While the critics couldn’t warm to the Rowells’ blend of the fantastical and the formulaic, they were united in their praise for Kiri. ‘Whether Uwane is a public success or not, it has done a service in bringing forward at least two good voices, the warm mezzo of Kiri Te Kanawa and the resonant baritone of John Morgan,’ wrote Desmond Mahoney in the Star.
‘The star of the show, and a bright one at that, is Kiri Te Kanawa,’ wrote the Herald’s L. C. M. Saunders. ‘Natural and graceful in her movement, speech and singing, she reveals a real talent.’
To judge by the telegram which arrived at the stage door of His Majesty’s Theatre the following morning the previous evening had been a five-star triumph. The brief message bore Nell’s unmistakable imprimatur.
Congratulations, and my personal thanks. I would never have had such nice things said about me in the paper without your wonderful help and support. Thank you all and God bless you.
Kiri Te Kanawa.
By the time the cast took the stage for the second night’s performance, however, the damage caused by the reviews was all too obvious. Even fewer paying customers were dotted around the auditorium. In the absence of the adrenaline of the previous evening, Kiri understandably failed to shine as brightly. In the first half, to Neil McGough’s horror, she accidentally left out a verse from one of her solos. As her conductor attempted to repair her mistake he looked up to see Kiri frozen on stage. ‘She looked straight ahead stoically and carried on until the end of the song while I waved my arms like a demented grasshopper. She just didn’t have the experience to know what to do, to look at me and let me fix it.’
During the interval McGough headed for her dressing room but was intercepted by the stage manager. ‘He said, “She’s locked herself in her room, she’s in tears and mum’s with her. She’s never going to sing again.’” McGough passed a message on to Kiri via Nell. ‘I said, “Tell her not to break her heart about it and that everyone makes mistakes.” Kiri had never sung with orchestras before and I think that was a contributing factor, that she thought it was our job to follow her, because that’s what pianists did. She thought conductors were just for collecting tickets on the trams.’
By the third night she had corrected her mistake like the trouper she had quickly become. This time, however, there were only thirty-two there to witness her performance. Before curtain up that evening Kiri and the fifty-four other members of the cast had been called onto the stage to be told the following night’s performance, the fourth, would be the last.
‘Even though the reasons were obvious it came as a great shock,’ recalled singer Brian O’Connor. ‘Shows didn’t close early in those days.’
While her brother kept a dignified silence, Zella Rowell lashed out. ‘I have no faith left in New Zealanders’ patriotism. I am appalled at the public’s apathy,’ she told the New Zealand Herald. ‘I have lost everything.’ Rowell had promised to pay every member of the cast and crew from the show’s profits. Unsurprisingly few remember ever receiving any money.
In the months and years that followed, almost everyone downplayed their connection with Uwane. It was completely erased from Kiri’s curriculum vitae almost immediately and she appears never to have spoken of her first starring role since. She did not thank McGough when he saw her a few years later and mentioned it. ‘I said, “You’ve come a long way since Uwane.” She said, “You rotten bugger, I’ve been trying to forget that for years.”’
In the immediate aftermath of the show’s failure, however, Kiri fared better than almost any other member of the production. Among the audience on the opening night had been a well-known talent scout Peter Claman, an expatriate Englishman who had been president of the Wembley Music Club in London. He had been sent to the show by one of the country’s leading recording producers Tony Vercoe of Kiwi Records in Wellington. His written report to Vercoe ran along the lines: ‘Tony, you want to get after this one.’
To Claman’s eyes and ears at least, Kiri was the sole redeeming feature in the ill-fated musical. ‘He told me that she stuck out a mile. She was head and shoulders above the music and anyone else in the cast,’ recalled Vercoe.
Drawing on the quiet determination that had helped him survive a lengthy spell in German PoW camps during World War II, Vercoe had turned Kiwi Records into one of New Zealand’s prestige recording labels. Owned by the Wellington publishers A. H. & A. W. Reed, the label had already registered successes with classical recordings of other members of Sister Mary Leo’s stable of singers, including Malvina Major.
Intrigued by Claman’s recommendation, Vercoe decided against approaching Kiri directly. ‘She was so young,’ he recalled. ‘So I approached Sister Mary Leo, who I knew anyway.’ Within days Vercoe was sitting in St Patrick’s Cathedral, captivated by the sight and sound of Kiri singing the solo in ‘The Nun’s Chorus’ from Johann Strauss’s Casanova, with the St Mary’s Choir behind her. ‘She put on a special performance just for me,’ he said. As the final notes of the chorus faded into the air, Vercoe shared his first thoughts with Sister Mary Leo. ‘I was so impressed I said, “Well, we’d better start off by recording that.’” Tony Vercoe would transform the star of the unloved Uwane into the most idolised popular singer his country had ever seen.
Amid the rancour and recriminations that followed the collapse of Uwane, one relationship flourished. Soon after the final curtain came down the show’s leading man moved in to the Blockhouse Bay home of his leading lady. Collins was given a room in the basement beneath the main house and became a familiar face to Kiri’s friends. Her closest allies from St Mary’s had been two fellow music school students she had met in the choir, Raewyn Blade and Sally Rush. Kiri and Blade in particular were passionate lovers of the great Broadway and Hollywood musicals. At the end of that year they joined Collins in an amateur production of The Student Prince. Blade and Kiri would go on the following year to perform in the chorus of a production of the musical Annie Get Tour Gun at the King’s Theatre, starring the English singer Anne Hart in the title role.
Nell and Tom seemed content to have Kiri’s boyfriend living under the same roof. ‘Nell was great, she had a great sense of humour, although no one dared sit in her chair,’ laughed Collins. Kiri’s boyfriend grew particularly close to Tom with whom he would go to rugby matches. ‘He was the most gentle man I have met in my whole life,’ he said.
As he got to know the family better, Vincent sensed Tom and Nell were readying themselves for the inevitable moment when Kiri would fly the nest. ‘I think the parents were thinking about what the future held. Her mother worked tirelessly and Tom in his kind way was always there to support,’ Collins recalled. ‘But they couldn’t be there for ever. They were getting older and I think Tom and Nell were anxious that Kiri should meet someone who would look after her.’ For much of that year, it was clear that the witty and worldly Collins was considered a candidate for the role.
Judy and Nola, by now back in Auckland and living in a home nearby, warmed to Collins immediately. ‘He was a nice guy,’ recalled Judy. To Judy it was clear that Collins had been given Nell’s stamp of approval. ‘Boys always had to be run through the grill,’ she said. ‘They were always checked out by my grandmother.’ The suave Englishman remained a part of the Mitchell Street fixtures and fittings for eighteen months.
Judy recalled how Nell insisted on giving Kiri and her advice on how to behave in relationships with the opposite sex. Her prim and proper pep-talks ranged from the etiquette of the first date to the ending of a romance. One particular piece of wisdom would soon prove useful to Kiri. ‘I remember she told us once how you should never two-time anyone,’ recalled Judy. ‘You got rid of one person and got on with the next.’
In September 1963 Kiri made the long drive south to Hamilton and the finals of the most prestigious of