand. "Here, you must have your guitar back" she insisted, thrusting it into my mother's hands against her protests. Back it went to resume its decorative role in our new living room.

"Liona, what would you like for Christmas?" my parents asked me a year later. At a loss for a reply, my eyes alighted on the guitar and with little thought I responded, "I guess you could give me that old guitar and some lessons so I can learn to play it."Thus the die was cast. My long love affair with the guitar was about to begin. Call it what you will - fate, destiny, chance or fortune, but that patient instrument was waiting for me, biding its time until I was ready. It had entered my life because of a last minute whim and survived ocean crossings, the dryness of the Canadian winters and the silence of the years. It had been abandoned, given away and tossed from hand to hand around a campfire. But amazingly the little guitar returned to inspire me to start on my life's calling, fulfill my destiny as a performing artist and composer, and share my music with the world.

Liona

FORTY QUESTIONS

Based on a televison interview and reprinted with kind permission from RedHead Productions

1- What is your idea of perfect happiness?
 Playing the classical guitar.

2- What is your greatest fear?
 Not to be able to play the classical guitar.

3- What living or dead person do you most admire?
Ludwig Van Beethoven for his genius at having composed the most inspiring music the world has known in spite of his crippling ailments, particularly his deafness.

4- What is the characteristic you most dislike in yourself?
That I’m not always very tidy and have been known to mess up a room so fast  that you’d think a tornado had hit it.

5- What is the characteristic you most dislike in others?
 Deceitfulness.

6- What are you excessive about in your life?
 Travel and chocolate

7- What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
 Modesty.

8- When do you lie?
 Not often but occasionally to protect my privacy.

9- Where would you like to live?
Somewhere I can see water and natural beauty

10- Which talent would you like most to have?
 Well, I’d love to have a good voice and be a great tango dancer.

11- What is your favorite distraction? (how do you relax?)
 Walking, bicycling and Yoga.

12- What challenges you the most?
 Finding time each day to do all the things I want to do.

13- What gives you the most satisfaction?
 Being creative.

14- What do you regard as the lowest depth of despair?
 Losing someone you love.

15- What is your most obvious characteristic?
 I’m a dreamer and a romantic.

16- When and where were you happiest?
 When I first moved to California and fell in love.

17- What is your most treasured possession?
 The teddy bear my parents gave me when I was 3.
Mosey still sits in my room and I named my record company after him.

18- What do you consider your greatest achievement?
 Introducing classical guitar to millions of people around the world.

19- If you had to come back as a person or animal what would it be?
 A beautiful white bird.

20- If the Gods decided for you, based on your karma, what do you think they’d have you come back as?
 A Spanish gypsy or a wandering minstrel .

21- Which historical figure do you most identify with?
 Isadora Duncan.

22- What is the top thing on your lifetime to do list?
 Find my soul mate.

23- What makes you feel safe and secure?
 My parents.

24- What award would you most like to receive and why?
 Perhaps a Grammy Award

25- If you could have another career what would it be?
 A great tenor or a flamenco player.

26- What profession would you hate to be in?
 A vivisectionist torturing animals in laboratories.

27- What is your favorite word?
 Amor, amore, l’amor, love

28- What are your favorite sounds?
 classical guitar, a cat’s purr,
birdsong, a mountain stream, crickets, a symphony orchestra.

29- What is your favorite food?
 Tropical fruits, every type known to man

30- What words do you live by? What is your motto?
The words of my English grammar school.
 “Aim high”

31- What is it that you most dislike?
 Cruelty

32- What is it that you most like?
 Personal freedom.

33- What was your ambition?
 To make beautiful music and see the world.

34- What do you look forward to when you go to work?
 The intense concentration of a performance, then meeting my audience afterwards

35- What do you look forward to when you go home?
 A nice cup of English tea.

36- Who or what influenced you to choose your profession?
 My mother took me to a concert by a famous classical guitarist Julian Bream and at that moment I decided I wanted to make it my life.

37- Who is your hero living or dead and why?
 How about a heroine? Frida Kalho for pursuing her passion for art and living a rich and fulfilling life in spite of terrible pain and a philandering husband.

38- What is your present state of mind?
 A roller coaster of emotions but I do try to meditate!

39. What would you never do?
 Cut my hair

40. What there a fork in road experience that changed your life direction? – explain.
My decision to study music instead of English literature at the university.

The Story of Moses
By: Liona Boyd

Until I wrote my autobiography, few people knew that my record company, Moston Records, was named after two teddy bears, Moses and Tonka, constant companions since childhood.

In the fifties in England on Christmas morning when I was four, a beautiful honey colored bear was sitting in a pale blue stroller next to my bed. Besides a sweet but wise-looking face Moses (or Mosey for short) had a feature that delighted me. When tipped backwards he would let out an affectionate “grrrr.” I adored this lovable stuffed  animal and he became my best friend as my parents nomadic lifestyle took us three times by ocean liner between England and Canada.

Mosey slept in the bed beside me, was privy to my make-believe stories and proved a willing listener to my childish poems.  Whenever my mother cut my sister’s hair I trimmed Mosey’s fur, convinced that it would grow back just as my sister’s hair always did. Alas, my poor bear became pre-maturely bald, but I loved him just the same.

Once, while camping with my parents by the seaside, a brush fire threatened our campsite and I was panicked at the thought of Mosey alone in the tent, but just as many years later in the Malibu fire, he was lucky, and both times I rescued him from the approaching flames.

When we moved to Canada he rattled around our neighborhood in my bicycle basket and back  again in England I sewed him a homemade school uniform like mine to “play school.”  Unfortunately, his ability to “growl” had gone, and although I tried in vain to make him speak, he had lost his voice. 

Throughout my high school and university days Mosey received  less and less of my attention but he sat on his own little chair guarding my bedroom and every Christmas was brought into the family living room to watch us open our presents.  Then one day I took off to pursue my classical guitar studies in Paris, and for two years Mosey was left alone with nothing to do but meditate in silence. There were no more hugs, pats on the head or shared confidences.

When I finally returned to Toronto in 1975, one of the first things I did was to give Moses a kiss.  My mother had even placed a small French flag between his paws.  To my utter astonishment he let out the “grrrr” that I hadn’t heard since childhood!  I could scarcely believe it and hopefully tipped him backwards again.  But it was not to be; that was the last time Mosey ever spoke.  In my heart I knew that my faithful companion had performed a miracle.  It was his way of thanking me for all the love he had received and his way of welcoming me back home.

POETRY

Along The Highway

I see them by the roadside
as I travel along the highway
and I watch the cars whizz by
not looking nor even caring
about the wild creatures lying dead
at the edge of the road
the rabbit sprawled on the soft, hot tar
his fur drying clotted with blood
and the blue-jay his wings broken
 his soft blue plumage stirring
as the trucks roar past
the butterflies smashed on hard car windows
and hurled broken and crumpled
into the ditch full of broken beer bottles
paper-cups and cigarette stumps
the highway so cruel
to the things of the forests
the small furry creatures
who live in the meadows
the wild things that don’t know the purpose or reason
for the highways and cars
that kill then forget them

Liona Boyd
Aug 2, 1966

Death on a Morning Walk

He was still breathing when I found him
in the middle of the road
cars swerved around me
two Mexican gardeners laughed
I gathered him into my mail-order straw hat
his small velvet body plump and pliable
his soft auburn tail flecked with amber
he was still warm when I ran through our garden
to set the hat on a concrete step
my teardrop made a dark stain
on his perfect little paw
I almost believed he was only dazed
any moment he would start with fright
and scamper down our ivy embankment
away from the road of cruel tires and careless drivers
but from his mouth seeped a thin line of blood
a berry red stain on pale straw
and suddenly his body felt cold
his pupils glazed like the scratched glass eyes
of my stuffed bears
I dug a hole and buried him
In the soft earth beneath our bottle brush tree.

Liona Boyd
Oct 12, 1998

Meeting with Croatia's greatest composer, Djelo Jussic

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 cafe, 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 capuchinnos 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 and gold/platinum albums, your collection of sculptures, pipes, scores and erasers and your unmade bed. And then your music... the pieces I had first heard in the theater, 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...lightening striking over and over again the Locrum and thunder crashing in time to your symphonic timpany rolls. You played my CD, Moorish Dance and Tarrega'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 then the music 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.

Liona

For information regarding Musicians' Focal Dystonia please click here for the text taken from "Liona Boyd Sings Songs of Love" booklet as well as Liona's September 2009 newsletter.