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It was my ninth time appearing in front of a1)Nashville executive to sing a few songs and try to 2)snag a record deal. The first eight 3)tryouts had led to stone-cold rejections. I didn’t have the right look. My hair was dated. I wasn’t a beauty queen. I was a little too old, too heavy, too rock and roll. Too something.
My songwriter friend Kenny Alphin thought a lot of deal-making executives were used to new talent they could dress and mold. Maybe they took one look at me and thought, “There’s no way I can control that woman.” On that 4)count, at least, they were right.
This particular audition in 2003, when I was 30 years old, was in the office of the president of Sony Music Nashville, John Grady. The night before, when I learned the appointment was for 8 a.m., I went a little crazy. I called my manager, Dale Morris. “Dale,” I said, “eight in the morning is too early to sing. I can’t do it. I’m a club singer. I’ve been singing at night my whole life!” Dale said, “Well, get up at six.”
I said, “What?”
He said, “If you get up at six, eight will seem like ten. Then you can 5)sing your heart out.”
That morning, waiting to sing three songs for a man behind a desk, without a microphone, lights or 6)amps, I was nervous. It’s very hard to stand there and let someone judge whether you’re worthy of a commercial career in 10 minutes. But in this business, it was something I had to do. And I knew one thing: They’d have to drag me out of there before I’d give up.
I’ve always been a fighter. Most of the people I knew growing up in rural 7)Illinois struggled just like my family did. Outside of farming, there wasn’t much of a local economy. If you weren’t a pig farmer or corn farmer, you’d be down at a diner or 8)truck stop 9)flipping eggs, an auto mechanic working in a shop in your backyard or a bartender pouring drinks. The best you could hope for, if you wanted new horizons, was to 10)latch onto a skill or career that could take you out of there.
That’s how I viewed my singing. My mom, Christine, says I started 11)carrying tunes when I was three. By the time I was four or five, Mom was setting up 12)impromptu concerts at 13)Kmart on Saturday afternoons. She’d find a 14)blue-light special, 15)plant me on a box and announce she had a treat in store. I’d 16)belt out a 17)Patsy Cline tune, and shoppers would 18)go nuts. Mom was proud of me. Soon I was competing in talent shows.
Music was the one thing I could hold on to when things got crazy. Mom had me when she was just 16, and by the time I was two, she’d left my dad. Then she married my stepfather, a 19)scam artist who kept us moving from town to town and from one 20)trailer park to another. He was abusive toward my mother and made her life a living hell.
When I was 15, I made money from singing. The venue was a bar in Collinsville, Illinois. My so-called singing act was to belt out country 21)standards to the 22)backup of music-only tapes on a portable recorder, a kind of do-it-yourself karaoke machine. I sat there wearing a blue evening gown with my hair all curled up and sang for the 23)happy-hour crowd. I was so scared beforehand that I got sick in the ladies’ room. But I did it anyway. I knew I could sing. I got paid for it too. That was a huge step for me.
Many years after that, in John Grady’s office at 8 a.m., I also knew I could sing. But I felt a little better this time because I had my manager, Dale, with me. I also had Kenny and Mitchell playing backup. They were people I loved and trusted. Dale said my only job that morning was to sing like it was 11 p.m.
I was in the middle of my second of three songs, a passionate 24)ballad, when I glanced up at John Grady, who was sitting behind his big desk. He didn’t appear interested at all. He was going through his desk, looking for something to write with, as if to 25)jot down a grocery list. It was awkward. I tried not to glare at him as if to say, “How inconsiderate.”
About halfway through, I saw Mr. Grady write something down. From where I stood, I could clearly see him write the letter “n”, followed by the letter “o.” As in: No. That’s it, I thought. He’s26)passing on me.
He folded the paper while I went on with my third and last song. I was sure the guy hated me and could not wait to get out of there.
As we said good-bye, Grady said, “I want you to have this.” He gave me the paper. I didn’t understand. Though my hands were shaking, I found the courage to read the note. It didn’t say, “No.” It said, “Now.”
My dream of becoming a professional musician was starting to come true. I still had to write, sing and record an album, of course. But I was 27)pumped. The next day, I started writing songs, and over the next three months, I wrote at least 100. Most of them are in a drawer somewhere. But the ones that 28)clicked ended up on my first record.
这是我第九次站在索尼音乐纳什维尔唱片公司的一位高层面前,希望靠我的歌声获得一张唱片合约。前面八次尝试都遭到了如石头般冰冷的拒绝。我其貌不扬,发型老土,没有选美佳丽的姿色,太老了点,太胖了点,太摇滚了点,太这样那样了点。
为我写歌的朋友肯尼·艾尔芬认为,许多手握合约的唱片公司高层习惯于挑选容易包装塑造的新人。可能他们看了我一眼之后就会想:“我没法掌控这个女人。”至少从这个方面来说,他们是正确的。
这场特别的试唱发生在2003年,索尼音乐纳什维尔唱片公司总裁约翰·格雷迪的办公室里,当时我30岁。前一天晚上,当我得知预约的试唱时间是早上8点时,我有点抓狂。我打电话给我的经纪人戴尔·莫里斯。“戴尔,”我说,“早上8点太早了,不适合唱歌。我做不到。我是个酒吧歌手。一直以来,我都是在晚上唱歌的!”戴尔说:“好吧,你6点起床。”
我说:“什么?”
他说:“如果你6点起床,8点对你来说就像是平时的10点。这样,你就能有个好状态全力以赴。”
那天早上,在等着为坐在一张桌子后面的那个男人唱三首歌(那里没有麦克风、灯光、喇叭音箱)时,我很紧张。站在那里,让某个人在10分钟内决定你是否配得上成为一个职业歌手,这是一件很困难的事。但身处这个行业,我不得不这样做。并且我明白一件事:还没等我放弃,他们就会把我拽出试唱室。
我一直在奋斗。我认识的大部分在伊利诺斯州乡下地区成长的人都像我们家一样努力奋斗。当地的经济除了农业就没什么了。如果你不是养猪或种玉米的农民,你就只能在小餐馆或卡车加油站里煎鸡蛋,在自家后院的汽车修理间做汽车技工,或是做个酒保给人倒饮料。你最大的希 望——如果你想开拓自己的新视野——就是掌握一项技能,或者找到一个能把你带离那地方的工作。
我就是这样看待我的歌唱事业的。我的母亲克莉丝汀说我3岁就开始哼调子。我四五岁时,母亲每周六下午都会在凯马特超市举行即兴音乐会。她会走到特价专区,把我放在一个箱子上,向众人宣布她为大家准备了一些好东西。我会扯开嗓门大声唱出佩茜·克莱恩的歌,围观的顾客们个个都笑翻了。那时,母亲以我为荣。很快,我就开始参加一些才艺比赛。
当其他一切不顺时,音乐是唯一给我慰藉的东西。母亲16岁就怀上了我。当我两岁时,她离开了我父亲。接着,她嫁给了我的继父,他是一个职业骗子,跟着他,我们不停地从一个镇搬到另一个镇,住着活动房屋,不断搬往新的地方。他对我母亲粗暴凌虐,让她生不如死。
我15岁就开始靠唱歌挣钱。唱歌的地方就是伊利诺斯州科林斯维尔市的一间酒吧。我所谓的演唱其实就是随着配乐大声地喊出乡村音乐——那里只有一台便携式录音机播放磁带,有点像自制的卡拉OK机。我穿着蓝色的晚礼服坐在那儿,头发全烫卷了,为“欢乐时光”时段那些下班来玩的人们唱歌。在演唱前我实在很怕,还紧张到在女厕所里恶心想吐。但不管怎样,我撑了下来。我知道我能唱,也靠唱歌换来了报酬。那对我来说是一大进步。
多年以后,早上8点在约翰·格雷迪的办公室里,我同样相信我可以唱好。但这次,我感觉好了一点,因为我的经纪人戴尔就在我身旁,还有肯尼和米切尔为我伴奏。他们是我爱着且信任的人。戴尔说我那天早上要做的就是像以往晚上11点时那样歌唱。
总共三首歌,第二首歌是一首热情洋溢的民谣,我唱到这首歌的中段时,抬头瞥了一眼坐在他那张大桌子后面的约翰·格雷迪,他看起来一点都不感兴趣。他正在扫视桌面,找纸和笔,好像要列出购物清单一样。场面有点难堪,我试着不去盯着他看,仿佛在说:“真没礼貌。”
唱到一半时,我看到格雷迪先生写了一些东西。从我站的地方,我能清晰地看到他写了字母“n”,接着是字母“o”。合起来就是“No”。我知道了,就是这样。他宣布了我的死刑。
当我继续唱第三首,也是最后一首歌时,他把纸折好。我肯定这个人很讨厌我,迫不及待地想离开。
当我们道别时,格雷迪说:“我希望你拿着这个。”他递给我那张纸。我糊涂了。虽然我双手颤抖,我还是鼓起勇气看了那张纸条。上面写的不是“No”,而是“Now(编者注:此有类似“通过”的意思)”。
我想成为一名专业音乐人的梦想开始成真了。当然,我还得写歌、唱歌以及录制一张专辑。但我很兴奋。第二天,我就开始写歌,而在接下来的3个月里,我写了至少100首歌。他们中的大部分都呆在抽屉里的某个角落,但其中精彩的歌最终出现在了我的第一张唱片里。
