From This Moment On

by Shania Twain

  I loved working with John and greatly respected and admired him very much. Both he and Bo were incredibly professional in their commitment to the work and took it all very seriously. I appreciated this, and it made me want to keep up and do as good a job as I could possibly do. They made me want to work for the best results. I matured a lot working with them, and I believe by being in their company so early in my career, I learned a great deal about my face, lighting, shooting, filming, and, maybe most of all, about tolerance and teamwork.

  They also had a team that set a good example for me in this early time when I still had everything to learn about being filmed. I saw Bo and John as real partners, and Kerry, Bo’s sister, was John’s assistant photographer. Bo’s mother did hair and makeup, and Ramon, who was their personal horse trainer, was the guy who rolled up his sleeves to do whatever had to be done. This was a close-knit group, a team.

  I have always been incredibly impatient when it comes to waiting for something I can’t do myself but wish so badly I could. To me, John also seemed impatient in a similar way, only he was a man of more experience who knew what he was after, with a strong intent to get it. Creatively, this is a very important strength to have if you expect to actually make your vision materialize. If you are leading the show, you have to be able to direct clearly with no wishy-washy fussing around. If you have capable people around you, there is a better chance of getting what you want from them if you know what it is you want yourself. John and I both knew what we wanted; however, it wasn’t always the same thing. One afternoon in the middle of the “Any Man of Mine” video shoot, John kept directing me to do something, and I kept reminding him how I wanted it instead. He’d then tell me again what he wanted, and I would again remind him that wasn’t the way I wanted to do it. So John came out from behind the camera, walking straight up to my face and telling me, “Look, sometimes I can be an asshole—” but before he could finish explaining that as a self-proclaimed “asshole,” he insist I do it his way, I cut in, took his face in my two hands, and eye to eye said, “Right now, you are an asshole.” I calmly but surely spoke my mind, and without letting on outside our nose-to-nose discussion, he let it go, and we carried on with the shoot. He respected my stance, and there was not another word said.

  Unfortunately, it’s a familiar story in the music industry that once promising young artists reach a certain level—typically when they’re on the brink of stardom—the manager or management team that worked so hard to get them there no longer has the expertise and influence necessary to navigate the unfamiliar waters up ahead. The stakes become much higher than before, and the learning curve can prove too steep for the manager who excels at guiding artists through the early stages of their careers to follow through with the demands of this new environment. This was not the immediate case with me and Mary, however, as we found ourselves still together as Mercury Nashville was readying my second album for release. I also felt a loyalty to her, as our relationship transcended business. Although she had officially represented me since 1991, I had known her for years through her friendship with my mother. I think we both felt a lot of pride that the two of us—a couple of small-town girls from Canada—had made the bold, brave leap to Music City together. It definitely took some courage and a lot of faith.

  I was forever indebted to Mary, and to her husband, Bob, who had generously advanced us some money to get through the tightest of spots until I was able to pay him back. Mary’s faith in me was unconditional, but neither she nor anyone around us could possibly have known that day was just around the corner.

  Eventually having to end our professional relationship was painful for both of us. Mary was like family to me. She also represented a connection to my mother, which made our bond all the more personal. I am happy to say that over time, we renewed our friendship beyond our professional association, and Mary remains a very precious friend to me today. At the time, however, the thought of carrying on without her by my side was scary. It dredged up feelings similar to when my relationship with Paul ended, and I felt a separation anxiety come over me, like I was leaving a part of myself behind.

  Before even the first single was released from The Woman in Me, I set out on a tour to introduce the new music to radio. Prior to asking anyone to actually put it on the air, I sat with programmers in a listening session, just for the sake of letting them sample what we had. Some stations were open enough to just put me on the air in a live interview and even play one of the songs. I was out there representing the new music in what felt like the front line, while Mutt and the label waited patiently for reports of how it was going at the end of each day. I was meeting all hours of the day with radio programmers, one after the other, who in some cases didn’t even want to listen to the music due to Mutt’s involvement, and others who were big rock fans who’d spun many of the AC/DC and Def Leppard records in the past at previous stations, so they welcomed me with open arms.

  It was a hot and cold experience with a bit of warm here and there. There was nothing certain about how things would go from that promotional period pre–single release. It was exhausting sustaining my energy and heart through the love/hate responses to the new record, and it was getting under my skin that industry institutions were even able to stand between an artist and the public, as time went on and the resistance grew. With the Internet not yet part of public mainstream media, radio was largely able to control what their local listeners heard. This type of monopoly could kill a record, if that was the desired effect. Instead of being dictated to, I felt strongly that the public should be able to decide for themselves what they do and don’t want to listen to.

  “Any Man of Mine” was the one song off the album that I was most anxious to play to radio during the promotional touring period, and it was equally the one I was most concerned they would reject me for, due to its radical twist of rock and country combined. During The Woman in Me’s introductory tour, I primarily played a choice of three songs for the programmers, “Any Man of Mine,” “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” and “(If You’re Not in It for Love) I’m Outta Here!” If they were responding well, I’d play “You Win My Love” and “The Woman in Me.”

  My choice for the first single of the album was “Any Man of Mine,” but it was true that programmers were showing mixed reactions to it, and the record company felt safer going with the more country-flavored “Boots.” I wanted to hit them between the eyes with the true blend of genres that I felt best represented who I really was, the variety of childhood musical influences that had shaped my personal taste as a singer-songwriter. I agree now, though, that it was probably best to warm up with “Boots,” so if the public liked what they heard and wanted more, we’d have less risk of losing “Any Man’s” chance to reach its full potential. This was a very exciting time for everyone involved, as we could feel the friction behind the scenes, yet a positive, buzz-like commotion at the same time. It made it hard to make decisions about the release order of the singles, as it was too early and all we had to go on was radio, and it was like they were almost divided and confused as a whole.

  As 1994 turned into 1995, Mutt and I celebrated three times within five days, beginning with our first wedding anniversary on December 28. We’d moved onto a private lake property in the area of Saint Regis Falls, New York, where the snow was plentiful throughout the holidays. Two days into the New Year, PolyGram released the advance single from The Woman in Me, one of the more straight-ahead, you-been-cheatin’ kind of numbers, “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” It was one of the real country-sounding songs on the CD, although still pumped with Mutt’s signature layering and power production.

  “Boots,” as I always refer to it, had come to me during my time in the bush cabin by the river. Like ten of the album’s twelve songs, it was credited to Shania Twain and Robert John “Mutt” Lange; the other two were solo compositions from each of us. What a contrast to my first album, which contained only one original, and an outside collaborative effort at tha
t. Mutt had liberated the songwriter and recording artist I truly was, and I could not have been more satisfied.

  “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?” would spend a total of seven months atop the Billboard country charts. But not right away. In fact, sales were modest at first. “Boots” looked like it would stall several times as the resistance from industry gatekeepers, who complained that the music was too “out there” and that I didn’t belong in country, was managing to block the connection between artist and public. The listeners weren’t hearing me because much of radio wouldn’t play me. This is where radio programmers and consultants make choices for the public: they decide what they hear and take the decision away from the listener, not exposing them enough to form opinions and demands of their own. The democracy is killed, and the choice becomes industry-based and no longer the people’s. I was frustrated and surprised by the lack of control the listener had.

  I don’t believe stations that refused to play my record were so much resistant to me personally, but more to changes in the style of country music they preferred. This new sound that was so different just seemed plain weird to them, and I heard comments to that effect quite regularly. I was hurt by these opinions, taking them personally. It offended me that they were insulting my music and trying to prevent it from reaching the ears of the listeners, the ones I was actually making the music for in the first place. I felt vulnerable by this lack of access to the people, and it made me feel disconnected from the purpose behind being an artist. There were genuine efforts to stomp out “Boots,” and although they successfully did some damage to the song’s momentum, in April it made it up to number eleven, giving me my first Top 20 hit. It wasn’t a number one, or even Top 10, but “Boots” at least managed to reach enough of the public for the album to show signs of kicking into another gear. But much patience was required of me still, as my one-step-at-a-time climb in the recording industry continued.

  On the heels of “Boots” (sorry—couldn’t resist), we released “any Man of Mine.” This was my favorite up-tempo single off the album, a song you might consider as having a split personality. It was especially magical watching this one come together in the studio. As much as I loved Mutt as my husband, it’s possible I admired him even more for the unique way his musical mind worked. I cannot claim to know how it worked, or how he came up with these unusual ideas; all I can tell you is that it amazed me, and things that sounded like they weren’t going to belong all came together in the end to create hit music. But it didn’t just happen “like that”—Mutt worked long and hard, painstakingly developing every single second of sound. It’s just that it wasn’t always obvious where it was going until it pulled together as a unified piece of work. It was as though the only person who really had the whole thing in his head all at one time was Mutt. With “Any Man of Mine,” I witnessed as Mutt combined traditional country instruments with anthemic stadium-rock sounds. Raspy, throaty vocals punctuated my own vocal phrasing, and the switch from a groove reminiscent of Queen’s “We Will Rock You” to the foot-stompin’ Western-style chorus, which almost sounded like it came from another song, totally worked. This contrasting arrangement of styles Mutt pulled together made me crazy with curiosity to see how the listeners were going to react the first time they heard it. I was crawling out of my skin with excitement to share it.

  In July 1995 “Any Man of Mine” went to number one on Billboard’s country singles sales chart, spending ten weeks up there. It was the first number one single on that chart by a non-American since Anne Murray’s “Now and Forever” in 1986 and was my first Top 40 crossover hit on the pop charts.

  21

  The Flip Side of Fame

  Mountain climbers will tell you that the most grueling and dangerous part of their sport starts the moment they set foot on the summit. It’s not unlike having your first hit record. In both cases, the ascent is physically and emotionally exhausting. You make it to the top, and your first reaction is more relief than jubilation, followed by the thought Okay, now what am I going to do? Chances are that you haven’t given it much thought; people usually dream of reaching the top of Mount Everest, not navigating the descent. Consequently, the majority of serious accidents occur on the way down. Unlike for climbing athletes, however, the idea for at least a good number of entertainers once they get there is to stay there.

  July 22, 1995, marked a career pinnacle for me when The Woman in Me and “Any Man of Mine” both went to number one. It was the culmination of two solid years of work, starting when Mutt and I began collaborating on songs for the album. And the groundwork for all of it, really, goes back to my preteen years, when I would slip into the woods near our house in Hanmer and sit writing songs on my guitar—not that I ever foresaw selling millions of records one day.

  At least when a mountain climber scales a peak, he gets to take a nice, long break afterward. To continue the music-industry-as-mountain analogy for a moment, in the music business, you expend just as much effort, if not more, to stay on top.

  “Any Man of Mine” was the second single from the album. Everyone involved believed so strongly in the quality of the material that as many as eleven singles were planned. That is a lot, even in the country music field, which differs from rock ’n’ roll in that the hit 45—or, nowadays, digital file—still drives album sales. It’s very much a throwback to the 1950s and 1960s, when recording artists routinely put out five or six singles per year: from Elvis Presley and Ricky Nelson, to the Rolling Stones and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Back then, the LP was practically an afterthought, released to provide an artist’s fans one disc containing the two or three hit singles they probably already owned. Except for the Beatles, Bob Dylan, and a few other monumentally talented performers, sandwiched between the hits was mostly filler, consisting of pedestrian cover versions and maybe the artist’s second-rate originals. But starting in the late 1960s, following landmark albums such as the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde, the LP began to take precedence over the 45—especially now that there were new rock radio stations on the FM band willing to play album cuts and not just the Top 40 hits that dominated AM music radio. The shift never came to country music, however, which still prizes the hit single.

  In August, while “Any Man of Mine” was still riding high on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart, Mercury Nashville put out the lush ballad “The Woman in Me (Needs the Man in You).” It became my third Top 20 hit in a row. The next three singles, issued like clockwork every three or four months, all went to number one: “(If You’re Not in It for Love) I’m Outta Here!,” “You Win My Love,” and “No One Needs to Know.” And there were two more minor hits to follow: “Home Ain’t Where His Heart Is (Anymore)” and “God Bless the Child.” Eight singles in all. This took us to January 1997, exactly two years since we had all kept our fingers crossed when the label launched “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?”

  Traditionally, an artist promotes her new recording by going on tour. I chose not to, passing up millions of dollars in the process. But I looked at it this way: The Woman in Me was only my second album, and, as you know, I was less than enthused by the material on my debut. So how was I going to entertain people for an hour and a half to two hours? Play my handful of original hits and lots of other people’s songs? Tell jokes and juggle between tunes? I’d seen other new artists hit the road too soon, to strike while the proverbial iron was hot, and I squirmed in my seat watching them try to fill in and repeat their one or two hits at the end of the performance, in an attempt to redeem their credibility to go from being a cover tune act to being the original artist they wanted to be. That wasn’t for me. It would have felt too much like my days playing the bar circuit in Northern Ontario, only with much nicer outfits, superior lighting, and a more attentive (and sober, I’d hope) audience.

  I was now beginning to enjoy performing live, a long way from peeing my pants at age sixteen, but at this early stage of my recording career, I felt t
hat my time could be better spent promoting the music I believed in so strongly. And, I was already looking ahead to the next album. Being on tour leaves precious little room in your schedule for sitting down to write. Many new artists fall into this trap. They’re lucky enough to have a hit album, and so they spend the following year on the road. I’ve heard many a co-artist complain that when they finally return home, fatigued and half crazed, the record company, eager for a follow-up, strong-arms them right into the studio. Except that they don’t have enough first-rate material. (And after a year of largely being confined to a tour bus and hotel rooms, the last thing they want is to be cooped up in the recording studio for the near future.)

  It’s well known in the music business that artists have an entire lifetime to write their first album, but less than a year to write their second. So what do you do? Hastily knock out some new tunes, like a teenager who’s put off writing his English paper until the night before it’s due? We all remember how well that usually turns out. Or you salvage scraps of what you wrote while on tour, which rarely yield any treasures, because it is hard to feel inspired when you’re doing the same thing day in and day out. It’s why so many new acts’ second CDs meet with the so-called sophomore jinx. There is no jinx, of course, just a bunch of half-baked songs that probably needed more time and a clear head to develop.

  I chose a different route for bringing The Woman in Me to public attention: an intense promotional blitz encompassing music videos; media interviews for radio, TV, and the press; photo shoots; and one-off performances like morning television (Good Morning America, for example) or entertainment talk shows such as David Letterman’s. Eating up a lot of my time in the schedule was also my hands-on involvement with the art direction of photos, videos, and staging for live performances on both the production side and the performance side. I was constantly working directly with producers and designers for everything I did. I started editing my own videos, right from the beginning, which is a time-consuming, painstakingly tedious job. I was energized being on the production side of my projects, but it was also exhausting playing so many roles at once.