Never Broken: Songs Are Only Half the Story (28 page)

Inside it was wild to see all the musicians I had watched on TV. We are rarely in the same place at the same time. In that way fame was nothing like I thought it would be, like France in the ’30s when painters and authors and poets and muses all hung together sharing and creating. When everything was over I was walking to the after-party when Tupac came across my path. I, of course, knew who he was but had never met him. He was apparently taken with me because he stopped in his tracks and gave me an electric stare that was hard to mistake. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights, and then just as suddenly I moved on and the electricity dissipated. It was so visceral and undeniable that my boyfriend whispered in my ear, “Holy shit. He was looking at you like a piece of meat and he looks hungry. I know I should be mad but it honestly sort of scared the shit out of me.” At the party, I was surprised by the musicians who came up to talk to me. Marilyn Manson was huge at the time, and was in full Goth drag. He said, “I love your song ‘I’m Sensitive.’ It’s sincere but also ironic at the same time. I bet the press doesn’t get that.” Not a song choice I expected from a man wearing white contact lenses and plastic pants.

I was about ready to wind it down and head home, and was momentarily standing by myself, waiting for my date to return from visiting with a photographer friend he’d spotted. Stealthy and silent, Tupac was again suddenly standing next to me. He spoke softly and looked at me directly with soulful eyes. He said he was headed to Vegas with a whole crew and thought I might have fun if I came. He had a hypnotic but vulnerable quality that was fascinating. I told him I was there with someone but hoped he had fun. He was shot three days later in Vegas. When it hit the news I couldn’t help but think of all the forks in the roads of life and how we never know where they will lead. I heard he had a fiancée and
wondered why the hell he had invited me to Vegas. I will never know. I was sorry about his passing. He was a great talent with undeniable star appeal.

With time the red carpets got easier, and I got used to the culture. I never got used to rudeness, however, and in the aftermath of the shock-jock craze that the amazing Howard Stern started, I found myself dealing with a few radio DJs who lacked his intelligence and talent, and tried to make up for it with a willingness to be just plain shocking instead. Everything from my tooth to my weight to my being raised with an outhouse was fair game for them. I remember being in the Midwest somewhere at 7 a.m. and a local DJ said something like, “Jewel, you’re beautiful but Jesus Christ that snaggletooth of yours is disgusting. Do you scare men off with that thing? I mean, who would want you to go down on them with those chompers?” In response to these kinds of questions, I would look at them and say playfully, “Well, I can fix my teeth. You can’t fix stupid.” Or “I can fix my teeth. You’ll always be bald.” Another time I was down south and the DJ seemed nice as we made small talk until it was time to go on air. I was tuning up my guitar as the red light came on indicating we’d just gone live. The DJ’s voice changed from the normal tone he had been speaking to me with, to an almost comical imitation of a radio host. In a booming and highly energetic voice, he said, “Hi! You may have heard me describe my next guest as a large-breasted woman from Alaska—it’s JEWEL! Jewel, how are ya?” Without blinking, I adopted my own radio voice and said, “I’m doing great! You must be that small-penised man I heard so much about!” I thought he would laugh and we would carry on our conversation, but instead his face went flat and he pushed the button and the red light went dark and I was escorted out of the station without another word from the DJ. My label begged me to just cool it on the back talk, but I felt that if DJs were going to be
shocking and rude, that it should at least be a two-way street. Verbal sparring was fun even, I thought, and fair was fair.

It always stunned me in group interviews and at press junkets for shows where multiple artists played to see how journalists at the time treated the women songwriters differently from the men. They would ask Beck about the meaning behind the lyric
I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me
, and then turn to me and say, What’s your favorite color for spring? There was an incredible women’s movement in music that had happened, and I felt blessed to be surrounded by talented peers such as Sheryl Crow, Sarah McLachlan, Natalie Merchant, and the Indigo Girls. I felt we all stood on the shoulders of our predecessors and owed so much to Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Rickie Lee Jones, Carole King, Carly Simon and so many other greats. I was only on my first CD and felt I still had much to prove to earn my place next to them.

•   •   •

I
LIVED LIKE AN EXILE
on the road, exhausted and in desperate need of a break. Then I met a cowboy. And I decided to take one.

Early into 1999, I did a fund-raising concert in Aspen for my charity, Project Clean Water. I had a day to kill in Denver before my next show and I heard the rodeo was in town. I grew up rodeoing a little—just a barrel or keyhole race, or pole bending when there was one in town. They were outdoors, muddy, and small by any standard, but fun. My dad had been the all-around local champ on a horse he’d trained himself as a kid. I asked my label if they could get me tickets to the sold-out show and it turned out they used a car company that sponsored a rodeo cowboy and they were able to get me tickets through him. I showed up and got to my seat and enjoyed the show. The event organizers asked if I would ride the stagecoach and let them announce that I was there. I felt embarrassed but
conceded. When the coach did its lap and exited into the backstage area where all the rough stock was kept, I was greeted by a quiet but enigmatic cowboy who introduced himself as Ty Murray. He had helped get the tickets and wanted to be sure I was being looked after. I had heard of Ty Murray. He was known as the Michael Jordan of rodeo, though I had never seen him ride. I asked if he would send an autograph to my dad, who, I knew, would flip. We exchanged numbers so we could work out the details. No sparks flew. I was headed to New York City the next morning and on to a world tour from there.

I toured Europe, Asia, and Australia for the next year. I was single the whole time and very lonely. My fame had grown to heights I had never imagined. My single “Hands” from my second album,
Spirit
, did well for me, which I was very happy about, but still I was unprepared for the lifestyle of success. It wasn’t the fantasy some people imagine, at least not for a sober female. I was unable to have casual sex with groupies or fans the way my male counterparts seemed to be able to enjoy. I found fame fantastically isolating. You wake up in a hotel, your tour manager shuttles you to an airport, you travel all day, you get to a new hotel room, try to catch a nap if you have time, though I usually had just enough time to shower and put on makeup for back-to-back interviews that backed right up to show time. I would hang with the band to try to unwind from the interviews and assault of questions as people tried to find the “real” you or get a scoop or a rise out of you for a story. Then I would walk onstage where I could let everything go. I would be absolutely spent by the time I walked off. I rarely got out to sightsee like the band did. I was cut off from nature, with no friends other than my band.

I felt like an astronaut drifting in space, able to see people only from the darkness of the stage, like looking at Earth from a great and beautiful distance. I began to carry Tupperware containers of Alaskan dirt and cottonwood balm my aunt would send me, so I could smell something
natural and familiar that reminded me of home. I had no opportunity to even make friends, as I never went anywhere like normal people did and I wasn’t a partier. When I did go out in public I was shocked to be recognized by so many people. While I could see my album sales on paper and I was playing larger venues, my experience of day-to-day life hadn’t changed. I did not drive fancy cars or go on fancy vacations or hang out with fancy people. My mom did those things. I traveled and worked in a very insulated world with a band and crew that did not change. It wasn’t until I went home to San Diego after the first few tours and went to the store to get groceries that I was suddenly confronted with just how surreal my life had become. I would wait in line and someone next to me would start crying. People would watch to see what I put in my basket and I would see them whisper to a friend immediately to tell them I ate Grape-Nuts, I supposed. I was followed to my car by shy fans who wanted to see what I drove. It was the same used Volvo I’d gotten when I was signed. I had no need for a new car as I was never home to drive it. One man came up to me at a taco stand and said, “I have no idea who you are, but I can see everyone is staring at you, so you must be somebody. I just wanted to be the one to tell you that you are not that special. You’re no more special than me.” I looked at him with a mouth full of food and managed to say, “Thanks. I agree,” and promptly asked the waitress for a to-go box.

I had been a voyeur my whole life, studying and watching people, but now people were watching me. I often felt like an exotic animal in a zoo. People would walk by, gawk, and sometimes even reach out to touch me as if they could not believe I was there. I would run a commentary in my head like a narrator from a nature channel.
Look, here is the folk singer in her natural habitat, eating a taco. Here is the elusive folk singer blowing her nose. Look at how she turns her head slightly to shade her eyes from the sun.
Being that famous felt like being screamed at all the time, even when no
one was talking to you. You could feel the focus even when they said nothing. Being idolized and being torn down felt oddly similar. They both made me feel alone. Friendship and trust should be earned, and when you’re famous, people seem to want to give them to you whether you’ve earned them or not, and it felt dishonest to me. Fame was not real. It was all a projection—fame made me a blank canvas that people projected their love, lust, troubles, self-worth, and desire upon. Fame and power do not change us; they amplify us. If we are insecure, we grow more so. If we are addictive, we become a greater addict and insatiable. If we are desirous of truth, we seek it more. If we are generous, we become more so. If we seek to fill holes through dishonest means, we have greater access to do so. Fame and power are masterful teachers. This made me double down on my commitment to be sure I was creating a genuine and honest connection to my fan base. It helped me feel I could show up authentically in the spotlight.

Ty and I spoke a few times as I traveled. When I came back from Australia, I left him a voicemail. He called while I was in Asia. A year after our first meeting we decided to try to meet up on the road somewhere. I had a day off near a rodeo he would be riding at in Livermore, California. We lived parallel lives, in vehicles and on the road performing for large crowds. I would sing in the same stadium that he would ride in a week later. Cowboys and rock stars both starve for the chance to do what they love, and a very few make it big. Ty was one of the few who made it big, and he revolutionized the business of rodeo. When he was in third grade he said his goal in life was to break Larry Mahan’s record of six all-around wins. He went on to break the record with seven. He broke the all-around record on the rough stock events, which are considered much harder than the timed events like calf and team roping and steer wrestling. He also won two world championships in bull riding.

Ty was a perfect fit for me because he loved the outdoors and had values we shared. He was down-to-earth. He was not a fame-monger. He was passionate about his craft and liked to challenge himself. He was raised poor and was self-made. He knew what it took to build a career and what it meant to work hard. He knew what it meant to be in the public eye.

We were both at the height of our careers. Ty had just broken the all-around record and was the darling of the rodeo industry and western culture.
Pieces of You
had won a diamond award for selling more than ten million copies and my current record was burning up the airwaves. We were young, rich, and at the top of our game. I flew to Livermore and watched him ride broncs. I never traveled with an entourage or friends, so I sat in the outdoor stands by myself, mostly unrecognized. The first event Ty was up in was the saddle bronc. The horse reared wildly in the chute. Ty nodded his head for the gate to open, and the animal pivoted on its hind legs and surged out of the chute in a cresting wave of muscle. Once the animal got out of the gate and into the arena, Ty’s free arm moved forward and back in time with the bronc’s bucking, as his feet whipped from flank to neck with crisp, precise movements. Chin tucked in, hat never moving an inch. When the whistle blew he timed his exit and, capitalizing on the momentum and force of the animal, let go of the rein on the next buck and catapulted into the air, landing on his feet like a cat. He stared down at the dirt and walked out of the arena in his trademark baby blue and tan chaps with a determined gate, without so much as looking up. He was all business.

Next up was the bareback event. Ty combed his horse with what I would learn was perfect form. He wore the customary foam neck brace to prevent whiplash, and his legs fanned open, bending back by his ears, then snapped closed, the dull spurs neatly grazing high on the horse’s
neck. When the whistle blew, he used his free arm to pull himself up to sitting position and waited for the pick-up man while the horse continued to buck. He jumped from his horse to the pick-up man’s and then slid to the ground. Again he walked out of the arena looking down at his feet, almost as if he were angry with himself. Already thinking about his next ride. All business.

The final event was bull riding. When Ty’s turn came around, he crawled over the fencing in the back of the chute, straddled the bull, and prepared his rope. The bull lay down in the chute but Ty nodded anyway. When the bull saw the gate open, there was a blur of spinning and kicking in the blink of an eye. Ty’s body bent forward at the hips, waiting for the bull to leap forward and buck before he started his series of countermoves like playing a game of chess with body and life. Each move the bull made, Ty had to have an exact countermove. He had to absorb the bull’s momentum by putting his body in a position to neutralize the force of the bull. He could not anticipate what the bull would do, nor could he be late in responding. Everything had to be in perfect time.