From This Moment On

by Shania Twain

  “Personally, I like the idea,” said Luke. “A lot.” Frankly, I could not imagine anyone offering a logical objection. Just look at all the popular songs that bore Mutt’s name. Not only that, but in spite of his rock ’n’ roll pedigree, the man was a lifelong fan of country music. And besides, wasn’t a great song a great song, period, whatever the style? But then, record companies make illogical decisions all the time.

  I was quick to phone Mutt to fill him in on the good news that Luke was on board. This was going to be a very controversial approach to making a record for a Nashville record company, and we were bracing ourselves for what was next, but with Luke behind us, we hoped Mercury Nashville might favor the collaboration and not kick me out of town.

  We gained a second ally at the label when I played rough sketches of the songs to A&R man Buddy Cannon, who was known to have some of the best ears in the business, as they say, meaning that he knew a hit song when he heard it. Although I think he was surprised by my new direction, Buddy knew it was special and powerful. Norro also had a listen, and he perked up along with Buddy in his reaction. But I’m still not sure what was going through their heads, to be honest. I could tell they were caught off guard by something that sounded so different from anything else coming out of Nashville, but they seemed sincere about their support regarding the quality of the arrangements and the strength of the songs. My sense was that they had mixed feelings about their personal taste toward the music, but were experienced enough professionals to understand that it was special and powerful. At least, that’s how I read their perception.

  Overall, I felt that both Norro and Buddy supported what Mutt and I had done. I was over the moon to have them on our side, and I realized that it was especially important to have Buddy’s support, as he was part of the label team. It meant a lot to me personally, too, as Buddy was also one of the sweetest people I’d ever met. He was so good to me when I first came to Nashville, treating me like a daughter. I used to go to his house for his lovely wife Billy’s amazing Southern cooking. Afterward, out would come the guitars: me, Billy, and his girls tightly weaving our voices together on bluegrass tunes, playing, laughing, and just having a great time. I loved these blissful moments with the Cannons. My parents had been gone for seven years already, so I relished the comforting feeling of being part of a family again, with parents, kids, warmth, security, and sincerity. I will be forever grateful to have been invited into the Cannons’ hearts and home. Their generosity and kindness were fulfilling, with me being so far from my Canadian life. The fact that their family was so musical reminded me of the times I’d sat with Kenny and Carrie in our family home as small children, singing in harmony.

  From 1991 to 1993, the stage between my showcase at Deerhurst and the first signs that real success in the music industry was just around the corner was pretty quick. I was lucky to get the succession of breaks that kept the steady climb rolling: the signing itself; Luke giving me another chance for a second album; Mutt discovering my writing ability; me not being kicked out of “country music” despite the obviously controversial news that Mutt Lange had not only cowritten my next album but had also produced it; and Luke putting his neck out to take the chance with it, as I think we were all pretty nervous about how radio was going to react. I’m not saying it was easy, but other than the temporary financial strain and overall adjustment to the recording industry during those two years, the struggle at that point was relatively manageable.

  The two years between signing my deal and the promise of success actually seem short to me now in relative terms compared to the fourteen years that would follow. The next fourteen years would pose many more challenges and struggles than the first two did. It was with success that I would work the hardest and sacrifice the most. The transition between pre–record contract and the release of The Woman in Me was intense, and emotionally it was challenging as well. Too much was new, and as natural as it was for me to grow with the new life that was before me as a recording artist in America, I was sad to leave Canada on what I knew would now be a more permanent basis.

  Mutt was now gearing up to produce the next album, and Luke Lewis was all for it, although he was still getting resistance from his team at the label and was concerned about the budget Mutt was proposing to make it. That record really happened largely because Mutt agreed to absorb much of the cost himself. It has been well documented that Mutt is a legendary perfectionist in the studio, but I see him rather as a man with a deep passion for the quality of his work, and my record would be no exception. He insisted on having the freedom to take whatever time he needed to make the music we both wanted to make, without having to be constrained by someone else’s budget. He had a lot of faith in what we were doing and put his money where his mouth was. He also put a ring on my finger.

  Marriage came on suddenly for us, to say the least, with Mutt and I saying “I do” only six months after we met. I had been in a couple of long-term relationships, especially with Paul, but had never felt like I was truly ready to get married. So I wasn’t prepared for the powerful feelings that would take hold of my heart in such a short time. I think the same was true for Mutt, who was seventeen years older than me and had been married twice before. We were both sure of what we wanted, and that was a lifetime commitment to each other.

  We were married on December 28, 1993, at Deerhurst Resort, for the convenience and proximity to my family and the familiarity of the place, which made a short-notice wedding easier to pull together. It was forty-one degrees below zero, yet there was no wind; it was sunny and bright, a dream winter wedding. I remember my wedding day as being the happiest day of my life. I giggled like a little girl all the way down the aisle. It was small and intimate, a beautiful start to our lives together. We were happy and sincere about the vows we’d written ourselves for each other. We chose our wedding song together, “Let It Be Me” by the Everly Brothers, my mother’s favorite vocal duo. It went, “I bless the day I found you.” My mother’s only sibling, my uncle Don, walked me down the aisle to give me away. We had a few immediate family members in attendance from both sides of our families: the Twains drove up from Timmins and the Langes flew in from South Africa.

  Mutt and I honeymooned on the Caribbean island of Anguilla, which was a great escape from the January cold of Canada. I was in heaven, especially because this was my first trip to that part of the world and couldn’t have been more perfect as a romantic dream of a bride. I was very inspired for songwriting by the incredible atmosphere of sun, sand, and crystal-clear waters. We affectionately called ourselves a two-guitar family, as we brought two guitars with us no matter where we traveled together. Two guitars were necessary while songwriting, and we found it frustrating having to pass one guitar back and forth all the time. Marriage was so new then, and I enjoyed the novelty of being referred to as a “family.” That unity was so meaningful to me in that sense that I took Lange as my new family name and left Twain now only as my professional identity.

  A follow-up trip to our honeymoon brought us back to the sun and sand of the Caribbean to continue finalizing the songwriting tweaks on our song list for The Woman in Me. One of my more vivid recollections of songwriting during our honeymoon is of “(If You’re Not in It for Love) I’m Outta Here!”—a warning to pickup artists everywhere, set to a pulsing rock beat, and embroidered with slinky slide guitar. This song would be a country radio number one.

  20

  The Woman in MeSucceeds

  With all the songwriting finished, it was time to start making the actual record. Mutt suggested we bring the production to a certain point before playing it for anyone at Mercury Nashville. Mutt was right about putting the stamp of our musical direction on it before opening it up for discussion to any possible naysayers or conservative attitudes that would take the wind out of our sails. I could see very clearly, from where I was standing as the artist, that Mutt did not need any influence or guidance on what kind of record to be making for me.

  Listening sess
ions with label personnel during various points of a recording process were common then, in order to make sure they felt the record fit within some kind of acceptable margin that worked for the genre. That kind of artistic constraint was exactly what Mutt and I were trying to avoid. I was not experienced in the world of making records, but I was so in sync with Mutt’s conviction not to necessarily make a genre-specific record, but to make a great record, period. Our idea was to create something unique, unlike anything else; something that would stand the test of time, groundbreaking music the listeners would turn their heads to when they heard it for the first time. This was Mutt’s way of looking at making a record, and it rubbed off on me. The personal conviction it took to stand behind your own creative ideas took guts. I never witnessed Mutt wavering from outside pressure, and I admired this. I felt protected as an artist that my producer was going to make sure my record was the best it could be before anyone else got his hands on it.

  It was only when we were in the final stage of mixing the tracks that we invited department heads from the label—eight altogether—to meet us at Morin Heights Studio, located just north of Montreal, for their first listening session.

  Mutt set up a playback session, and from what I recall, it was outside the control room where everyone could fit around the sound system. I do remember, however, that the reaction was mixed. Mostly that it wasn’t country enough or at least not familiar enough to what they were used to hearing. But even those who had reservations about the music acknowledged that we had achieved something new, different. In fact, that’s the trouble some of them had with it: it sounded too different. That’s all we needed to hear. We didn’t need approval in regards to the standard of the record we had. I already had total confidence in Mutt as the producer, he had the same confidence in me as the artist, and we both believed in the songs. We were more concerned that the execs got what we were doing than with whether or not they liked it. Most important, the music provoked a big reaction, with lots of discussions taking place in the days that followed.

  I personally loved my/our new album. This was a teamwork project between Mutt and me, and it feels awkward to say it was “my” record. Although I was the artist, Mutt was a very involved producer and cowriter and I saw the record as a team effort. I was excited about how it sounded so bold and dynamic and, as a style, almost unidentifiable. Mutt’s own voice was layered in the background as backing vocals, with the unexpected arrangement blends of fiddles backdropped by concussive kick and snare drums, and steel guitars intertwined with the range and sexiness of distorted rock guitars. All this contrast was exhilarating, and sometimes I didn’t know where to listen. It was as if I could almost watch the sounds and effects coming out of nowhere from all directions, similar to 3-D visual animation, only sonic.

  As high as my opinion of the record was, and I think Mutt’s belief in it was also very strong, no one could have guessed what the radio and public reaction would be. With Mutt’s years of experience in the industry, he especially held no illusions of how impossible it could be to assume what would or would not fly, reminding me regularly that there were no guarantees of success, no matter how great a record might be. I think we were all pretty nervous about how country radio station programmers were going to react to the less overtly “country” sound, and we didn’t want to assume anything either way. Not that I was asking to become a controversial artist among country music purists, but my perception of contemporary country music at the time was that it defined itself too narrowly—which would explain all those near identical songs pitched to me during the search for material for my very first record, which I did my best to avoid writing and had no interest in recording. My version of country music, with Mutt’s personal stamp on the arrangement and sound, was the new album. Accepted or not by the industry, Mutt had produced a record I was proud of.

  In the end, Luke Lewis stuck his neck out and decided to take a chance on The Woman in Me, regardless of the reservations or the concerns of others. In fact, he was more optimistic about its reception than I was. I can remember sitting in his office in late 1994, just before the album’s release, and a bunch of people from the label were playing at guessing how many copies it would sell. At that time I didn’t actually have a number in my head. I wasn’t even thinking numbers yet. Later, although it was still in the earlier stages of the album’s release (though it was showing exciting possibilities of being a big seller), Luke phoned me at home in upstate New York from his office in Nashville to share his anticipation of the record’s realistic potential. He wanted me to take a guess at what I thought it might climb to in sales.

  “Well, I know that Reba McEntire’s last record sold three million copies; I would love to equal that.” Come to think of it, I really didn’t answer his question, did I? I was just daydreaming aloud about how many albums I imagined it could sell; I honestly did not think it could even approach such a huge number of three million, as that was giant for a female at the time and fifteen years later was still a big number. So I was pleasantly surprised when Luke said, as I imagined him shaking his head on the other end of the line, “I think you’re aiming too low.”

  Whether we did or did not achieve platinum sales, or even gold-record sales of a half million, clearly my career was moving into a new phase.

  Luke was open to new ideas and to going outside the box on all levels, giving me a lot of freedom with the art direction with The Woman in Me. My manager, Mary, felt brave and thought she’d approach someone completely out of the scene to take the photographs for the album cover. She asked John Derek if he was interested, and although he wasn’t, his wife, Bo, took it upon herself to respond with a yes, and John reluctantly went along with it. John Derek was an actor, director, and photographer, well known especially for photographs of his gorgeous and famous wives, Ursula Andress, Linda Evans, and Bo Derek. He himself was a very handsome man, and although there was a thirty-year age difference between him and Bo, I thought they looked good together. Bo was stunning in every light and John, although in his late sixties when I met him, had aged well and was still very attractive. I was too young to have known of John Derek and his fame, but I knew Bo as the perfect ten on every man’s scale of female perfection, most famous from her starring role in the movie 10. Bo lived up to her movie-star, sex-symbol beauty in person. It was hard for me not to stare at her, in fact. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone so pretty in real life before.

  When I arrived at John and Bo’s ranch in Santa Ynez, California, they explained in a very frank and forward manner that they didn’t normally do this sort of thing—that is, take pictures of other people. John warned me that part of the reason he no longer bothered to photograph any women other than his wife, Bo, was because no other woman could tolerate his severe honesty. I personally also got the feeling that he genuinely felt that there was no one more naturally beautiful who was worth photographing.

  John continued with an example of how he would express this honesty by telling me that I was overweight and that he didn’t like my crooked nose. Compared to Bo, I was overweight at 115 pounds and, yes, my nose is crooked, so he was right. It didn’t bother me to hear things I already knew, and I didn’t see any reason why that would make me not want to work with him. He went on to tell me that the last time Raquel Welch tried to get him to photograph her, she ran off crying. I believed this was probably true as, for one, he didn’t seem like the type of guy who would bother bullshitting me, and two, most girls are sensitive to criticism, even if constructive, regarding their appearance.

  Thinking maybe John misunderstood the intentions behind me wanting him to take my photos, I explained to both John and Bo that I wasn’t there to be photographed as a model, movie starlet, or sex symbol. I was none of those things, and I knew it. I was there simply as a recording artist needing photos for my album cover and promotion. I wasn’t selling my beauty, I was selling my music, and I needed some visual artwork for the packaging. I went on to say that if he made me look as good as
I was capable of looking, that I would be satisfied, as long as he was willing to work with my looks, since it was clear they didn’t meet his standard of beauty. I was a pretty straight shooter, and I think he appreciated that I could be as frank with him as he was with me. It was actually refreshing and appealed to my Northern Canadian lack of political correctness, which I was being told I needed to temper if I wanted to make it in country, but which John and Bo didn’t seem to mind.

  In our first shoot together, it took no time for John’s character to become full blown. One particular shot got John very frustrated, as my nose was posing all kinds of beauty issues for him. He started cursing and swearing about it as if it were a person itself, like me, the person, didn’t actually belong to it. He finally piped up to say something to the effect of, “Someone give me a goddamn knife so I can cut off that nose.” Although not okay with him cutting off my nose, I was fine with the fact that he wished he could, and we just carried on shooting.

  It was humbling to me that the real beauty, Bo, followed me around with light reflectors, trying to flatter me with the best light possible, while John snapped the photos. The photo of me in the water was actually done in their personal swimming pool, and the water was chilly. After an hour in cool water, it gets uncomfortable, but Bo was right in there with me, holding her reflector, taking orders from John. The pink hat I wore was hers, and she’d pulled it out as a prop since the wet hair wasn’t flattering me so much. This photo is on the album cover of The Woman in Me and is one of my favorites.

  We would work together on two more projects: the “Any Man of Mine” and “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under” videos. Bo took photos as well, which we used for a few things. She had a great feel for candid shots.