It's All Coming Back To Me Now
That time I lied to Celine Dion.
Dear Reader
One day over the holidays, struck down by an illness no doubt likely brought home to me by my daycare-going babe, I found myself flicking through the channels and landing on the no-effort-required Love Again, a saccharine film involving a music journalist and Celine Dion, who stars as herself. It’s not the kind of film I’d include in my top ten of the year – film snob that I sometimes pretend to be – but when you’re sick and not wanting to do much, it does the job.
I had to get past the film’s premise, first – where Ms Dion helps said journalist, played by Sam Heughan, nudge himself further in the direction of his budding love interest, played by Priyanka Chopra. As someone who’s interviewed musicians and movie stars for a living, I have never had one become invested in my love life this way. There was the time I accidentally flirted with Chris Pine (or was it accidental?) but for the most part, there has never been anything too personal in these interactions. I have, however, met Celine Dion, and if ever there was a celebrity who was going to play match-maker, she would be it.
Because she really is as nice as she seems to be. The kind of sweet presence that is genuine and from the heart, free from pretence. Watching her in the film made me think of how I came to know about just how nice she is; of a story I’ve told only a few close friends. It’s a story I’ve kept saved for if I one day ever led the kind of life that inspired writing a memoir, and then I would somehow work it in. But no, I shall tell you here and now, why I once lied — actually, let’s phrase it, told a small fib — to the sweetest of Canadian and chart-topping female singers, Celine Dion.
But first, some context.
Growing up in small-town Benoni, in Johannesburg, South Africa, Celine Dion was my de facto love guru. Back before you could Google things like “how to get over a boy who you thought liked you but indeed, it turns out, doesn’t,” and “when does life start to not suck so much?,” there was Celine. For me, as a young teen, dealing with the proverbial angst of life at that time — which included parents on the edge of divorce, the beginnings of depression, and just the general malaise that comes with being ‘not yet a girl, not yet a woman’ — my Sony hi-fi stereo was my shrine, and Celine, and her kin, No Doubt’s Gwen Stefani, Sheryl Crow and Mariah Carey, were my oracles. Oh sure, at school, I’d pretend I liked Green Day and the Offspring so I could try to fit in, but when I got home, I didn’t have to think twice about who to play.
On days when I was feeling too many feelings to process, I would place the Falling Into You disc, the fourth of Celine’s English-studio albums, into the hi-fi and press shuffle, letting whatever lyrics she sang at the moment be my fate; my comfort or my instruction. Yes, they were cliched; yes, they were the ultimate in pop ballads, but to me, her voice was a guide where I had none. And what better way to work through your feelings than to sing them?
Some days it was like Celine was wanting me to feel what I was feeling, encouraging me to belt out my “Declaration of Love.” Other times, she’d let me know: ‘You can say it’s all right, but I know that you’re breaking up inside,’ and I’d be okay for one more day, feeling understood, at least, for now, even if it was by a woman who had no idea I existed. I started addressing my journal entries to “Dear Celine,” and so it went.
Moving into my later teen years, my love for Celine dipped greatly, as I began preferring to spend more of my time in the company of Tracy Chapman’s poetic, socially-conscious lyrics or Lauryn Hill’s melodic rhymes. But I always felt a silent gratitude for the pop diva who got me through a tough spot in my life.
Fast forward to 2008.
Celine Dion was coming to South Africa for the first time, on tour, and I was, as the entertainment journalist for a major radio news network, given the exclusive first interview with her. It was set to happen as soon as she landed at Lanseria Airport, a private spot just outside of central Joburg, a few nights before the first show. I was full of nerves, the history of what she had meant to me tucked into my back pocket, as I drove over to the airport that night.
Watching Celine’s private plane hit the runway, and dozens of Louis Vuitton bags of luggage being conveyed out, I double-checked my notes and my recorder, making sure I was ready. This was before iPhones and their built-in, oh-so useful recording function. Back in those days (I dare say, the olden days?), we had to use a brick-shaped box recorder, together with a long, cylindrical microphone to capture our audio interviews.
Celine walked in, was presented with a bouquet of flowers, we were introduced, and then she sat down. I should add that it was after 11pm, and she had no issue about sitting down with me for a brief interview at that time. Or if she did, she never let on a smidge. (I’ve interviewed plenty of artists who let it be known they really didn’t want to be there – hello, Avril Lavigne, so long, Justin Timberlake.)
With her French Canadian lilt, she was gracious and thoughtful in her answers, and after about twenty minutes, we were done. I headed back to the newsroom so I could file the story with Celine’s sound-bites, ready for the morning news — otherwise known as “drive,” one of the two most important news slots of the day.
But, when I got to the office, and pressed play on my recorder, nothing came out. There was no sound of that delicate French accent anywhere. I immediately felt panicked tears come on: Had I pressed record? Had I inadvertently erased the interview after I was shaking her hand goodbye and trying to keep my cool? Was the machine malfunctioning?
I recreated the scene of her arrival through my own recap for morning drive, but I didn’t have any of the exclusive soundbites we were meant to be running. I didn’t have The Story.
So I called the PR team and left a voice message, trying to explain through sobs that I’d had an accident with my recorder, and begged for another interview. I doubt they could have heard me properly through my crying, which by that time, had become exacerbated by the early morning hours and the come-down of meeting one’s teenage heroine.
Thankfully, the next day, they called back and said to head to Celine’s hotel, where they would squeeze me in for another interview. I was elated — and determined to make sure that nothing was going to go wrong this time.
Once at the hotel, I sat inside the lounge and waited for Celine, again. And when I saw her elegant figure walking towards me, I got up and hurried over. “Ms Dion, I’m so sorry you have to do this again…” I started.
“Mon chere, I don’t care about that, how are you? How are your knees?” she said, looking down at my legs. “Are you okay after your fall? Come, come, let’s get a seat.”
I couldn’t believe how much she was fussing over me. And it began to click; I realized it was because I’d said I’d had an “accident” with my recorder. And now, it was too far gone to correct.
So, I went with it.
“Really, I’m okay,” I replied back, before getting to the first question, again. And again, she was gracious in her replies.
I left, feeling thankful to have gotten the second chance, and bad that I’d inadvertently lied to her, especially after how nice she was. And whenever I see her pop up — in a movie, at the Grammys — I still feel a little bad, all these years later. But I also still carry with me the silent gratitude for a pop diva who got me through another tough spot. Even if, once again, she never knew it.
Thank you for reading!
Your neighbour,
Nadia
You big knee scraped lier!! I love this story!!