by Shania Twain
Nevertheless, this was my world now. I had to understand the way it worked if I was going to give my label music it would get behind and promote actively. My intention was to be always true to myself creatively. However, all artists must contend with the reality that without the support of their record company, radio, music television, and to a lesser extent the press, the public will never hear their music. It becomes a bit of a balancing act, especially when you’re trying to get your career off the ground. I started to feel pressure to fit in and to ignore my pangs to be a mixed-bag, original artist. To the industry critics and my label, I think the fear was that I would be considered unidentifiable and confused about who I was artistically. So they had to compartmentalize me.
When I first went to Nashville, I began to share my discontent with not being able to find songwriters in the league of writers I wanted to write with, who would write “after hours” and outside an office, away from the publishing house. I explained that I was feeling trapped by a system and couldn’t be original that way. Although I was happy that my first record was well on its way to being produced and would soon launch, I was disheartened by the lack of creative control and input I had. It took some tight lipping to get through it.
What I heard and saw was assembly-line-type songs and music videos of imagery, artistic direction, design, and style, all seemingly respecting formula over creative freedom. Few videos stood apart from the rest, was my observation. Garth Brooks seemed like the only person setting an innovative bar visually for country music videos. I remember telling myself that when it came time to make the video for my first single, “What Made You Say That,” I would see to it that we came up with something truly unique and interesting. I was determined to express my individuality.
The video was directed by a fellow Canadian, Steven Goldmann, who would go on to direct five more videos for me. Great guy, energetic, easy to work with. He had the perfect personality for working with someone who had never made a video before. I had no idea how to perform in front of a camera, karaoke style, trying to live the song with as much sincerity as possible while lip-syncing. I had never lip-synced before, either, and found it incredibly tricky to match my video performance to the record. Do you sing out during the filming, so that it looks as authentic as possible? Or do you just sort of “air sing” in order to hear the playback better and be more precise with your facial expressions and how you mouth the words? Thanks to Steve’s patience and understanding, I eventually got the knack of learning how to act my way through the fake singing without losing my concentration. Although Steve had strong ideas, he was flexible and open to my input, so that I was involved with the direction and feel of the overall look, image, and story.
With little money behind us, the production was small. Nevertheless, Steve pulled it together and made it into something eye-catching. We shot in Miami, Florida. He was skilled, especially at filming in natural light, and I can still say today that I am very happy with the way my first video turned out. Except for two things, starting with my thick eyebrows. I laugh so hard when I see those, as I had no idea how to pluck eyebrows yet. I’m not even sure that we had hair and makeup professionals on the set. Even if we had, I probably would have been too insecure to let anyone reshape my brows. I also cringe when I look back at earlier images of myself and see the kinked, frizzy look of my overpermed hair.
Steve and I went wardrobe shopping at a cheap department store. I fished through the racks until I found a few outfits that I thought were flattering yet also reflected the song’s playful nature. And I had to be able to move comfortably in them. One thing I’d never seen on Country Music Television was a woman’s bare midriff, surprisingly enough. You saw it everywhere else in popular culture, from a Cindy Crawford workout video to Madonna’s latest video clip. I did not see any reason not to bare my midriff for a video set on a Florida beach in the hot summer sun. What’s the big deal, right?
Apparently bigger than I ever imagined. CMT refused to air “What Made You Say That” at first, claiming that it was too suggestive because of the—and let’s be honest, really modest—crop top I wore. I couldn’t believe it. The three-minute video consists almost entirely of me and my studly fantasy boyfriend frolicking playfully on the beach, with a little innocent canoodling here and there. Two of the three outfits I wear in the clip cover my midriff completely. It’s only a black two-piece that shows anything, and we’re talking maybe four inches of skin from the navel on up. Billboard, the music industry’s weekly trade magazine, referred to my dancing as “alluring,” and while I appreciate the compliment, even that’s a stretch. I would go so far as to call it quite tame even for that time.
Eventually CMT reversed its decision, adding “What Made You Say That” to its playlist, but the whole controversy left me wondering what had happened to country music. I’d turned my attention elsewhere for a few years, and it had gone all prudish on me! The performers I’d followed as a child were sexy, flashy, brash, bold, beautiful. Take Dolly Parton. She certainly wasn’t shy about dressing to accentuate her stunning Barbie-perfect figure. Or how about Elvis, who was as beloved in country music as he was in rock ’n’ roll, with his sexy, steamy image? Willie Nelson and the boys? They weren’t exactly known to be clean-cut, law-abiding citizens, and they sang freely about their “outlaw” ways. Loretta Lynn sang about being a honky-tonk girl early on and later about deciding to take the pill (and many country radio stations refused to play “The Pill” when it was first released in 1975). All of this was the country music that I knew: real, raw, and relatable. So why on earth was the country music industry now bucking me for merely showing my midriff?
I’m standing on a stone-lined path, accepting that I have to take them one step at a time. The particular step of my first CD and the whole Nashville experience is proving to finally feel more solid. After this initial period of about a year, I sense I’m past the shaky transitional phase of leaving my country, a steady paying gig, the scrimping by of part-time clerking at Sears in Timmins, the temporary bunking from the Montgomery apartment, Paul’s parents and the river cabin, to open a new chapter in my life. It’s as though I’m about to graduate from a university of sorts. I finished high school in 1983, and it’s now the end of 1992. Nine years of education between the cradles of hometown high school and the lap of the music industry giant of Music City. I can sense I’m poised to leave the Nashville campus, take what I’ve learned from the professors of legends, and apply it to my own entertainment career. My record is finished after several months of preparation and anticipation.
Soon after the single “What Made You Say That” came out in February 1993, I went out on my first professional tour, dubbed Triple Play because it featured two other PolyGram acts who were also readying their debut albums: Toby Keith and John Brannen. We were very different artists musically, with equally different images. The three of us got along pretty well considering we spent several weeks cooped up together on a bus. I came back from the promotional blitz having learned many things I didn’t know before, like how to chew and spit tobacco—a curious but short-lived habit. I received frequent reminders that I should starch my jeans so that they had the appropriate center crease; furthermore, they had to be Wrangler brand or nothing. Also, my red ankle-strap, platform high heels were not really working, and I needed to get myself a pair of Ropers, which I was plainly told were the only legitimate cowgirl boot at the time. I also added a few line-dancing moves to my repertoire, which were quite fun. I understood the need to conform somewhat, but, again, I was feeling a bit like a puppet on a string. There was pressure to fit a certain mold if you hoped to gain acceptance in this industry. I always wondered just who, exactly, set these standards for how to look, act, and sound in the first place. And how could anything original ever have a chance to develop in such a one-dimensional, homogenized environment?
Just one single into my career, and already I was feeling trapped. I didn’t think I could keep my ideas, opinions, and creative energy
locked up too much longer. But the pragmatic me understood that if the record label began to view me as “difficult,” there would be some other up-and-coming performer ready to take my place. For the time being, I had to suppress my dismay and just keep forging ahead one step at a time. Adding to my insecurity about feeling like somewhat of a misfit was the fact that Mercury Nashville had a new president, Luke Lewis, taking over the label’s day-to-day affairs, and Harold Shedd had been bumped upstairs. Luke Lewis went on to head up Mercury Nashville for ten years. Although I felt that I had more to offer artistically than Harold appreciated, he was still the person who’d signed me to Mercury, showed me around town when I first got there, and coproduced my first record. I had heard stories about new artists sometimes cutting an album, then having it shelved for so long that it was outdated by the time it hit the stores; in some cases, the record never saw the light of day. At least that wasn’t my fate.
Being an artist on a record label really is no different than being an employee anywhere else: when a new boss comes in, especially from outside the company, you worry about where you stand. Would Mercury purge its roster, as had been known to happen during times of managerial changes, and would this Canadian newcomer be a goner?
My concerns vanished once I met Luke, a calm, cool man with a deep, sexy voice and a straightforward way of communicating. He was firm but quick to laugh and didn’t take offense at the edgy part of my personality. I knew right away that we’d get along fine, much to my relief.
The Triple Play tour provided great exposure and a crash course in what it is to be a performing artist in the States: the types of venues, the radio environment, the tour bus “thing” of living in your transportation, and the competitive nature of the business. While my single was doing okay, eventually ascending to number fifty-five on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart, Toby’s first record, “Should’ve Been a Cowboy,” was on its way to number one. I was happy for him: he was a hard worker, a decent guy, and he’d come by his success honestly. But he really earned my respect because the song was his own, not the product of a Nashville tune factory. As the tour progressed and Toby’s popularity soared, John and I receded into the shadows; wherever we went, most of the public attention was directed at Toby. The fans who came out to the shows would ask me and John for our autographs, too, but I think it was mostly out of interest in getting all three—like completing a place setting. At one point I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance for a second single release, but I was happy for Toby and enjoyed the whole experience.
While still on the tour, I learned that actor Sean Penn was interested in directing my next music video. I still don’t know how he’d even heard of me. Perhaps he watched CMT at the time? I was glad he did, in any case. Frankly, I’m not sure that Mercury had planned on a follow-up to “What Made You Say That,” but to have someone of Sean’s caliber interested in working with me might have made the label take me more seriously and agree to finance the production. The timing was great, and I felt I may have a second chance with a follow-up single, after all.
During a tour break, Sean flew to Nashville to meet me and discuss his concept for the video. He was very cool and fun, direct with his ideas but easygoing and open to my input. He took the project very seriously, so before I knew it, I was at a Los Angeles film studio shooting the video for “Dance with the One That Brought You.” To be honest, the song, a midtempo number, wasn’t very strong, and I regret that Sean’s ability and enthusiasm were wasted on a track that I knew was never going to amount to much commercially, but the experience of working with him was incredible. He’d pulled in noted character actor Charles Durning to play the role of the overage good-time Charlie who goes out two-steppin’ with his loving wallflower wife on a small-town Saturday night. I adored him as an actor and even more in person. He was such a sweet man and very gracious toward me.
Before shooting the video, Sean and I met in L.A. for a couple of days to work out some details. At one point, we went to get something to eat in his beat-up Mustang convertible. On the way back, he stopped off to see his wife, Robin Wright Penn. She came outside, and the two of them had a quick word while I stayed in the car. I’d always admired Robin’s acting and thought she was so beautiful. I feared that maybe she’d suspected that I was some girlfriend tagging along for a while. Or even if Sean had explained that the girl in his car was a recording artist he was directing in a video, what if she had the impression that there was something going on between us? I would have hated for that to be the case, because Sean was a perfect gentleman every second I was in his company. Something in me wanted Robin to know that, even if it wasn’t necessary.
One time when he was dropping me off at my hotel, this unassuming movie star pulled out a $100 bill and handed it to me. He didn’t say anything, just gave it to me. I was still struggling to get by, because the meager advance from the record label was just enough to cover basic living costs, so when I traveled, I had little money left over for eating at restaurants, taking cabs, and so forth. I didn’t say anything to Sean about my dire financial straits; I guess he just sensed it and felt sorry for me.
I was embarrassed to receive a handout like that. “Thank you,” I stammered as I moved away from the Mustang. “I promise I’ll pay you back.” I never did do that, so I’ll have to make a point of doing it now. Sean may not even remember, but I do, and I thought it was very kind of him. To me, Sean came across as someone who cared about the underdog. It seemed that he listened more than he spoke but was not afraid to speak his mind. A real straight shooter.
18
Meeting Mutt
Shortly before the Triple Play tour ended, my manager, Mary Bailey, asked me if I’d ever heard of anyone named Mutt Lange. I hadn’t but thought, What an interesting name.
“He’s a record producer,” said Mary, who had also never heard of him. “He’s got your CD and asked if you’d sign a photo for him.”
I did, only I spelled his name “Mut,” with one t instead of two. Years later, he showed it to me, and we both had a good laugh. It was probably the first genuine “fan” autograph I’d ever signed, since all the others I’d autographed up to that point were on the coattails of Toby Keith!
Mutt initiated our first phone conversation through Mary, and the communication between us evolved quickly after that, with calls that would last for hours on end. I was now on my own but still touring in small country music bars across the States, singing “What Made You Say That,” “Dance with the One That Brought You,” and one or two other cuts from my debut CD. I wasn’t out with a backup band, though: that would come a bit later into the release of the album, where I tried to generate some money by live club performances with a small group of musicians. The purpose of this particular road trip was primarily to meet and greet disc jockeys and do radio interviews during the day, then put on these abbreviated performances at night. With Shania Twain selling only modestly, PolyGram was not about to spring for supporting musicians and all the infrastructure that goes into mounting a full-scale tour, during a purely promotional tour. So, much to my chagrin, I had to stand onstage and sing along live to my own CD. That’s right: Shania Twain was singing karaoke to Shania Twain. No band, no vibe, just me holding a live mic, standing in a spotlight. It was downright embarrassing.
Although it was humiliating, the way I had to look at it was that I was involved in a fight to keep that first single afloat as long as possible while the fate of my recording future with PolyGram was surely being questioned with each passing week. Would I get a shot at a second single? There was no certainty. Even though Sean Penn directing the video for my second single gave me hope of having better success at radio and more security with my record company, the song just wasn’t strong enough for that to happen. I was encouraged that Sean considered me and my music worth his while, but I didn’t have the song that would make the most of that break.
Afterward, I would return to my run-down hotel room around midnight and get on the phone with
Mutt, who was in his studio just outside of London. Talking to him cheered me up, since he seemed to speak my language musically, only with the added charm of a South African–British hybrid accent. He sounded mature, and I guessed he was older than me. Over time, I developed a mental picture of what he must look like: a tall, pudgy man in his fifties, wearing a floral shirt, balding in front but with long, black-silver hair tied back in a ponytail. I have no idea how this image found its way into my head.
Our hours together were spent mostly talking and playing music. He’d either call me directly in my room or leave me a message to call him when I got in, then he’d immediately tell me to hang up, that he’d call me right back so I didn’t have to pay for the calls. He knew I couldn’t afford it and was considerate that way. He was working on a couple of original tracks at the time and would play me bits and pieces. Then it would be my turn to prop up the phone receiver on a pillow, pull out my guitar, and play Mutt some songs I was working on. He was very complimentary about my ideas and my voice, and it was refreshing to have someone so musical sincerely interested in me as an artist. Although he was born in Rhodesia (now Zambia), attended school in South Africa, then moved to England in his twenties, he had always been a big fan of American country music.
The first time Mutt played me what he was working on in the studio, I almost fell out of my chair. The sound was so outstanding. I was blown away by it sonically, the arrangement, and the whole gorgeous wall of sound pouring through the receiver. It was hard for me to hold in my excitement as I heard this incredible music. I remember thinking, quite naïvely, This guy is really good! This stuff’s going to be big! I may even have made a fool of myself by saying something stupid like that to him.
