From This Moment On

by Shania Twain

  I perked right up. “Can I come with you?!” You’d have thought she’d said, “I’m taking the Concorde to Paris to go shopping on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, and all the stores there are having a hundred-percent-off sale.” We had not gotten to know each other well yet; she probably found my enthusiastic request off, if not just plain sad. But she came around the next afternoon in her beat-up truck. “Excuse my rattletrap,” she said apologetically. Are you kidding? I grew up riding around in rattletraps. I had a great time hanging out with Kim that Saturday doing something that I am sure most people would file under “drudgery.”

  There was one activity around Loon Echo that I could call my own: tending the horses. I had wanted to own horses ever since I was twelve years old and caring for my friend Sue’s palomino, Angel, when we lived in Hanmer. Now that I finally had the money and a little time between albums, I rewarded myself by purchasing five of these noble and proud creatures. I love everything about horses: their power and grace, the balance and weightless motion of their massive, athletic frame, their elegant silhouette, the energy and fiery passion that flows through their veins, the way they carry themselves with breathtaking beauty. I am in awe of them. How could such a powerful animal possess so generous a temperament as to carry man obediently and thoughtfully through the ages?

  I visited several farms in the Nashville area looking for my equestrian friends. Once they finally arrived at Loon Echo, I spent every chance I could with them. The barn became a refuge where I could mentally escape show business. The smells of the sweet hay and the animals’ musty coats, the clip-clop of their hooves on the wood floors, their snorting sighs of contentment—I loved it all. Every now and then, I would have what I called “salon day.” One at a time, I would pamper them with a deep clean while grooving to the radio. Suds and conditioners, finely combed manes and tails, sleek ’n’ shiny coats, dressed hooves, lots of hugs and kisses, and they were ready to roll out in the paddock. Horses never stay clean if you let them have any fun outside, just being horses. The point of the salon days was more the hands-on contact and communication that keeps their manners and patience in line while standing tied and being handled. It was a chance to check closely for cuts and bruises and just give them a good once-over from head to toe.

  I even enjoyed mucking out their stalls; there is something very satisfying about leaving your friend’s bed clean and ready for a good night’s rest. I took pride in my horses’ health and happiness. Just as they depended on me, I looked to them to listen to me when I was sad and to teach me patience; act impulsively around horses, and you’ll most likely get hurt. Horses demand respectful, calm, and gentle handling if you expect them to be respectful, calm, and gentle in return. A horse that does not behave is dangerous, because if her will is not in sync with yours, she’ll likely overpower you and either injure or kill you. One kick’ll do it, in fact. So being around the horses was always humbling. I hugged them often and took comfort in their willingness to let me, and when they had the chance to just walk away and didn’t, I knew I had a friend.

  In winter, my favorite time of day with them was the dinner feed, around five o’clock, when it was already dark. I would go out to the stable and fill up the hand wagon with enough hay for all five of them. Then I’d line up their piles on the snow, making sure to place them far enough apart so that they would eat in peace and not spend the time scowling at one another and posturing with their ears back to defend their grub. There is something so peaceful about watching a horse eat. All bundled up, I would plunk myself down in the deep snow and sink into a perfect, soft, custom-contoured chair. I felt warm and cozy in the silent night, staring up at the stars and just listening to them chew contentedly. It was magical. Later in the evening, I would come back out to put them in for the night and give them their grain.

  I loved each horse in a unique way, but one was particularly special to me: Dancer, an eleven-year-old Andalusian gelding with a kind face and an all-white coat that made him resemble a unicorn. I first discovered this Spanish breed at John and Bo Derek’s ranch when we were shooting photos for the album cover of The Woman in Me. They were breeding Andalusians at the time. I fell instantly in love with the horses’ arched necks, bold and confident characters, and consistent temperaments. That was in 1994.

  Three years later, the Dereks’ horse trainer, Ramon Becerra, the same guy who trained the spotted horse you see me riding on the back cover of The Woman in Me CD, was passing through upstate New York with his traveling horse show. He asked if he could stop off at my stable so that his ten horses could graze and rest a few days. I was thrilled at the prospect of having horse company and having a riding partner for a few days.

  I learned a lot from Ramon. His life is training horses, and he’s particularly specialized in working with classical riding, the type you see at the world-famous Spanish riding school in Vienna, Austria. Dancer was an Andalusian, a Spanish breed of Iberian horse. Dancer’s training was extensive in haute école movements of classical dressage. Ramon also taught Dancer to stretch out low to the ground so the rider could mount easily. He could also bow with one knee to the ground and tilt his head down as if to tip his hat. This was one fancy horse.

  Ramon and I went riding the horse trails on our property. He was on Dancer, whom I’d remembered seeing while touring John and Bo’s stable. “Would you like to try riding him?” he asked me. To be honest, I was afraid to. The gelding was impressive but intimidating, with a bit of an attitude around the other horses. He moved purposefully—veins popping, nostrils flaring, mouth frothing—his powerful legs pounding the ground.

  “Uh-uh,” I told Ramon. “This is too much horse for me.”

  “No, you can handle him,” he insisted. Just then, we came up to a wide puddle across the trail. Dancer refused to go through it, forcing Ramon to work hard to get him to move. The stubborn horse dodged side to side, then got up on his hind legs and pawed at the air, vigorously shaking his head as if to say “No way!” The corners of his mouth became red and raw from the pressure of the bit. All this over a puddle.

  At last, Dancer tentatively set one hoof in the muddy water, then quickly yanked it back. It occurred to me that this handsome white horse didn’t want to get his pearly white socks dirty! The only way he would cross the puddle was to tiptoe through quickly, like a firewalker on a bed of hot coals. He looked so prissy, I could not help but laugh, and at that moment, I fell in love with Dancer. So he did have a vulnerable side.

  I told Ramon that I was interested in buying the horse and asked if he could leave Dancer with me for a couple of weeks, to see if we got along. If things did not work out, in two weeks the trainer would pick him up on his way back home to California.

  We did not get off to a smashing start. Dancer was hostile toward the other horses, so I had to keep him in his own paddock. He could see the other horses, though, and became agitated. I figured he would gradually calm down and left him for a few hours. When I walked back to check on him, I could see from a distance that was wrong: Dancer’s neck and shoulder area were red with blood. Horrified, I ran to him as fast as I could and inspected him. Apparently, the horse had been running back and forth along the fence and cut himself on one of the post edges. Blood still seeped from a foot-long gash that ran diagonal across the front of his neck. Despite my state of panic, I put his halter on him and led him quickly back to the stable, shaking the whole way. Thankfully, the vet was able to close the wound using two layers of stitches, which, miraculously, left Dancer with only a hairline scar. The cut had been deep, though, and I shuddered to think of what might have happened had I left him overnight. Probably, he would have bled to death. It was awful feeling that I had exposed this beautiful animal to harm while he was under my care, especially considering that he had been entrusted to me.

  Through that terrible experience, Dancer and I bonded. In the days following his accident, I stayed with him in his stall for hours at a stretch. But the Andalusian didn’t like anyone in his stal
l, which he made clear by backing away and turning his butt to you when you entered. Nor did he like being patted, hugged, or kissed. He was indifferent to such nonsense, it seemed, and potentially dangerous enough that I left the stall door open partway just in case he became ornery and I needed to make a quick getaway. I did not quite trust this unfriendly horse, and he obviously did not trust me, either.

  We probably resembled a miserable old couple who’d just decided to get a divorce: me, squatted down with my back against the wall and my eyes glued to the floor, humming along with the radio and twiddling straw, just waiting. As for Dancer, every once in a while, he’d stop sulking in the corner, turn toward me, lower his head, and sniff—but then he’d go right back to being his sullen self. And no sooner would I leave than he would poke his head out the top of the door, eagerly surveying the scene. This went on for days. Gradually, Dancer started sniffing me more regularly and curiously nipping at the straw between my fingers. He was finally communicating with me—but only up to a point. Any time I reached out to touch him, he jerked his head back and returned to facing the corner.

  When Dancer had healed sufficiently for me to ride him, I took it cautiously. To my surprise, everything went very smoothly. Out on the trails, alone with each other, we began to connect, to the point that he started to accept me being in his stall. We were becoming friends. Good friends. So after a few weeks with Dancer, my confidence had built up enough to buy him and give him a permanent home with us.

  When I told Ramon and Bo Derek about the progress that Dancer was making and his revealing a sweet disposition, they were both taken aback. According to Bo, most people had found him too scary to ride because he was disobedient and a dominant bully; on group rides, Dancer always had to push his way to the head of the pack. In fact, she told me, Dancer could be such a bugger at times that they’d taken to calling him Maniac.

  He never acted that way with me. Once we had established a bond, the Andalusian even tolerated my insisting that he walk calmly through the dirty puddles he hated so much. “Dancer has become a different horse with you,” Bo marveled. He was my trustworthy, gentle companion. My prince.

  The stable was where I fit in best. I often dreamed of how fabulous it would be to live in the loft above the horses. That’s where I wanted to be. I could always find things where I had left them, the smell was heavenly, the horses didn’t care how I looked, I had fantastic company, and I always had a soft nose to kiss.

  23

  Taking My Show on the Road

  The Come On Over CD, due out in November, was just about finished. While Mutt practically moved into the recording studio full-time, tweaking the final mixes, I turned my attention to assembling the band for my first concert tour. I sat on the floor in the home office, sifting through piles of demos, cassette tapes, and résumés sent in by musicians seeking an audition.

  I knew I had a lot to prove in the live concert arena. Because I hadn’t toured behind The Woman in Me, several critics jumped to the conclusion that I must have been a product of the recording studio and not a capable singer onstage. I guess they weren’t aware that I’d already put in more time playing in front of audiences than many artists rack up in their entire careers.

  But I understood the skepticism. For one thing, my strategy of focusing solely on promoting the album was unorthodox, to say the least. For another, recording technology had advanced to the point where studio trickery could enhance a mediocre voice. Just multitracking the lead vocal can lend heft to an otherwise thin set of pipes. An even bigger breakthrough, if you want to call it that, has been the advent of Auto-Tune, an audio pitch corrector that absolves artists of having to sing on key. Too sharp? Too flat? No problem! If you ask me, it seems a bit like cheating. I mean, you’re billing yourself as a singer, right? Well, then, don’t you think you should be able to sing? On the list of job requirements, I’m pretty sure that’s at the top of the list. Or maybe not so much anymore. This trend of better singing through science has been prevalent mainly in the pop and dance music fields, however; the country music audience still expects its musicians to have the goods, and rightly so.

  I admit to being quite critical about live singing ability, but that attitude came back to bite me later on. As my career built, so did the pressure to be what I was on the records. Before I was a recording artist, there was nothing to be compared to. I just sang my best and didn’t worry about being held hostage by my own studio performance. I prided myself on being accurate and consistent, with good pitch, control, and stamina. It was almost as though my childhood stage anxiety had been worked through, and my confidence as a live performer had finally overcome it. However, as nerves started to kick in on a level I’d never known before, and with the predisposition to stage fright that stemmed from my childhood performing in adult environments that made me uncomfortable, I finally reached the limit of pressure I could take. I was in a spotlight that was bigger than I’d ever imagined would flood me, and I was scared. I found it extremely difficult to find enough confidence to sing properly under the pressure. My throat tightened, and I felt as though I was choking. The sound just didn’t come out the way it was supposed to. Squeezed, shaky notes were all I could muster, and each time I failed to control what sounded from my voice, the more insecure I became, and it slowly began to compound.

  Now all of a sudden I was thrilled about the ability technology had to “fix” a live vocal I was disappointed with. Studio recording felt safe enough, and live stage performances had come a long way since my childhood of hiding behind my guitar. I began to sympathize with other singers who I admired on studio recordings but was disappointed with in live performances. Were they experiencing stage fright, doubting their own ability under the pressure? I understood and related to their experience. I was now more sympathetic to the singer who was more than capable of singing live perfectly well in the studio, but not able to project that ability as well on a stage. What was the difference? Live is live, whether in the studio or on a stage. But psychologically, trying to be perfect when you are aware that there are potentially millions of viewers watching can really put you on edge. I care about doing my best, and when I think there is any chance my best might not be good enough, I get nervous, and anxiety takes over.

  For some reason, the studio and my own live concert stage remained a comfortable zone throughout the Come On Over tour, and I was able to enjoy the experience vocally. But live TV was where my nerves first started to rear up again, like a ghost from my childhood performing past. I really felt on the spot, and it affected my self-esteem to the point that my voice began to close from the tension in the muscles around my neck and larynx, which were slowly becoming chronically tight and beginning to constrict my vocal freedom. At the time, this would only interfere with my singing voice when I was under great stress or pressure, which was pretty much limited to television performances.

  I decided it was time to start touring six months after the Come On Over CD was released. Putting the tour together required a lot of advance time, so the preproduction stage began while the album was still being recorded. The process began with the search for the band musicians. After I went through the hours of audition cassette demos, I was ready to call musicians in for live auditions. Regarding musicianship, Mutt was the main critic, as he knew what it was going to take from the musicians technically to pull the album off live. I was looking more at personality, stage presence, and the ability to multitask as a good musician and a stage performer. I wanted the musicians to be musically accurate on their instruments, while being able to sing backing vocals and have the physical stamina to keep the energy onstage up and pumping for an hour and a half to two hours, nonstop. Attitude was also key. I had to like them as people and sense a genuine good character in their personalities. “No troublemakers or egomaniacs allowed, no matter how good they are,” was a big part of the criteria. I wanted to work with nice people who had humility, honesty, and professionalism, and that is what I got, after a time-consuming sc
reening process, of course.

  Here’s the rundown of those who shared the stage with me on both the Come On Over and Up! tours and countless television performances and specials. With me the longest from the Shania CD promotional touring period, Allison Cornell was on keys, violin, mandolin, and backing vocals. Marc Muller, recommended by Allison, was on electric, acoustic, and slide and steel guitars. Likewise, bassist-vocalist Andy Cichon turned me on to Randall Waller, one of the lead electric guitarists and backing vocalist. Roddy Chiong played violin and sang backing vocals, and J. D. Blair was on drums. Hardy Hemphill played piano and percussion and sang backing vocals, and Cory Churko was on acoustic and electric guitars, violin, and backing vocals. Brent Barcus was on lead guitar and backing vocals.

  I really can’t single out any one member of the band as more special than the others, as they all contributed uniquely to the success of every show over the years. They were a supportive, positive-thinking, energetic, low-drama group of individuals, and I salute them with the deepest respect possible. They were also a culturally mixed group: Roddy, a classically trained Chinese American musician; J.D., an African American with a funk music background; Andy and Randall, from Australia; Cory, from Canada; Brent and Hardy, from a Christian music background; Marc, a Californian surfer and musician; and Allison with Juilliard training. Most of the musicians played more than one instrument and were truly multitalented.

  Rehearsals for the Come On Over tour were like boot camp. I wanted each concert to be a show, brimming with energy. And I didn’t want the spotlight to shine only on me. As I explained to the musicians the first day of rehearsal, they were an integral part of the performance, not just a backup band. “I want you guys to run around, connect with the audience, so that the whole stage comes alive,” I told them.