by Shania Twain
As soon as our orchestra finished one of its classical pieces, I set down my trumpet and thought, How did I get myself into this? Time for my solo performance, in front of this huge high school, much bigger than ours. The emcee’s booming voice—“Please welcome from TH&VS: Eilleen Twain!”—startled me, and I swallowed hard as I got up from my chair. That’s when I felt a warm stream running down the insides of my legs. Shit. I was used to stage nerves bringing me some close calls in the past, but this had never happened before. Now what?
I’d set a tall glass of water by my seat to wet my throat before singing. Thank goodness, I had the presence of mind to accidentally on purpose kick it over, so that I could yelp, “Damn! I spilled my water!” As far as the trumpet players on either side of me knew, the puddle pooling at my feet was nothing more than H2O. Way to go, brain! Quick thinking!
In a second stroke of luck, we were wearing our band uniforms of gray bottoms, with skirts for girls. If I’d been wearing pants, there’d have been an obvious wet spot for the whole school to see, and I’d have bolted from the stage, mortified. Now that the burning in my bladder had been relieved, all I had to contend with was the anxiety from having to face all the pimply strangers sitting in front of me. I plunged into the song, doing my best to appear at ease, when in fact, my underwear, nylons, and even my shoes were soaked with pee. Much to my surprise, the audience was extremely appreciative, applauding loudly when I finished. I realized then that my stage fright stemmed totally from within and that my peers weren’t as critical as I’d feared they might be. I just wanted to get the hell out of the spotlight all the same. I was proud I’d followed through with it, but filled with relief that it was over.
While still in high school, I joined a local rock band called Longshot. It was a big change for me musically, since up to now I’d performed mostly country and folk music professionally. Of course, I grew up singing soft rock and pop music around the house, but never in bars where I actually got paid. I’ve always loved country and learned about songwriting through the genius of many a country artist, but now I was free to explore other music, live.
Longshot consisted of me and four musicians: Rick Dion on guitar, Guy Martin on piano and vocals, Mike Mitchell on bass, and Mike Chabot on drums. They were all finished with high school, except for Rick, who was in his last year. We rehearsed at his house, which was practically around the corner from where my family lived on Montgomery. We were a cover band, performing the hits of the day—Pat Benatar, Journey, Foreigner—as well as some Beatles and other rock classics mixed in. Bar audiences weren’t much interested in a local act’s original material, if it even had any; people came to drink, dance, and have a good time listening to songs they knew, period. They wanted to hear the commercial Top 40.
After several weeks of practice in Rick’s basement, we’d built up enough of a repertoire (consuming boxloads of pizza in the process) to invite club owners down to audition us. J. P. Aube, the owner of the most happening nightspot in Timmins, J.P.’s Lounge at the Escapade Hotel, was impressed and booked us to play Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. A steady gig!
The nights typically didn’t end until one in the morning, so we amassed quite a lot of material. As a singer, I was enjoying the creative freedom of covering such a broad range of styles away from the usual country song list I’d stuck to for years. I was also finally starting to feel comfortable fronting the band, although it was a difficult adjustment to be up there when I first started leaving my beloved guitar behind. When you’re clutching a guitar, even if you’re not particularly playing it much, it functions as a shield between you and the audience. It’s something to hide behind, and you don’t have to think about what to do with your hands.
Without it, I felt completely awkward—maybe naked is a better word. I’d never been much of a dancer, and I was still somewhat self-conscious about displaying my body. You know, you’re singing songs mostly about love and romance and longing, plus you’ve got this gale force of sound behind you, and you’re losing yourself in the seductive rhythm. It’s one thing to sway suggestively in front of a mirror in the privacy of your own room, and quite another when a whole club full of strangers is watching your every move. It took me a while to lose my inhibitions onstage, but I gradually became more comfortable in that role by mentally involving the audience and not isolating myself as the center focus. I developed the outlook of throwing a house party, where I was hosting but not alone. We were all having fun together, and this made me feel less in the spotlight.
I related best to female singers such as Pat Benatar and Ann Wilson from the band Heart, as they weren’t dancer-singers. They weren’t choreographed or staged, but they put the singing first, and their body language followed as a secondary, natural part of the performance.
June 1983 marked my graduation from high school. Given my spotty attendance during the year, it seems fitting that I didn’t make it to either the graduation ceremony or the senior prom. Nope, I was out on the road with a new band called Flirt. I passed the exams but didn’t attend the ceremony.
I’d heard Flirt at J.P.’s on a night when Longshot wasn’t booked, and they sounded pretty good. Certainly they were much louder than we were, with their more sophisticated gear; they also boasted elaborate arrangements of songs such as “Africa” by Toto and “Wind Him Up” by a popular Ontario band called Saga. The lead singer, Diane Chase, was tall, blonde, and very pretty, much more so than me, and she could sing quite well, too.
On the eve of a regional tour, she suddenly quit the group. Flirt needed a replacement and fast. Its agent knew me as the lead singer of Longshot and asked if I’d be interested in filling the spot. Seeing as how I already knew many of Flirt’s songs, I said yes. Twenty-four hours later, following an audition, I was in. We’d be leaving in two weeks.
Unbeknown to my parents, I asked my high school principal, Mr. Andrietta, if I could take my exams early, and he agreed. As for the prom, I wound up giving the white, lacy dress I’d bought with my savings to a girlfriend of mine. While she and the rest of the kids were dancing and drinking punch and presumably having a great time at the prom (I really wouldn’t know for certain; after all, I wasn’t there), I was off on the first road gig of my music career.
My whole life, music has been a passion rather than what I would describe as an ambition, and at the age of seventeen it was my passion for music that overpowered my desire to go to my prom and pretend to enjoy wearing a pretty dress for a night. Instead I was much more interested in joining a rock band and going on the road—the far less glamorous of the two and much more daring, but I felt no anticipation about prom night and was incredibly restless to get started, finally, as a full-time music professional. I was looking forward to singing over a big sound system and spending my time learning songs, parts, arrangements. I just wanted to be busy doing music.
My mother, long since used to granting me my independence, had no qualms about me being out on the road playing sweaty bars with a rock band or with me missing my prom. No, what upset her was that I’d be singing rock instead of country; whereas my father preferred it when I sang R&B. I was a free bird in that sense, balking at the idea of being caged by any one style of music. I liked good songs, regardless of what genre they were in. In particular, I was a sucker for ambiguous lyrics, since that would allow me to interpret the words however I wanted. If the song contained minor chords, so much the better, and vocal harmonies were always a big plus in my book.
Although I was Flirt’s lead singer, I was not the bandleader. The song choices were pretty much set in stone before I’d joined, so on a musical level, the group wasn’t all that fulfilling for me. But what a great experience to be independent and working professionally in music, even if that consisted of touring Ontario crowded together in the front bench seat of a small moving van, our amps, drum cases, and other equipment sliding around in back with every sharp curve. Nice bunch of guys, though, and it was a pleasant experience for me overall.
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nbsp; In August we played several weeks all the way on Canada’s East Coast: New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland. Getting from Nova Scotia to Newfoundland required a thirteen-hour overnight ferry ride. I’d never seen such a large ship: the open vehicle ramp to the cargo bay reminded me of a giant whale’s gaping jaws, and here we were driving right into its belly. I looked at all the cars, trucks, campers, and cargo containers parked around us and simply could not believe how much the ferry could swallow.
I was hoping we’d spot some real whales during the crossing, this being the first time I’d ever seen an ocean. In fact, I’d never traveled on a body of water so large that you couldn’t see land in any direction. Nor had I ever been off the mainland before. As we pulled out of the port, I was so excited. I paused at every opportunity to listen to the exotic accents around me, which were sort of a musical cross between Irish and French Creole. I barely understood a word.
Being an inexperienced traveler, I made the mistake of assuming that Newfoundland and Northern Ontario shared the same climate. At home, August temperatures usually average around twenty-five to thirty degrees Celsius during the day. I packed accordingly, but it was much too cold for the shorts and T-shirts I’d brought along.
This hunk of metal was not a fancy boat. It was very much a transport vessel and not something you would take for any other reason other than to get from point A to point B. It was a grim gray color, with chunked and lumpy layer after layer of paint that had obviously been washed on over salt and rust. I’m glad I hadn’t seen the movie Titanic yet, as I would have imagined that if a ritzy, expensive prize like the Titanic could sink, surely this mass of metal could without much trouble. Especially in iffy weather, which is what we were in.
The journey turned out to be safe, but it was not fun. We were only a couple of hours out to sea, and we had eleven to go. “Frigg,” I moaned out loud. I was thinking like a four-year-old who asks repeatedly, “Are we there yet?” The other passengers started scuffling off the outer decks to go to sleep for the night, and I was ready to go, too. Only I wasn’t sure where one was meant to sleep! There were no designated seats like on a Greyhound bus or an overnight train, just general tickets. “General” meant that you could spend your time anywhere on the upper or middle deck. The upper deck was an open-air free-for-all, but in the rain, it was not an option for me, and the middle deck, although covered by the upper deck above, was only half shielded with Plexiglas to keep out the elements.
I wasn’t very savvy about thinking ahead and claiming my spot for the night, not knowing how the whole thing worked and figuring that surely there would be at least somewhere dry, if not a seat for every passenger on board for an overnight trip. Much to my dismay, this was not the case, and once I caught on to the fact that the more experienced ferry travelers had already staked their claims on all the dry spots on the boat, there was no room for me. The bow deck with no sides had room, but rain and sea mist were spraying in, although if you stayed in the center just a bit, you’d get damp but not soaked. I tried this for a while alongside a few other poor suckers who’d obviously also boarded with “I’m a Dumb Tourist!” written all over their faces.
I was so uncomfortable that I finally gave up and accepted that I’d have to just stand all night. I was feeling sorry for myself—cold, damp, tired, and pissed off. I felt I’d been tricked, not knowing what kind of ticket I’d bought, and if I’d known ahead that I’d have nowhere dry to at least sit, let alone sleep, I would have changed it. Of course, now I realize I probably had the ticket I had because that was all I could afford.
In the hopes of warming up a bit, I headed down a floor to the bathrooms, and I could see from a distance a line of women queuing up outside the ladies’ room. What else is new? But there was a funky odor drifting up as I walked down the stairs, and soon it became clear that it was vomit I was smelling. I hated that smell! Now, I admit that’s a pretty witless comment. I mean, who doesn’t? What made it worse, though, was that I had no choice but to go down there at some point no matter how revolting the stench was, since eventually I would have the urge to pee, and I couldn’t just walk up the street to find a cleaner public restroom. This was it!
Finally, I was so exhausted that I was ready to sleep anywhere. Where was the rest of the band this whole time? I wondered. I was the new one in the group so at this point we were pretty much still strangers, but I still felt a tinge of Thanks for looking out for me, guys! Having done the trip before themselves, knowing the every-man-for-himself routine, they most likely had the savvy to secure their spots for the night, while I was milling around looking for the best spot to take in the view.
The trip got better once we were back on land and I had the chance to encounter the friendly locals. Happy to be back on land, I wanted to explore some of the local beaches. I could just picture myself lounging on the warm, sandy, sunny shore, listening to the gently lapping ocean waves. However, this was the Atlantic Ocean off the eastern coast of Newfoundland, not Florida. Although the beaches were stunningly beautiful, they weren’t at all what I’d expected: rocky, not sandy, with loud, crashing waves of inky black water. And, needless to say, cold. Nevertheless, I was determined to take my first swim in salt water, no matter how overly idealized my vision of the ocean had been. I squealed and screeched as I inched into the freezing, frothy water, but it was so ominously dark, and the undertow tugged me so insistently, that I was afraid to go in over my head. When the water reached my waist, I quickly submerged my whole body, then dashed out as fast as I could before hypothermia set in. I was used to subzero temperatures at home, but not swimming in icy water.
I turned eighteen during Flirt’s East Coast leg, and it was as if my world was starting to expand exponentially. If I was back home for the summer, I’d be in the bush planting trees with my dad. He wasn’t thrilled with me for missing the plant, and in phone conversations he sometimes intimated that I’d let him down.
I have to admit to carrying a little guilt along with me during that tour. Certainly, I worried about my family while I was away, since I wasn’t just going off for a short period, then coming back. I had made the decision to start my own life and that made me feel selfish. As I didn’t only feel I was leaving them, but that I was leaving them behind.
I felt especially anxious about my mother. Was she okay? What if she and my father were fighting? But then I’d tell myself that I was an adult now and needed the chance to follow my dreams and be out on my own. After all, my parents were adults; they were supposed to be capable of managing life and the family without me. Maybe I overestimated my family’s need for me to carry so much responsibility, and perhaps they were perfectly fine without me there. But I had deep concerns that stemmed from the years of being under the Twain roof, and it was hard for me to let that anxiety go.
A few weeks into the tour, my father called me up, frantic. “Where are you?” he demanded gruffly, the implication being that I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I reminded him that I was on the road, performing. It turned out that my mom had suffered a miscarriage. She and my dad were asleep when he was awakened by something wet. When he peeled back the covers, he discovered my mother unconscious. Her blood soaked the sheets. He rushed her to the hospital.
My father scolded me for not being there and for the fact that he’d been unable to reach me during the night. Well, the accommodations we stayed in were pretty funky, with no one at the reception desk to man the phones after hours.
“Your mother could have died, you know, if I hadn’t woken up when I did!” he said accusingly. Although I felt he was being unfair, part of me was pleased to hear him sound so shaken up by the prospect of losing her; it meant that he still loved my mother. Maybe this would serve as something of a wake-up call for him, reminding him how much he needed her.
Before we hung up, my father tried pressuring me to come home at once. “Family,” he lectured, “is more important than being in some bar band.” It seemed to me that I’d al
ways shown how important family was to me. As I pointed out to him, my mother was in good care at the hospital and didn’t really need me. Besides, I was something like 1,500 miles away; I couldn’t just pick up and come right home. Overall, though, my father succeeded in making me feel extremely guilty.
Furthermore, I had an obligation to the guys in the band, who were always good to me, although I pretty much kept to myself. On Canada’s East Coast, it was common for bands to stay in “band houses” paid for by the bars that featured live music. Act after act passed through. If the walls could talk? Personally, I wouldn’t want to hear all the lurid tales of what probably went on there. Nonstop booze, sex, and drugs. Never mind what secrets the bedsheets could have divulged. Ew. I observed a few ground rules in these places: (1) never walk around barefoot; (2) always check to see that the sheets have been washed (although burning them probably would have been preferable); (3) shower with the plastic curtain pulled open so that it never comes in contact with my skin; and (4) put lots of towels on the floor so the soles of my feet never touch it.
One good thing about these band houses was that they had kitchens. After a while on the road, you can get real tired of eating in restaurants, so I relished the chance to cook for myself. I’d shop for groceries (and disinfectant), using my own money. I usually ate only one meal a day, around noon, as our nights typically didn’t end until three in the morning, but what a meal: pancakes made from scratch, drenched in maple syrup and melted butter; a tall glass of milk, always; bacon, fried up crispy; two eggs, cooked in the bacon grease, done over easy; and toast for dipping in the yolk. And for dessert? A bowl of cereal, usually Honeycomb, Cap’n Crunch, or Froot Loops.
