Like Me (14 page)

Norro Wilson, me, and Buddy Cannon in 1999. Great producers—greater men
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“Single White Female” was the title track of what would come to be my fourth album. I’d had my first Top 10 with my previous MCA album, but we stumbled with the follow-up singles from that project. I needed a hit and I needed it badly.

I was one of the fortunate few to be in such a great position—signed to, at that time, the most successful record label in Nashville. MCA Records signed me after I’d made two albums for PolyGram that didn’t do so well. Just getting one record contract in one’s lifetime is an amazing feat, but to have another major label sign you to a second contract with no track record of success is unusual.

I
’m pretty sure that there was some luck involved in why I was still getting chances with Nashville and with country radio, despite my low-charting first six singles during my PolyGram days. That said, I believe in the old saying “Luck is where opportunity and preparation collide.” I worked, I toured, and I wrote. I did everything asked of me by the label, the publicists, and the managers.

It’s understandable behavior for an artist to become frustrated with a record label when the artist’s records seem to struggle on the charts—that’s a typical response. Some artists get angry or upset and they shut down. When one goes through the process of landing a contract, pouring one’s heart out in song-writing, making the album, then doing the promotional tour to get ready to release the record, only to have the label tell you that the first single has bombed—well, that is a devastating blow.

When it happened to me, when I could see that my first couple of singles were failing, I had a choice to make. I could do the usual get-mad-at-the-label-and-refuse-to-do-anything-that-they-ask-me-to-do, or I could do the unusual do-anything-and-everything-asked-of-me. I chose the unusual. I recall that when my label, managers, and publicists could see that this was how I
was going to handle myself, they were surprised. They were happy, of course, because they had all been in the business longer than I had and they knew the value of a work ethic like mine. I think that many of them decided, “Hey, this gal has what it takes to really make it in this industry.” I soon realized the people with whom I was working were treating me differently—with even greater respect and a new sense of resolve.

My team of people started to become emotionally invested in my career. I had once been a project that they were assigned to work, and now I was an artist about whom they were passionate. I was becoming known in Nashville and in country radio as one of the hardest-working new artists around. Mind you, the work that was being asked of me was not that difficult—they weren’t asking me to throw hay bales up on the back of a flatbed trailer; they weren’t asking me to pour and finish concrete. It was not hard labor, for the most part. They were asking me to come in and sign five hundred posters at once—big deal. Or they were asking me to go on the road for weeks, with little time to sleep, and do shows for radio and sign autographs at Wal-Mart for hours on end for free. So what? I’d been doing that for years, working that hard for very little or no money. This was not a problem for me. I loved the work that was being asked of me. So, hit record or no hit record, I toured. My band and I would hop on a tour bus for months at a time, playing smoky bars, beautiful theaters, cornfields, restaurants, amphitheaters, schools—you name it, we played it. I wanted it so much, I was willing to work for it, and I made sure that everyone knew just how much being a country music singer meant to me.

F
ame is a precarious thing. It wasn’t the reason that I aspired to be an entertainer, but it happened whether I wanted it or not. For the most part, fame has never been a nuisance to me. In fact, when I have noticed my fame, I’ve liked it just fine. To me, it simply means that I’m having some measure of success with what I love the most. So, when I think of it that way, it’s tolerable.

At times, however, being famous would encroach on that secret part of me. Like a low-hanging dark cloud steadily coming my way, sometimes fame is an ominous bearer of storm and anxiety. The more well known I became, the more people wanted to know about me. I understood, but I didn’t like it, because those inquiries became less about my songs and career and more about my personal life.

I became a skilled liar. I learned early on in my life the pitfalls of lying. I didn’t try it too often, but the couple of times I did, I got caught. My parents were experts in lie detection. They tripped me up by getting me to give them details. I’d tell the lie, then they’d somehow get me to expound upon it. They’d say, “Well, who all was there? What did you eat? Who cooked it? Who drove? What time did so-and-so’s folks get home?” I’d give them all of my phony answers, but they wouldn’t relent. They would ask another batch of questions, and I’d forget exactly
what I’d already told them. Before I knew it, they’d find the inconsistencies in my story. Yeah, they were good. Then they’d explain to me that details are too hard to remember when you’re lying. The truth will always catch up with you, they’d say.

So, when asked about my personal life during my career, I avoided details. I didn’t make up stories about some bogus, nonexistent boyfriend who lived out of town. When people in the business asked about my holiday season, I didn’t fill up my answer with what I thought would sound like a normal answer. I’d just say, “Oh, not much.” The best thing about my brevity was that some people got used to my responses and just stopped asking. I think it caused me to be known by many as simply being an extremely private person. Even my managers at the time, Clarence, Bob, and Mark, didn’t ask me questions, ever. Country music is like the military—don’t ask, don’t tell.

However, there were plenty of times with industry people, journalists, radio people, and fans that caused me to be sick to my stomach with fear. When asked personal questions that I simply didn’t want to answer, I’d give my standard curt replies. “Oh, I’m not married, because I’m married to my work.” “I’m just too busy to date.” “That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?” I’d say playfully.

Inevitably, my avoiding the questions didn’t always stop them from coming. When I realized that, I made the decision to make myself available to be questioned. I didn’t hang out with many of my peers. I didn’t go out for star-studded nights on the town and socialize with my coworkers. I didn’t stay up late at night on the bus and engage in chitchat with the band and crew very often. Unfortunately, I think that approach caused me to gain a reputation for being cold and stuck-up. Other artists would say things to me like “You need to loosen up, have a little fun. Don’t take it all so seriously.”

Another thing that I did a little differently than other country music artists did was that I didn’t party with radio folks. The
radio community, by and large, decides who becomes a star and who does not. Sometimes artists are encouraged by their record labels to go hang out and have a good time with these radio program directors and radio consultants. And when I say “good time,” this usually meant drinking with them. I never did it.

If you asked me how many radio guys have been inappropriate and disrespectful to me due to the fact that they’ve had about four too many drinks, the answer would have to be in the triple digits. When I was told by my label and by my managers that I needed to go hang out at some of these events, I did—I just did it differently. If the event was supposed to last from seven until midnight, I’d slip in at seven thirty and leave by eight thirty.

I really tried to look around and see how others whom I respected handled these situations. There is not a more professional or more revered person in our town than Reba McEntire. I was lucky to be around her quite a bit, as most of us were running in the same circles. She and I were also label mates on MCA Records at that time, which put me near her on even more occasions. Some celebrities on similar levels as Reba want the respect of others just because they are that famous, but they’ll show up an hour late, throw tantrums, abuse their power, and then wonder why they aren’t treated with higher regard. Not Reba McEntire. She shows up on time. She doesn’t keep her fans waiting. She doesn’t yell at her employees and belittle them. She starts her show on time and doesn’t cut her show short by thirty minutes just because she’s not “feeling it.” Reba doesn’t party or get drunk at the industry conventions that we all have to attend. Industry people and other artists alike show that woman an immense amount of respect because she’s earned it—she deserves it. So when I’d see Reba and the way that she approached her work, I said to myself, “I’m going to try to emulate her.” I have a strong suspicion that Reba took some notes on how to be a star from Dolly Parton. Dolly is the same way—a pro.

With some of my MCA label mates at a 2001 post-awards show party. Left to right: Allison Moorer, Trisha Yearwood, George Strait, Reba McEntire, me, and Gary Allan
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There has been an additional benefit for me in not hanging out and partying. When people have had three or four drinks and they start thinking that we’re pals, they seem to lose sight of appropriate boundaries. When those walls of judgment start to fall, sometimes they feel just a little too comfortable with me and start to ask, “Why aren’t you married?” I would do my best to change the subject, but took some comfort in knowing that they were so inebriated, they’d surely not remember a word of the conversation. I’ve been groped, grabbed, and made to listen to jokes that probably wouldn’t have been told in my presence had alcohol not been involved, and those jokes and stories have been disgusting and at times frightening to me.

Imagine what it was like, being in the company of six relative strangers as they yucked it up, throwing drinks back and laughing
at their own jokes about sex, oral sex, prison sex, gays, fags, dykes, lesbians, and the “N” word. You might wonder why I didn’t just tell them off or leave the room in those particular instances. Many of those people held my future in their hands. I essentially had to grin and bear it. It was not unusual on a Monday morning to hear a true story of how a certain artist had pissed off a radio programmer and had his record dropped from their playlist. Granted, sometimes it was the fault of the artist for being an ass or arrogant or having made a drunken comment. Yes, there are just as many artists and label people who are jerks, and there are real consequences to be paid. So my way of doing it—not partaking of the party aspect of it—really spared me a lot of negative experiences. Having said that, I also want to say that not all radio folks are that way. There are many who are wonderful, smart, dedicated, happily married, happily single, respectful men and women who are talented at what they do, and I am pleased to call many of them my friends.

J
ulia struggled with the fact that I was a public figure. She and I seldom went out together in Nashville, but when we did, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to approach me to say hello. Sometimes it would be a fan, but usually it was someone in the music industry. When I was approached, I’d take just a couple of minutes to talk to them. I didn’t mind it at all, but she did.

I recall being at a coffee shop near downtown Nashville with her when a song publisher came over to our table and started talking to me. She was sitting across from me, and the minute he got to the table she picked up her purse and told me that she’d be waiting in the car. I wrapped up my conversation with the publisher, then went out to the car, got in, and we had a pointed discussion about it.

“Why do you have to be so nice to them?” she asked. “Why can’t you just let them say hello and then say hello back and leave it at that?”

It really bugged her that when someone would say hello, I’d ask them, “So how’ve you been? What’s been going on?” Part of it was my being friendly and the other part was that I was probably genuinely curious about how they were doing.

It’s not that Julia was unfriendly. Once she felt comfortable with someone, she was a talker, but she was shy around most
folks. She scoffed at how the fans could love me so much without even knowing me at all.

Time and distance away from that relationship make me realize that maybe part of the reason she didn’t want me to visit with people was because it was a reminder to her of who I am. She simply didn’t want me to be known. She didn’t want to see it, hear about it, or know about it. She despised my being a public figure because she could never be a part of it.

Julia was still in the music industry, and she worked closely with artists every day. She would come home and complain that most of them needed to take a class on how to be more professional, on how to work hard and do the things necessary to have a successful career. “Why can’t they just do their job like you do yours? You’re so dependable and you just do your work,” she’d say. She, of all people, knew how hard an artist has to work. She said so herself. She knew exactly why I worked the way I did—because that’s what it takes and nothing short of that will do. She just didn’t want
me
to do it. Had I been in her position, I would’ve had resentment too. She was forced, out of necessity, to become invisible. This very issue started out as a tiny little splinter under the skin of our relationship, but as the months and years went by, it began to fester.