Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story (27 page)

A band was a big adjustment for me, as I had been solo my whole career, but the venues got big enough that it was a necessity. My first real foray was Lilith Fair, in the large outdoor sheds that begged for a band to
fill the space. I hadn’t played guitar with a band much, and my pocket (where you land on the groove) wasn’t that tight; my tempo sped up and slowed down depending on how I sang. There are drummers who are used to listening to the singer for cues more so than memorizing a chart. Because I was self-taught, I often left whole bars out. I was famous for spacing out on my own lyrics and making others up. There were never the same number of bars in any given verse. I had a drummer who was professionally trained, a great drummer, just not great for me. Bands made me feel like I was wearing a wet wool suit. I was used to calling audibles and changing songs midstream depending on how I read the crowd. I never did set lists because I liked to be wherever the crowd was and choose songs in real time. When I needed to pick up the energy to keep the crowd interested, or drop into something slow and emotional, I felt my band lagging behind. I had no idea how to lead or guide them. I would get so frustrated that I couldn’t keep the crowd’s attention the way I did solo. I would stop mid-song and tell them I was going to finish the set on my own. It took me a couple of years to understand there was a certain type of musician I needed to play with—they had to be “feel” players more than technical virtuosos. Playing with drummers who were famous for their feel, like Jim Keltner, felt suddenly effortless. He always seemed to be right where I was. I asked him how he did it, and he said he had me and my guitar up in his mix. When I listened in on my own drummer’s mix, he didn’t have me up at all. It was the bass and electric guitar he had up, which is typical, but makes it hard to follow the singer. With time I learned that there were drummers who focused on the singer-songwriter and I set about finding one. While I was a folk singer, I approached music like a jazz player. I improvised and felt my way and altered arrangements on the spot. Everyone had to be listening with no preconceived plan. If a solo was great and building, we let it go longer. If we discovered a different beat or feel, we went for it as it happened. If I
felt like holding a note longer, I did. I learned to lead the band and communicate in real time to them about where I was headed if they weren’t yet feeling me head there. The band learned forty or fifty songs I might choose from on the spot. Over time my band shows started to feel as spontaneous and edgy as my solo acoustic shows had. Almost. And having the muscle of a band for large venues was worth whatever small compromise was made in not being up there by myself.

When I sing I don’t think about what I’m singing—I think about the effect I want to have on the audience, then I use the tools I have at my disposal to do it. I don’t care about how I sound while I sing, or how I look. I care about delivering a transfusion of the feeling in my vein to the vein of the listener, hitting their heart with gravity and force, undiluted by ego or pretense. It’s my job to get out of the way of the emotion, to be a good vessel, and to bring attention not necessarily to myself but to the emotion in the story. Music and art are a potent medicine if the artist will get out of the way. This is the craft and art of live singing to me. It takes learning to get out of the way so that a pureness can travel through you to the audience.

I feel that I do my job most effectively when I’m alone onstage. I prefer to sing in theaters, where I’ve noticed the shape of the room affects the psychology of the crowd. Square rooms have a deadness you have to work harder to overcome. Round rooms allow feelings to circulate. My favorite room is a fan shape, or semicircle, with the stage as focal point, widening out so that each seat has an equal view. Energy flows easily back and forth and audiences are effortlessly attentive. The worst is a long rectangular space, as the views aren’t equally clear and I have to work hard to get people to focus in and settle.

The first thing I do when I walk onstage is read the temperature of the crowd. I listen with my whole being. You can feel the spirit of the city—some cities are rowdy, some consider themselves more intellectual, more
blue-collar, more arts-oriented. The East Coast is always more vocal and rowdy. The West Coast is more reserved. The middle of the country has a sincerity and earnestness. The South is intelligent, and resents anything that seems pretentious to them. New York City prefers musicians to have a little pretense. Each city has a feel, and each crowd has a unique feel on any night. Some nights the crowd comes in exhausted, like everyone just came from work. They need to be unwound a little first before we dig into deeper material. I can’t start with material that is too poetic. I’ll start with some humor to loosen them up and then warm into something more intense. Other crowds make it clear they want to be impressed: arms are folded, they want to be wowed before they will open up. I have to lead with headier lyrics and more intellectual story lines. Some crowds just feel ready to be moved and if I start with an emotional set, they all open up. When I start a show, I can feel two thousand separate people in the room. My goal is to choose songs and stories that bring us closer together, until the whole room clicks and it feels like one partner I am dancing with out there, instead of two thousand separate ones. Once that shift happens I can really have fun, we can cry and laugh and reflect together. You can feel everyone let go of their individual worries and explore their hearts in the safety of like-minded people from different walks of life. I’ve sat side stage many times and watched the room fill up before the lights went down, and it has occurred to me on more than one occasion that my audience has an eerie resemblance to every phase of my life. There are ranchers, surfers, fine arts aficionados, kids who feel estranged and want an emotional escape, ’60s dreamers, and Gen Exers, and I love that they each set aside their identity once we get into the set and they open up. We really become one—we might wear different clothes or have different sexual preferences or lifestyles than the person next to us, but really those are just details. The person inside is looking for the same thing as their neighbor—freedom, expression, acceptance, love. They are not looking
at each other’s cowboy hats or dreadlocks; they are seeing the person inside and seeing that they are all on the same journey.

Building that connection was most important to me. My fans had really become an army of their own and organized themselves in a profound way. They are responsible for helping break my career, via the Internet and bootlegs—I recently found out I’d been included in several textbooks as a pioneer of grassroots marketing online, but I have to credit my fans for this mostly. I was able to talk to them directly about who I was, inviting them not to idolize me but to join me on my journey of self-discovery. We created a culture without the filter of the media. They supported one another and created a family who lived by the values we all shared: individuality, community, tolerance, and learning. And my music became the soundtrack for the movement—the Every Day Angels believed, as I did, in our ability to affect our own lives and those around us in a positive way. They continue to be an amazing group who still rally around me and who have helped me sustain a career twenty years in, founded on little else than being genuine. Through folk, rock, pop, country, and children’s music, we have been exploring hand in hand.

•   •   •

I
THINK OVER THOSE FIRST
two years I toured, I dated two guys for a year each, though I’m sure the days we actually saw each other would add up to only a few months. I just didn’t have the time. It was awkward to have a guy on tour with me, and off the road I didn’t feel like going out or being social. Apparently I was not immune to certain rock and roll clichés, because both of the people I dated were male models. It hadn’t occurred to me until I was at dinner one night in New York. Flea invited me out for sushi with the Peppers and some other friends. I was sitting at the end of the table, looking around, and noticed all the funny-looking rock stars and the stunning Amazonian women sitting next to them. As I
leaned over to my boyfriend to comment, it dawned on me—I was a funny-looking snaggletoothed musician with a model on my arm! These men were beautiful and sweet and kind to me, but when they came on the road I felt like a trapped coyote that wanted to chew its arm off. I just was not in the headspace to be dating. It took all my energy to keep building my career. I also began to notice the shift in power as I went from being a destitute woman to one with her own means. It was hard on the male ego to date a woman who was more successful. These men waited for me to come off the road, and when I did, they wanted to go out. I, of course, wanted to stay in. I did not feel my age. I felt old.

Pieces of You
went on to sell twelve million copies. It was one of the best-selling debut records of all time. It blew my mind that a simple folk record could go so far. I watched MTV and saw all the other videos, with the cool kids and the shiny, pretty perfect people full of bravado and hip heroin-chic ways, and I could not believe my earnest style had found a place in modern pop culture. The video for “Who Will Save Your Soul” was up for an MTV award, and the amazing late, great Kevyn Aucoin did my makeup, hair, and styling for the event. I still had not caught on to fancy glam teams, and had only met the famous makeup artist because he basically stalked me. I’d been walking into David Letterman’s studio and my label publicist recognized a giant six-foot-five man standing with fans behind a rope watching me go in. Kevyn was a big deal, the first makeup artist who was a celebrity in his own right. My publicist said, “Kevyn?! What are you doing here?!” He said he was a big fan of mine and was dying to work with me. She pulled him from behind the rope and he came in with me. I was going to do my makeup myself as usual, but here was this larger-than-life gay man who was fabulous in a way I loved instantly. He had fingers the size of bratwurst and promptly set up the kit he had brought. He talked away as he got me ready. He began by plucking my eyebrows, which apparently were from another decade and no
longer in fashion. I did not watch while he did this. He moved on to foundation, then eyes, and by the time I put on the little gray dress and black cardigan I’d picked out, I felt like Dorothy all over again. I looked like myself, but a version seen through Kevyn’s eyes. It was the first time I’d had fun being dolled up.

It was my first award show and I had no idea what I was supposed to do or how to behave. Kevyn asked who was doing my hair and I gave him a blank look. “Okay,” he said, “do you have any baby oil? I have no idea how to do hair, but we can make it look shiny if nothing else.” I must have been touring and still had no official stylist. I think I wore a pencil skirt and a cardigan. I remember never having the right kind of undergarments. The bra made the outfit, Kevyn said, but I had never paid much attention to this sort of thing and had only whatever Walmart number I’d been wearing since God knows when. He assured me that he would make me fabulous anyway. I started to get nervous and asked if he would walk me down the red carpet.

The limo pulled up and I could see a dizzying array of flashbulbs and hear the screams of photographers yelling out orders to young starlets in frenzied tones. Suddenly I could hear them screaming my name. This was nothing like Venice, where I’d been anonymous. This was for real. They knew who I was. The limo stopped and the driver got out and made the long walk back to open my door and I had an absolute panic attack and slammed the lock down. Through the tinted window I could see a confused look on the driver’s face. He walked back to the front seat to click the unlock button again, while Kevyn and my label rep looked at me sort of stunned. They didn’t say a word. Neither did I. The driver walked back to my unlocked door and I took a deep breath as he reached for the handle. Again a terror seized me, and just as the driver pulled the handle, I pushed the button down again. Confused, the driver took a brisk walk to his door, and very deliberately and forcefully hit the unlock button.
Without saying anything, Kevyn took my hand firmly in his own as the driver walked back to my door. He squeezed it affectionately and with his other hand opened the door a crack. My eyes welled with tears as I was overtaken by the terror of being stared at on a catwalk. This couldn’t be my life. I know this sounds odd from a famous person who has made a living being watched, but being onstage always felt different. It was vulnerable and honest somehow, and people could see me for who I felt I was. But the press and media scared me. They looked at your body for fat and flaws. They listened to your music for things to pick apart. The idea of stepping into the spotlight in this way was nerve-racking. A relieved limo driver held the door open as Kevyn guided me out. He said, “You are beautiful. Let your light shine,” and with that I was swallowed into the maelstrom of screams and flashing bulbs. “JEWEL! Look this way! Jewel! Top center, top center! Jewel, look over your shoulder!” I looked at the other girls ahead of me and behind me and saw I was underdressed. I felt awkward and shy and my poses for the camera said as much.

After the photos I politely went to answer the silly questions from red carpet TV anchors as best as I could (What’s your favorite nail color? What’s your one beauty must?) and especially appreciated the ones about music. I was next in line for a major outlet and saw Shakira, whom I admired, ahead of me. It was crowded and chaotic and everyone was elbow-to-elbow. I saw a space open and as I was stepping in to speak to her, I suddenly felt a pain in my ribs. Someone’s publicist had elbowed me sharply. I looked up, stunned. The publicist would not make eye contact and shuffled their artist in ahead of me to take my TV slot. The Alaskan in me came out, and I elbowed that woman so hard in the ribs I hoped she choked up a kidney. She looked at me in shock and I smiled at her and stood back to let her artist have my spot anyway. I would have waited an extra five minutes if she had just asked. Kevyn was nearly dying with
laughter. He’d caught the whole thing and hugged me and said, “Oh my god, I love you. You’re like a little Barbie hillbilly and I love you!”