I have been asked less and less throughout the years what the meaning behind my songs is, mainly because my answer is always the same: while there are, indeed, stories behind most of them I will reserve the right to keep them to myself because, from the moment I release a song into the wild, it is no longer mine and it belongs to whoever listens to it.
You see, songs and poems are indeed magical as they are very pliable and flexible and can easily fit into your own life experience, which may be significantly different from mine. As soon as a song finds that little spot in to someone’s mind and makes it its home, then I can no longer claim it as exclusively mine.
And I will not be the one ruining the way you experience music, just by explaining what is behind it. If you think those lyrics are about that time your uncle Bob took melatonin and almost drowned in the bathtub, then be it. Who am I to deny uncle Bob? I may, secretly, judge his actions, but I will never deny him.
Of course, there are some notable exceptions, which I’ve never hid, like the fact that Communion was an ode to Tommy and Clara and some others that you, dearest reader, will have contextualized in these pages.
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By the end of January, I had my little demo tape, with four songs: Lost, Whispered Echoes, Beyond the Veil and Fleeting.
Mr. Mason had gotten me a list of record labels that might interest me and Peter added a couple more. They all got a copy of my humble songs, as did my dad, my grandmother Luísa, my Mami, Peter… Everyone I knew got a copy and I think I still may have one or two left stored in the attic. Maybe one day I’ll shed some daylight on them and share them with the world, on YouTube, who knows?
Copies sent, utter trust laid upon the Royal Mail workers and all I had to do next was wait. Wait and despair, apparently.
February went by and not a word came from anywhere.
March was nearing its end and Mami said, loud and clear, that she would send me over to Portugal because she could no longer stand my constant moaning about the wall of silence that I was facing.
She did end up sending me over, but not as a punishment, as I was to spend Easter with my family, who would fly over to also celebrate Clara’s birthday.
I spent my own birthday in London and flew South, to enjoy family and good food, unaware that some songs of my demo had already found a niche in nightclubs in London and Berlin, and even in Tokyo.
Only much later did I find out about all this and still had to do a bit of detective work to understand the specifics of such a wide net, in a time when analogue technology was still King. Or Queen, I’m not judging.
London is the easiest, really. Peter had a hand in it, obviously. He was a habitué in the more alternative and rock clubbing circuit and, proud of his job, had lent the tape to a friend of his, who happened to be a DJ.
Berlin was a bit more convoluted, but also not that difficult to solve. Mami had sent her copy to her cousins, down in Bavaria who, upon a first hearing, had decided to give it to a nephew who dressed in black, as it was more his thing. Said nephew took it to Berlin, showed it to his friends and the rest is History.
In Tokyo, my proud father was gloating about his older daughter making a demo tape and lent it to a friend, in the embassy. The friend took it in his hands and made copies of his own, which he then passed along, ending up airing on pirate radios. Again, history.
And while all of that happened and that wide network of people was working hard on sharing my music, I ended up staying with my grandmother, after everyone else had left. We went to her house, in the Douro Valley, as she was to supervise how the years’ crops of almonds, grapes and olives were getting along.
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While she did so, I roamed among the vineyards, thinking what else could I do, where could I send more tapes to. Maybe I could send some overseas, to the USA. Someone, somewhere in the world, might enjoy what I had created.
I ended up spending the rest of the month there with her, carrying my books around the garden, so I could keep on studying, all while my mind was focused on music alone.
One day, the phone rang. It was Mami.
- Is everything alright, Mami? - I felt suddenly guilty for being away for so long.
- Everything’s fine, darling. I’m just a little tired, but I’m not calling to chat about myself.
My heart skipped a beat. Could it be…?
- Someone called a few hours ago. They said they wished to speak to Eleanora. - I could hear the smile in her voice – I figured you’d like to know.
I was so overwhelmed that I tried to pry for info my Mami definitely did not have.
- My dear, I was never at Bletchley Park. All I know is that a Mr. Bishop called. He claimed to be from Firefly Records and he wanted to talk to you. Call him yourself, if you want some more information.
- Take a deep breath – grandmother Luísa said, after hugging me, as I was struggling to get a proper sentence out in Portuguese – Before anything else, just breathe.
She guided me through a few cycles, so I could calm my nerves.
- I know nothing about the music business, but I know a little bit about business in general – she sat on the wicker chair by the phone – And I know that, right now, you are looking too eager.
I nodded. I was. I was ready to jump aboard the first chance someone gave me. I did not care.
- Take your time to answer, say you’ll think about it and don’t take a proposition at face value. Let it mull for a while. - she smiled – all those etiquette lessons will come in handy now. Right?
My eyes darted all across the room, as I was keeping the waiting compass in between the beeps of the ongoing call. Calm and collected, I said to myself as a feminine voice answered and I told her my name and that I wished to talk to a Mr. Bishop. She told me she would put me through and I went back to the rhythmic sounds.
- Johnny Bishop speaking – a raspy voice answered. I could tell he was smoking as well.
- Mr. Bishop, my name is Eleanora and I believe you called for me – I said, trying not to run over any words, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach – I sent a demo tape a few months back.
I heard some fumbling in the background, like drawers opening and closing – Oh, yes. Eleanora, I remember that… Let me just see. Ah, here it is. Eleanora’s Sundown. I do remember and I did call. I wanted to have a little chat with you.
My heart was racing and my whole body was trembling.
- I liked what you sent me, you know? It’s very raw but, at the same time, it has this gentle and melancholy touch, you know?
Of course, I knew. I’d written it. But he was talking very fast and hardly let me get a word in.
- Do you have any more of this? Did you record anything else?
- I’ve been working on a few more songs, but I have nothing else on tape. Not at the moment, at least. - I should have been working harder, I was beating myself over it.
- Hmmm-mm… - it sounded like he was taking some time to scribble something – Do you reckon you and your band can come over, so we could have a more mano-a-mano talk?
- Oh, I don’t have a band, Mr. Bishop. I just had a friend helping me out with the demo.
- Call me Johnny, love – he said, carelessly. He sounded like the sort of person with a laissez-faire kind of philosophy – But the tape says Eleanora’s sundown. I thought this was a band.
- I’m afraid not, uh, Johnny.
- Hmm… - was the response. I really did not know what to take from the conversation so far. Maybe I should have waited and called when I went back home, with Mami by my side. But I wanted to be independent so badly… - So, who played? Who wrote this? Who composed the melodies?
- Well, I wrote and composed. My friend helped me out with the guitar and the bass. We used a sampler for the drums, that’s why they sound sort of sketchy. Oh, and I played the keyboards.
- Wait, wait – Bishop seemed all over the place. Was he really interested by now? - How old are you, anyway? Because you sound very young.
The moment of truth. The moment he would hang up the phone on me… - I’m thirteen, Mr… Johnny.
- You’re… You’re thirteen? Are you sure? Because this is not the kind of sound a thirteen-year-old comes up with.
- Well, the reality is that I was still twelve when I did that. - why would I say such a thing? I had no need to be that honest…
- … Well… Are you at least tall? Because I can get you a band, musicians are passionate about not starving, but if you look like a kid, no one will take you serious.
- Afraid not…
- … Make-up might help, who knows? Maybe platform shoes, they’re fashionable, right? Listen – he went back to his fast-paced speech – Can we set up a meeting in person? I’d like to talk to you just a little bit more.
We set up a date three days from that moment. I still had no idea whether that had gone well or not but, at least I was going in for the second round in this job interview, right?