AFTERWORD

by Diablo Cody

I was sixteen years old the first time I heard the voice of Alanis Morissette. Well, technically that isn’t true—I grew up watching You Can’t Do That on Television, the Canadian kiddie show on which a young Alanis starred. But when I say “the voice of Alanis Morissette,” I’m not referring to the literal vibrations created by her laryngeal folds. I’m talking about the powerful and primal flow of essential Alanis-ness that is her legendary album, Jagged Little Pill. This was not just a collection of songs, you understand. This was a seismic event that shifted the plates of pop culture and redefined irony for a generation. Alanis Morissette, rock star, was more than a voice. She was a Voice.

It was 1995 and I was hanging out in my bedroom in Lemont, Illinois, a small town with nine churches and zero bookstores. I was listening to Q-101, “Chicago’s Rock Alternative,” like I did every day after school. Though the grunge trend had expired like a tub of old yogurt, rock radio was still dominated by growling, lank-haired dudes with low-slung guitars and Big Muff distortion pedals. Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder had changed the game by championing feminist causes, but the rock scene in general still felt like the same old macho circlejerk it had been since forever. The “girl bands” that did get airplay at the time were all punk bravado and defiance—very necessary, but not always relatable to me as a vulnerable and confused Catholic girl who had so many feelings and was often afraid to express them. There was an Alanis-shaped hole in my heart; I just didn’t know it yet.

So there I was, in my bedroom, flipping through Sassy magazine and painting my nails with Wite-Out as I listened to the radio. As the song ended—let’s say it was “Cumbersome” by Seven Mary Three—the DJ broke in, sounding way more enthusiastic than usual. “I am so psyched to play this next song,” the DJ said—again, this type of editorializing was rare on Q-101, a big corporate radio station. “It’s from a new singer named Alanis Morissette and it’s going to blow your mind. Here’s ‘You Oughta Know.’”

Curiosity piqued, I twisted the volume knob on my Sony boombox. A trembling voice filled the room, not just a voice, but a Voice: Alanis’s brave, forceful, naked Voice revealing itself for the first time. It was an immediate shock to the system. After a parade of grunge singers cocooning themselves in flannel and mumbling purposely vague lyrics, here, at last, was someone ready to expose her soul. And “You Oughta Know” was just the beginning—the beginning of the beginning. As we would soon discover, there was so much more to this artist than just spite and rage; on Jagged Little Pill she revealed herself to be tender, spiritual, shameless, kindhearted, eternally questioning and utterly assured all at once. Shockingly, Alanis was only nineteen years old when she wrote these songs with producer Glen Ballard—just a skip ahead of me, age-wise, but miles beyond in terms of artistic maturity.

The music delighted and inspired me, as it did so many people in my generation, but I assumed my relationship with it would remain simple: Fan and album. Until … twenty-three years later: I was approaching my fortieth birthday and got a call from my agent about adapting Jagged Little Pill as a musical. Of course, I immediately and enthusiastically said yes. In retrospect, it’s funny that I didn’t take a beat to consider the proposition. I’d never written a play, let

alone the book for a major musical. I wasn’t a theater kid in high school; I’d been too “cool” at the time to express enthusiasm for anything beyond Marlboro Lights and peach-flavored wine cooler. Now, I was blithely signing on to write a story that needed to measure up to the brilliance of an iconic and beloved album. (But as one of my favorite songs says: “I recommend biting off more than you can chew to anyone. I certainly do.”)

At this point, I had been working in Hollywood for around fifteen years. As a writer, I had become so jaded and crusty, that I might as well have been walking around with a wooden leg and an eyepatch. It had been a long time since I’d felt “wet behind the ears” or whatever slightly icky metaphor one might use to describe the feeling of having no idea what you are doing. Now, here I was in the new world of Broadway, entirely clueless. And, unlike when I was twenty-five and started writing movies, I was no longer fueled by the arrogance of youth. I was old enough to know that I could make some serious mistakes. I knew—as an investor cheerfully reminded me at a cocktail party—that most Broadway musicals fail. As I began the creative process in earnest, it dawned on me that writing the book for Jagged Little Pill was more than just a cool story to tell my friends or a retroactive treat for my teenage self—it was a tremendous responsibility.

I didn’t make it any easier by deciding the show would deal with the opioid epidemic, sexual assault, political activism, and religion. This was not a dance-in-the-aisles jukebox musical with a featherweight story; as much as I enjoy those shows, I wanted Jagged Little Pill to be as real and provocative as the album that inspired it. Everyone on the creative team was committed to fully understanding every issue we explored in the show. We also all agreed that while this complex tangle of topics might seem like “too much” to some critics or audience members, it was an accurate reflection of modern life.

In the run-up to our first Broadway previews, the New York Times asked “Has Alanis Morissette Made the Most Woke Musical Since Hair?” I was proud to have helped prompt that query. After all, the idea of awareness—of waking up, morally and ideologically—is a major theme in our show. The album that Alanis and Glen Ballard wrote together was never a simple, catchy pop record. It was epic, it was messy, it was fearless, it was heroic. While the glory of a Broadway debut is unforgettable, my favorite part of this journey was the work itself—the priceless opportunity to connect with our creative team including, of course, Alanis Morissette, who is both the goddess my sixteen-year-old self dreamed she would be, and the accessible, gracious, hilarious collaborator my adult self needed her to be. Somewhere along the way, I caught “the bug” and realized I was a theater kid after all!

Writing my first Broadway show wasn’t easy. I was admittedly naive when I jumped onboard without a second thought. And I didn’t realize how much (often uncomfortable) personal work and introspection I’d have to do in order to successfully tell the story of the Healy family. But the result was the ultimate reward. Jagged Little Pill tells us that growth is uncomfortable but necessary for us to thrive. Watching this show come alive is something I’ll never forget, and being a part of the album’s legacy is the ultimate privilege.