Be Brave, Be Courageous, Stay Beautiful

Getting There

For more than twenty-five years, I have had the personal pleasure of working with many thousands of singers, dancers, actors, and performers. I have conducted workshops in many parts of the world, often with the use of an interpreter, and whilst we speak different languages, there is not a great deal of difference about us, no matter where we come from (certainly where music is involved). A great many of these singers and actors have made some measureable changes to their life and the lives of others. I get regular updates as to their progress, auditions, recordings, and so on. I am immensely proud of my involvement and equally more aware of what I might reasonably lay credit to in regard to their success. My reminder to myself on this is that if you are going to take credit for the good ones, then you pretty much have to take the blame for the bad ones as well. Not everyone responds the same to every bit of advice or teaching method. For those who have trusted me and applied the techniques and principles that I truly believed would benefit them, I am eternally grateful. To those I was not able to help, I made it my mission to assist them in finding someone who could. My teaching mentor, Seth Riggs, once said to me, "You help singers get over their vocal problems and show them how to get on with their lives." Pretty brash statement really; I mean, it's just singing, right? Not so, because to many, it is life itself ...

I tell my students on a regular basis to think about the following: If you are what you do, then who are you when you don't do it? I first heard this when I attended a Wayne Dyer program, and it near knocked me off my feet. At the time, I was living with the belief that I was what I did, a singer and actor, and I was following it through to the nth degree. I believed that to not be truly immersed in my art was to not be truly committed, and that meant that my drive would wane. It was only years later when I finally learned that I could become more effective in just about every area of my life by breaking free of these obsessions. That was when my work improved significantly. I started saying no to things that I knew I didn't need to do. I commenced exercising and writing and going to the movies and meditating and a whole bunch more. Suddenly my life, my work, and my connection to myself changed.

In the late 1990s, I met a young woman named Lisa Whitaker. A friend referred her to me, and we commenced some vocal training together. I don't recall how long she came for training, but I do remember vividly that she was a corporate executive and worked very long hours. She had the trimmings that went with a job like that: a beautiful blue BMW, nice clothes, and a social life that kept her busy. Mostly I remember this last part, because her job pretty much kept her from practicing her vocal lessons, and before too long, she was unable to attend classes. So it goes. Not everyone is going to be incredibly dedicated, and they will come and go for various reasons.

One of my vivid memories is that prior to meeting Lisa I had never met anyone who loved being a singer more in my life, and it remains true to this day. Unfortunately her chosen profession prevented her from doing more. The joy that she derived from singing was quite extraordinary. As a way of encouraging her to pursue singing and perhaps prioritising it a little higher on her list, I nominated her to be accepted into an exclusive vocal camp held in Los Angeles each summer. I was involved with this camp on many levels, as a teacher of students and mentor and coach for new teachers as well, a role that I thoroughly enjoyed for many years.

In short this camp might better have been called "boot camp for singers." The program went for two weeks from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. with no day off (with the occasional interruption; some years, we took a daytrip to Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch). The camp had multiple activities throughout the day, including a private singing session, a group session, a backing singer session, dance and movement, and a whole host of other related activities. It was the most exhilarating time to be in Los Angeles in the summer at this beautiful retreat tucked away in the Santa Monica Hills, far from the noise and smog of the city. The days were hot and the evenings were beautiful and still, with breeze from the ocean reaching up to the mountains.

Lisa's involvement and transformation at this camp can only be described as miraculous. Her enthusiasm and vigour were infectious, to say the least. There are numerous styles and genres of music made available at this camp, as a way of providing a broad-based education and to accommodate for the various requirements of college kids and professionals alike. Lisa volunteered for everything, including the things she had limited experience in, like opera and jazz, but boy, did she have a go. In essence, she won the respect of her tutors and classmates alike. One afternoon, we were called for an extra rehearsal, and I noticed that she wasn't there. I set off into the living quarters of this monastery, built in the early 1900s, in short the perfect setting for a teenage weekend Halloween movie. I could hear her singing from some distance away, and when I banged on her door, she opened it and said, in a shrill voice, "I love being here, this is what I am supposed to do with my life." Pretty cool, eh?

The two weeks went by, and it was time for me to move on to another camp on the other side of the United States, so we bid our goodbyes and went our merry way. Upon returning to Australia some weeks later, I continued to see Lisa in private lessons and trusted that the camp experience was enough to encourage her to pursue her dream. Unfortunately, Lisa's work demanded that she spend more and more hours travelling, and lessons became virtually impossible to organise. She vowed to continue to keep up her practise and sporadic performances. She would occasionally email me and had now given me the affectionate mantle of "Guru," which I got a great laugh out of, but unfortunately, I would not see her for a few more years.

Somewhere around 2005, my office learned that Lisa had called and wanted to recommence lessons. I was pleased to hear from her, but I was completely booked out, and with that I put her on to one of my associate teachers. I was surprised to hear that Lisa flatly refused the associate, insisting that she must have me. Flattered as I was, in truth I was so busy at the time, working with a reality TV singing show, that all my spare time was taken. My focus was on my business and career, and taking on another student didn't fall into the urgent matters section of my mind. Somehow, Lisa managed to get hold of my private number (insistent little devil) and explained her circumstances to my wife. When the message came to me at the studio, where I was recording, I remember thinking, That woman just won't give up, and here is why.

During those few absent years, Lisa had some remarkable life changes. In her pursuit of love, romance, and all that goes with it, she went travelling and enjoyed the world, including taking cooking classes in Italy (she was an amazing cook). She also, unfortunately, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She underwent all the advised treatments and had been in remission for a year or two. Whilst attending a fundraiser for cancer awareness, she had an encounter with a well-known personality, a judge on Australian Idol who had also been a client of mine. Upon seeing Lisa singing away to the music and expressing her joy, the judge moved across the room, engaged her in conversation, and said, to Lisa's astonishment, "You are a singer."

She replied, "Well, I used to be."

The Idol judge responded, "No, you are, and you really must go and see Leigh McRae."

Now the wheels were in motion and the course was set. When I heard the news about her illness, I felt a deep thud in my stomach and quite frankly thought that I was a bit of an arsehole for not responding in a more timely fashion. I immediately contacted her, reorganised my schedule, and set up a session.

Our first encounter was truly inspiring for me. She had changed physically. She was very thin, more so I believe due to the regime of organic juices, salads, and daily exercise than the after-effects of the treatment. She was in remission and was now spending her days the way she wanted to. Her tenure had ended with the corporate folk she worked for; they had gone into liquidation, and she was surviving on her redundancy package, enjoying her days with swimming, meditation, exercise, and of course singing. Her voice had improved, and boy, did she still love to sing. I was so impressed with the joy that oozed from her body that it inspired me to start spending a little more time on my own voice as well as the fifty singers per week that I was already working with.

Our lessons were held every Tuesday at 11 a.m., like clockwork. We were going along swimmingly for months until wham, the cancer returned. Lisa was devastated, to say the least. I sat with her for many hours and encouraged her thoughts and feelings on treatment strategies. Having been down this path before, she knew internally that the next steps in her treatment were her own responsibility; she would determine the effect it would have on her body and health. The look of despair and the feelings that she was expressing were palpable.

Throughout the untimely return of her illness, Lisa was constantly in the company of a man named Gino, a photographer she met whilst he was on vacation in Sydney. They fell in love, and after his return to Italy, she boldly followed him and encouraged him to return to Australia in order to start his own business, which he continues to this day. They met when Lisa was in remission, and although they had only been together for a relatively short period, when the disease returned, he accompanied her to every medical appointment. He waited on her, transported her, and exercised with her, and most importantly, he loved her. Lisa commenced a combination of therapies, both natural and conventional, but sadly, nothing seemed to be healing her.

During the early weeks of her treatment, she arrived one day to my house with Gino and a whole bunch of photography equipment. I had mentioned getting some up-to-date family portraits, and she said that she and Gino wanted to do them as a way of thanking me for providing tuition at no charge. I told her (with my tongue firmly in cheek) that my tuition was not for free, I just hadn't got around to billing her yet. I openly accepted their gift and was humbled (and speechless, which is pretty rare for me). The photos were shot, and they still take pride of place in our house. My son was about six at the time, but he still remembers the kind lady who got him to laugh when the camera was flashing.

As mentioned earlier, our lessons were every Tuesday at eleven. Lisa was becoming increasingly frail and weak. Against her instincts, she agreed to a particularly aggressive form of treatment as a way of holding off this disease, but sadly, it was not working. The last time I had her in my studio, she was totally exhausted. I sat her in my corner couch and went into the next room to make her a cup of tea. When I returned, she was fast asleep, so I just played the piano for her quietly as she rested. Gino returned as per schedule to collect her, and I knew that was likely the last time she'd be in my studio.

A few days later, Lisa was admitted to hospital with a number of health complications. I went to visit her often, and for the most part, she was quite lucid, cheerful, and peaceful. I would always greet her with "How ya goin, kid?" and she would always respond, "Getting there." On one occasion, I visited her and a man was sitting at the foot of her bed. I introduced myself, and he in turn introduced himself as her father. Whilst we knew of one another, we had never actually met. Sitting in a room with the father of a child who is entering the final stage of life is as odd an experience as I have ever had. I listened as he poured out his heart: his concerns, anger, and complete sense of hopelessness. To this day, I can see the look of "why" on his face (the same look I saw on my father's face when my brother passed).

The morning of June 11, 2006 remains crystal clear in my mind. I had conducted a singing workshop and was scheduled to catch up with some friends for dinner. After finishing my workshop, I checked my voicemail messages and learned that my dinner was not going to happen. Instinctively, I decided to head to the hospital, as the previous day I had visited Lisa and knew that she didn't have long to live. As I approached the ward where she was being cared for, I had a strong knowing within, a knowing that was confirmed as I turned the corridor and found her closest family and friends comforting one another. She had passed peacefully just a short time earlier. I went in and spent some time saying my goodbyes and departed with the quiet knowledge that all was as it should be. A few days later, I sang at her memorial service. On the order of service, there was a beautiful photo taken by Gino (see below) and the following words: "Be Brave, Be Courageous, Stay Beautiful." It was a reminder of the bond we shared through singing, the many hours of laughter and tears and seeing her in her bliss.

If I could tell you anything from this circumstance, it would be to get on with what your heart tells you ... right now! Don't die with your music in you.

Be Brave, Be Courageous, Stay Beautiful.

Kiddo, you sure were.

Note: I contacted Gino to ask his permission to use this photo, not having seen or spoken to him in seven years, and he said, "Just two hours ago, I was thinking that I should put Lisa's photo back on my table." Enough said ...

The Man in the Shiny Shoes

Never Give up Hope

I left school in 1976, just two weeks before my fifteenth birthday. This was permitted, as I had full-time employment, indentured as a journeyman, no less. Put simply, I had an apprenticeship as a spray painter, although the previous title sounds so much more impressive. My life at the time determined that I leave school, get a job, and move away from home. It was during my tenure at this job I befriended a man who is the subject for this chapter, but as usual, there is a story ...

As a young boy, I was involved in a number of sports, one of them being rugby league. For those not familiar with that game, it involves running into people quite hard whilst carrying a ball to a white line, whereupon you place it down and celebrate your superior skills. At the end of every season, there is a presentation night, where you get your trophy or pennant, and the coach gives a speech with phrases like "We will do better next year" and so on. I heard that speech plenty of times. Usually, the next item on the program was to bring out a current professional player or a legend from years gone by, and if you were lucky, you might get an autograph. The ultimate jackpot would be a photo. That photo took a week to develop, as there were no iPhones in the 1970s, and no Instagram.

On one of these presentation evenings, the organisers changed it up and we had some entertainment, a juggling/ acrobatic act to be precise. The man had a lady assistant, who threw him various items; she looked lovely in her sequined costume whilst he balanced things on his head and amazed us with his skills. I was bedazzled with this contrast to Newton's law of gravity with the various angles attained. The most memorable thing for me on that night, however, was not so much the death-defying skills on display, but how shiny the juggling man's shoes were. Those shoes had a mirror finish that sparkled in the lights. This to me was grossly unfair, as I would shine my Barta Scouts (the most popular brand of school shoe at the time) vigorously. My shoes had a compass and animal prints on the sole that you could make impressions with in well-prepared smooth dirt, but they did not shine like his. Little did I know that his were made of patent leather, and as noble as my shining efforts were, they were futile.