By William de Cruz
IT ALL began backstage — somewhere between a few choruses of our singing We Shall Not Be Moved while waiting for Joan Baez and a midnight supper with the woman herself. And as the the wisecracks simmered down and the relief of finally meeting her on friendly terms took effect, The Lady with the Flowers was revealed like any other ordinary person. But there was a difference — she has the means to reach the noble objectives that others are privileged to only ponder.
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| Newspaper cutting without the heading, Lady with the Flowers |
Grossly under-rated Malaysian determination comes to the fore and about 50 people start singing We Shall Overcome, refusing to be moved until she comes out and not even thinking of the possibility that she might slip out the back.
Several choruses later, she emerges — visibly exhausted and yet vibrant. She recognises me from her airport Press conference and several hours of hanging about around her hotel and gives me a peck on the cheek.
She recognises another newsman and presents him with her bouquet of flowers — which he promptly distributed among us.
“No. No interviews please. I leave for the Anambas Islands (Indonesia) at eight in the morning. I just can't talk anymore... please,” she says, still managing to smile.
Then, into a car and out of sight.
“There are no parties planned for tonight,” one of the organisers says, adding with tongue in both cheeks that he will be going to a girlie joint.”
We follow the car and end up on the 12th floor of the Regent, hoping to catch her and return the scrawny remnants of her flowers.
“Okay. Just two minutes,” her personal aide Jane says and ushers us in, shaking her head in dismay behind our backs.
“Ah! My man” Baez says to me, smiling. That's when, I think, it started all over.
“Beautiful show” and “we don't think we’ve ever had a show like yours” and other niceties done with, we sat down to talk: no, to listen.
“Pretty exclusive girlie joint,” I say to the organiser.
Baez is tired, draped around a huge chair, eating her dinner and sipping French wine.
“I can’t eat before a show. I can imagine how I’d sound,” she says, adding that she’d not eaten since two in the afternoon.
Two minutes are up. “Sit down please,” she says. Sighs all round. “I never imagined that so many people in Malaysia would be so familiar with my songs,” she says, almost grateful.
Why don’t you eat your dinner first, maybe we can wait in the bathroom, I suggest in an attempt at humour.
“No. I don't think you should — my girlfriend is there,” she retorts, and laughs.
“Ms Baez,” I begin. “Yes Sahib,” she answers in heavy Indian put-on, craning her head in mock attention.
Why did you choose Kuala Lumpur as your only venue for a concert in South East Asia?
“I needed to sing. And this whole trip had become work, work, work you know.
“Also, I suppose, this was the easiest place to do it, and what with the unbelievably tight time schedule. It was a chance for me to relax as a singer.”
Were there restrictions in other countries?
“Well, not really. But it’s difficult to go ahead and do what you want without gettIng involved in a country’s politics.
“What right have I to make demands on countries that have enough problems of their own...?”
Did you visit Vietnam?
“No. But I was invited. I did not go because I thought I would only be allowed to see what the authorities there wanted me to see, and that would be reeeeeally stupid,” she says, pulling tight at an imaginary piece of string between her hands.
“There was trouble over her signature campaign for the refugees and bureaucracy there was implying that we could visit if we backed off on the campaign issue.
“I replied that I wouldn’t go but asked if Amnesty International could make the trip. Till now, however, there’s been no development on that.”
How much do you think Humanitas (her human rights organisation) has achieved sending you on this trip?
“We don’t know yet, and we won’t - until we put everything down and document the film.
“But it certainly is something else seeing the situation for yourself as opposed to watching refugee documentaries in your living room.”
What about the concert you say you will be coaxing the Beatles into doing?
“Yes. I’ve said it before and I’ll say It again — I will impose on my friends.”
Then I touch a sensitive spot, half expecting to be politely asked to leave. What about Dylan?
“Dylan is not a very receptive person. I think he would only do it if there was big publicity and he stood to gain personally from it,” she says with no emotion.
Are you discouraged by this?
“No. Certainly not. I know him personally and kind of know also what to expect from him, so it’s no big deal, you know.”
Two days earlier at the airport she had said that it was “sad all the talk about benefit concerts was coming from agents and record companies and not the musicians themselves.”
“No single country or person is doing enough. I think that if the whole human race thinks it has the capacity to think, then it should behave as if it did have the capacity to think and feel. But it’s just not happening.
“And it’s just not enough being a pacifist. I mean Gandhi went around lying on railway tracks and he was a great man and all but really — where did it take him?” she asks.
What would you do if you had it in your hands to change the situation in the host countries? What would you do if you were God?
“The first thing I’d do is polish my halo. But actually, I’m too tired to answer that properly.
“Did you see the film Sambo the Elephant Boy?” she ask me.
“I’m not that old, I’m tempted to say but managed to manage an ordinary “No.”
“It’s a bit like that, this whole situation. I remember especially a scene when Samba pleads with his master not to take away the only thing he is left with”, she recalls.
“He begs. Please Sahib, you can take anything from me and do anything to me. But, please Sahib — please don't shoot my elephant.”
Magnify that predicament to country proportions, she says. “Believe you me. that’s a mess.”
By this time, we are feeling guilty over Malaysianising the two minutes. She yawns. She leaves her business card with us and says goodnight, and we leave thankful that hope is in good hands.
