life as a country song
The years 2004 and 2005 were spent deprogramming, reclaiming my mind, practicing self and other. I recorded Goodbye Alice in Wonderland with producer Rob Cavallo at Eldorado in the Valley. Everyone in the business said I had to stay pop, but my inspiration took its own turn, and I couldn’t contrive something to capitalize on the momentum of 0304. I’m sure that would have been smarter but my music was coming out the way it came out. I loved giving birth to songs like the title track, the dulcimer “Where You Are,” which I wrote for Ty, and “Long Slow Slide,” which was about the strange place I was climbing out of. “Good Day” was about the hurt I was dealing with, but also my sheer determination to wake up and say I was going to have just that. They were all laced with a need to believe I was going to make it a better day.
It was my last record under my Atlantic contract. I loved Atlantic dearly, and owe them so much, but formats were changing. Radio was changing, the business was changing. If I wanted to be a storyteller with song, I felt my future would be in country music and country radio.
When I started out, I considered myself a combination of folk and country. I listened to Dolly Parton and Loretta Lynn as often as I did Joni Mitchell and Rickie Lee Jones. I loved their strong perspectives and willingness to speak from the mind and heart. To be played on country radio I would need a label built for it.
I never saw it as the change that others did—I wrote all the songs.
The funny thing is, I felt radio had changed more than I had. When I started in the ’90s, country was more pop than I was, I felt. Mutt Lange helped Shania Twain blow up with slick and polished cuts that exploded on the airwaves. They were pop brilliance with a country twang. Shania and Faith Hill were dressed in fashionable clothes with amazing glam teams. I was a fan of both, but my simpler approach was certainly not where country was at the time. I’d only been able to get a foothold in pop thanks to the alternative movement, which was a wide-open format where there were no rules. I think that if “You Were Meant for Me” came out today, it would never have been considered for pop radio and gone directly to country. Country also allowed me to keep instruments up in the mix that I naturally favored, like steel guitar and banjo, which I’d had to turn down in my pop songs.
I had been around the western culture my entire life, yet knew I would have to start over as far as the business was concerned in order to pull it off. But the fans were my people. I knew the dignity of working the land, and the indignity of seeing the lifestyle made fun of on TV and in movies. I knew I would have to work hard to earn the trust of the gatekeepers and program directors at country radio. But I never had a doubt that the fans and I would get along just fine. That’s something the industry sometimes forgets—a fan will buy a Johnny Cash record and a Bob Dylan record. My fans and Lady Gaga’s fans are similar in the sense that they love to be encouraged to be themselves. We both built our fan base on a sense of inclusion rather than exclusion. I still feel labels miss big market shares by not understanding the core values of their artists and trying to market to fans who hold the same values in nontraditional ways. But the Internet of course changed that all. Artists and fans find one another because they have an intuitive sense of shared values.
Before the power of radio blew records up, bands toured a lot, and their music was the soundtrack to what they stood for. Fans bought into the culture of what a band was more than anything. They wanted to dress like them, talk like them, and walk like them, and they blasted their music proudly so that others might know who they were and what they stood for. Records were complete projects, and every track was good. DJs were allowed to play what they wanted and songs became hits by word of mouth. Fans listened to entire records over and over, and they were not disappointed for parting with their hard-earned wages. Every track was good. Soon label heads realized that a band didn’t have to have a good record, or even play well live—they just had to have one song that sounded good on the radio. As technology advanced, producers were able to make any singer sound good, and make a hit that would explode on the airwaves. Artists, labels, and managers all played along—everyone stopped thinking about longevity and started chasing the short dollar. Labels threw twelve different acts against the wall to see which one stuck. They could afford not to develop acts or invest big in unknowns, because when an act did pay off, it offset the costs of all the other failures. Artist development fell by the wayside. Bands who had never toured, and more important, hadn’t established who they were and what they stood for as artists, were suddenly on the radio and playing huge venues. And making records with only one or two good songs. Fans would show up to hear artists that were not good live, or would buy twelve songs only to find out they really only liked the two they’d already heard. They were getting ripped off. The Internet put the power back in the hands of the fans. With the digital age, they could pick and choose the songs they wanted to buy. A new generation of fans had no idea what it was like to actually buy, much less expect to enjoy, a whole CD. Labels and acts saw an amazing shift as the money began to dry up. There were acts that were huge on the radio but wouldn’t sell a single song or ticket. This is when the industry missed its mark and played songs that tested well for radio, but elicited no passionate response from fans when it came to separating them from their hard-earned money. I chalk this up to the fact that many bands had no authentic message. Pure ear candy, but stood for nothing. Fans don’t spend money unless they are inspired. Labels quit tending to their roster like a farmer does, and I think this hurt them. There are short-term cash crops in farming—produce that grows quickly and sells quickly—but a good farmer will also be working on longer-term crops that will pay off down the road. The industry needs to look at flash-in-the-pan, popular, trending, and novelty singles, but for the health of the whole business, they also need to identify and champion the acts they think have the legs and the talent to sustain a long career. These artists need to be allowed to develop, write, grow, and change. They need to be supported over a long period of time, when there are ups and downs. There have to be artists who have a strong identity and specific set of discernible values, who are supported by managers and agents and labels so they can do so. They need to bet on a horse, not just a race.
In a few short generations we are at risk of having musicians, fans, and an industry that have forgotten that entire albums should be worth listening to, that musicians should stand for something other than a trend, that a fan can follow an act for an entire career and grow and change with them, and that the freedom to decide what makes great music should be between a band and a fan.
My advice to young musicians is to keep your power by staying independent as long as you can and touring a lot. There are no shortcuts even now. Tour, tour, tour and practice, practice, practice. Do as much as you can one-on-one with your fans, as it’s the only leverage you have and really all you need. Labels want ownership over so much of your career now that you will have better negotiating power if you have already established a fan base.
I had been with Irving Azoff for quite a few years at this point, and when I told him of my plans to change directions from pop to country we knew I needed someone established in the day-to-day of the country business.
I began recording my country record before I was out of my Atlantic deal, before I had a country label, and before I had a manager in the new space. Once again I made what seemed like a hard left turn against everyone’s advice, but it felt right to me and it was where my music wanted to go. I’d spent a lot of time in Nashville over my career. I loved the town and the people. Most of the musicians who’d reached out to me over the years were country—Brooks and Dunn, Crystal Gale, Merle Haggard. I’d mixed and mastered Pieces of You in Nashville.
A friend named John Rich from Big and Rich coproduced the new record. One night we went out and John had a few too many to drive me back to my hotel, and a woman from his label offered to take me. Her name was Virginia Davis and she ran the imprint label John had on Warner Bros. She was young, twenty-seven or so, bright, and we hit it off. On the ten-minute drive at midnight, I told her about my plans to go country, and that beyond that I felt my future was in going direct to consumer, and eventually getting off labels all together. She agreed, saying that artists had a lot of power and leverage they seldom used simply because of the status quo. We pulled up to the hotel and as I opened the door, I said, “So, what are you doing the rest of your life?” I knew in that ten minutes that she was a rare breed because she was bright but also seemed kind and ethical—and ethical is hard to come by in my business. Virginia is self-made, moved away from home young, and she liked to work. She knew nothing about being a manager, but that stuff could be learned. I went to Irving and told him I’d found someone I wanted him to hire for me. He asked to meet her, and said he would do it.
Virginia and I have worked well together. She likes blazing new trails and learned the business quickly. I am a very detail-oriented artist when it comes to launching records, and she quickly ran details tighter than I did, allowing me genuinely for the first time in my career to relax a little.
Ty and I had been together again for a few years and many people thought I was going country because of Ty, but that wasn’t it at all. Besides, Ty listened to rock. But how I managed my business and how much I worked was beginning to change because of my relationship with Ty. Building a life with him became my priority. I had moved back to his ranch at this point and had babies and marriage on my mind. Ty was not there yet. The wall that had come down after we reunited and he helped me to recover from my mom’s betrayal had begun to come back up. It seemed he was very much in love with me, and yet had no desire to take it further. I was pretty exasperated by this time, and wrote three songs that summed up my confusion about the situation: “Stronger Woman” was about the part of him that pushed me. “No Good in Goodbye” was about that part of me that kept looking inside and feeling like it wasn’t time to leave, as I loved him. A song called “I Do” was about the dance we did around marriage. It became a single and we made a video, which Ty was in. Despite his perplexing commitment-phobia, I worked a little less to accommodate my life in Texas. I was hopelessly in love.
As I geared up for the launch of my first country album, I approached it as though I never had a record or a hit in my life. I signed with Scott Borchetta’s new imprint Valory. He believed in me and my ability to win over the country fans and he turned out to be the right partner for me.
I went in and introduced myself to every program director. They were a friendly and wonderful group. There were one or two skeptics. I remember one in particular crossed his arms when I sat down and said, “So, what the heck makes you think you’re country?” I had flashbacks from childhood, eating squirrel soup, skinning cattle, field dressing a moose. My life was a country song. I sang my songs for him and told him stories and we ended up becoming good friends.
I loved working records at country radio. I loved the people. The DJs were respectful and they, along with the whole industry, had a reverence for songwriters and storytelling. They cared about lyrics and asked me about a song or a line every time I was on air. Country musicians are thankful for their fans, and they want them to know it. They sign autographs after shows and everyone in the whole genre just seems happier. Country stars are not divas—no fits like you see in the pop and rock side. The award shows are a whole other animal as well. I can’t count the number of red carpets I have walked for pop shows and been ignored by someone I knew because I was not cool enough to be seen with. In country, the award shows are great big hangs. Everyone visits, everyone is friendly, whether there is a camera capturing it or not. Country does a great job helping up-and-coming artists to understand that their income depends on the fans they play for, and the proper way to behave. It goes a long way toward longevity, and why I think country fans are famous for sticking with artists for their whole careers.
My first single “Stronger Woman” had run its course, and “I Do” was my second single. In May we shot the video outside Nashville. Ty had been in almost all my videos since we’d met, starting with “Standing Still.” It was an odd feeling to have such a personal issue that was still unresolved in my life turned into a video, with the guy I wrote it about in the video no less. As a kicker there’s a scene where Ty slips a ring on my finger in a field. The video was fun to shoot, complete with a showdown as Ty and I play a game of chicken driving muscle cars. We wrapped the shoot on my birthday and Virginia threw me a party. The next day, May 24, Ty and I went home to the ranch and he gave me a present and our usual birthday letter. Since we’d met in 1999, he and I had exchanged letters on holidays and birthdays. We have a collection of Christmas, Valentine’s, and birthday letters that talk about the year, our life, our love. They meant more to me than the presents ever did. This time I opened my letter and read, “Jewel, will you marry me and have my baby?” I was of course instantly in tears. And instantly said yes.
Ty is a methodical and calculated person. His mind is a steel trap. He takes time to look at something from every angle and make a decision, but once he has, that is that. It was forever. He had decided to retire from bull riding while he was still at the top of his field. He engaged in a deep and introspective battle, and when he came out he declared it was time. I knew he would never regret it or go back and change his mind. He had decided on it and he was done forever. I didn’t doubt that marriage would be the same for him as well. He must have worked through whatever issues he’d had and decided to make a go of it.
We wanted to keep our engagement a secret, and so instead of wearing a ring, we fashioned a key to a band of leather and I wore it around my wrist. I was headed into an intense album launch and work period, but I was walking on clouds.
Perfectly Clear came out in June of 2008 and debuted at number one on the country charts. My single was top 10, and better yet, the community embraced me.
I toured with Brad Paisley on the days I wasn’t filming a series for Great American Country and Nashville Star. And I planned a wedding secretly. No one knew: not my manager, not my dad, friends, or brothers. I made every phone call from backstage areas and buses. I arranged for the cake, the dress, the ring, and the venue myself in the few free moments I had.
We wanted to elope to the Bahamas, where we’d vacationed once a year. I was able to get a free week in August and told my manager I wanted it for a vacation in the Bahamas. I called the keyboard player Jason from my old band, whom Ty and I both loved, and asked him to come with his wife and marry us. He got himself ordained online, I figured out the legalities of international marriage and where to get our license and all the other details, and off we went.
I got my dress several days before I left Nashville for our secret ceremony. It was perfection, everything I hoped it would be. It was a lace mermaid dress with a halter top, casual yet elegant, perfect for a barefoot beach wedding. I found an antique Italian leather messenger bag from the 1600s and I wrote daily in a journal leading up to the wedding, and on the final day I wrote my vows in it, and placed it in the bag as Ty’s wedding gift.
On August 7, 2008, we were married. The beach was lit with candles. Jason spoke, I read my own vows, and Ty read his. Mine of course were more verbose. I smiled ear to ear while he recited his. On the inside of his ring I had inscribed, in you lives my hopes and dreams. In mine he’d written, I believe in you. Jason said, “Now you may kiss the bride,” just as the sun set behind us.
After the ceremony we sat down to dinner and began to call friends and family. Ty began drinking, I had a mojito or two, and we were both ecstatic. Our friends were shocked and happy for us. In the pictures from that night, I look the happiest I have ever seen myself. I belonged. I had my forever. I had a rock who vowed to love me and be tender and support me. I was so ready for peace and settling down and starting a family of my own.
The next morning Ty woke up hungover. He sat up and said, “I think I’m done drinking.” “Oh yeah?” I said, laughing. “Yeah. I’m done,” he said. And that was that. I knew he would never touch another drop, and he never did. He was going to do everything to be the best husband and dad in the world.
After our honeymoon I went back to work. It was a lot of fun touring the album and working hard to make it successful. Once that phase began to wind down, I started to think about what to do next. Despite our best efforts, I was not pregnant yet, so I focused on another project. It was time to do my first indie album, and with Virginia’s help, to test my ability to take music directly to fans with no label and no radio.
Years earlier, during the height of Pieces of You, parents often told me that my music had a quieting effect on their babies. It gave me the idea to do a mood album, one that was soothing and tranquil the whole way through, based on the lullabies I’d written for myself when I was overcome with anxiety. The new album would be original lullabies for adults as much as for kids. And hopefully my own child would be soothed to sleep with them one day.
I produced it myself on the ranch. I wanted it to sound simple and organic. Virginia was aggressive, and we were making a good team. I made the record for a very small budget to keep the costs down. We found a company that had listening kiosks in Walmart and Target, in the baby and greeting card aisles, where they sold mostly generic instrumental records of public domain songs. I licensed my album to them for a short-term trial period. We then went to Fisher-Price and licensed their brand. We got the CD out of the music section and into the most trafficked areas. I did an HSN special, every major morning talk show, Leno, and a high-profile spot on Dancing with the Stars, where Ty was a contestant. Ty was not particularly thrilled to do a dancing show, but felt it would be good exposure for the Professional Bull Riders, cowboy athletes, and the western lifestyle in general, so he bucked up and did his best. America fell in love with his disarmingly earnest personality—much to the chagrin of the judges—and despite his being a self-proclaimed horrible dancer, viewers voted him into the finals.
We still were unable to get pregnant, and we began to engage in the highly romantic act of planned baby sex. Temperatures and calendars got involved. It was hilarious. Somewhere about six months into the marriage though, it began to show signs of stress. There are many stories here, but suffice it to say that once again my need for love and for a fantasy outpaced my ability to see the truth. However, we were both very determined and dedicated.