From This Moment On (36 page)

I was embarrassed to receive a handout like that. “Thank you,” I stammered as I moved away from the Mustang. “I promise I’ll pay you back.” I never did do that, so I’ll have to make a point of doing it now. Sean may not even remember, but I do, and I thought it was very kind of him. To me, Sean came across as someone who cared about the underdog. It seemed that he listened more than he spoke but was not afraid to speak his mind. A real straight shooter.

I did, only I spelled his name “Mut,” with one
t
instead of two. Years later, he showed it to me, and we both had a good laugh. It was probably the first genuine “fan” autograph I’d ever signed, since all the others I’d autographed up to that point were on the coattails of Toby Keith!

Mutt initiated our first phone conversation through Mary, and the communication between us evolved quickly after that, with calls that would last for hours on end. I was now on my own but still touring in small country music bars across the States, singing “What Made You Say That,” “Dance with the One That Brought You,” and one or two other cuts from my debut CD. I wasn’t out with a backup band, though: that would come a bit later into the release of the album, where I tried to generate some money by live club performances with a small group of musicians. The purpose of this particular road trip was primarily to meet and greet disc jockeys and do radio interviews during the day, then put on these abbreviated performances at night. With
Shania Twain
selling only modestly, PolyGram was not about to spring for supporting musicians and all the infrastructure that goes
into mounting a full-scale tour, during a purely promotional tour. So, much to my chagrin, I had to stand onstage and sing along live to my own CD. That’s right: Shania Twain was singing karaoke to Shania Twain. No band, no vibe, just me holding a live mic, standing in a spotlight. It was downright embarrassing.

Although it was humiliating, the way I had to look at it was that I was involved in a fight to keep that first single afloat as long as possible while the fate of my recording future with PolyGram was surely being questioned with each passing week. Would I get a shot at a second single? There was no certainty. Even though Sean Penn directing the video for my second single gave me hope of having better success at radio and more security with my record company, the song just wasn’t strong enough for that to happen. I was encouraged that Sean considered me and my music worth his while, but I didn’t have the song that would make the most of that break.

Afterward, I would return to my run-down hotel room around midnight and get on the phone with Mutt, who was in his studio just outside of London. Talking to him cheered me up, since he seemed to speak my language musically, only with the added charm of a South African–British hybrid accent. He sounded mature, and I guessed he was older than me. Over time, I developed a mental picture of what he must look like: a tall, pudgy man in his fifties, wearing a floral shirt, balding in front but with long, black-silver hair tied back in a ponytail. I have no idea how this image found its way into my head.

Our hours together were spent mostly talking and playing music. He’d either call me directly in my room or leave me a message to call him when I got in, then he’d immediately tell me to hang up, that he’d call me right back so I didn’t have to pay for the calls. He knew I couldn’t afford it and was considerate that way. He was working on a couple of original tracks at the time and would play me bits and pieces. Then it would be my turn to prop up the phone receiver on a pillow, pull out my guitar, and play Mutt some songs I was working on. He was very complimentary about my ideas and my voice, and
it was refreshing to have someone so musical sincerely interested in me as an artist. Although he was born in Rhodesia (now Zambia), attended school in South Africa, then moved to England in his twenties, he had always been a big fan of American country music.

The first time Mutt played me what he was working on in the studio, I almost fell out of my chair. The sound was so outstanding. I was blown away by it sonically, the arrangement, and the whole gorgeous wall of sound pouring through the receiver. It was hard for me to hold in my excitement as I heard this incredible music. I remember thinking, quite naïvely,
This guy is really good! This stuff’s going to be big!
I may even have made a fool of myself by saying something stupid like that to him.

Mutt, a very humble person, never name-dropped the many multimillion-selling artists for whom he’d cowritten many of the songs and produced (AC/DC, Boomtown Rats, the Cars, Def Leppard, Foreigner, among many others) or mentioned the hit songs he’d cowritten—including Huey Lewis and the News’s “Do You Believe in Love,” much of Def Leppard’s 1980s output, and the Grammy Award–winning “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You,” which he cowrote with and produced for Bryan Adams. I never had an inkling that he was a big-time producer with millions and millions sold. The album
Hysteria
by Def Leppard alone moved twenty million copies worldwide.

My interest in him musically developed over many weeks of these transcontinental phone calls. By the time I finally discovered Mutt’s iconic status in the music industry, we had already bonded on our own terms without the influence of too much information. The foundation of our early relationship was based simply on my wanting to hear more of what he was working on and his wanting to hear more of what I was working on.

The first time we met was in June at the 1993 CMA Music Festival/Fan Fair, an annual four-day event that the Country Music Association had been putting on since 1972. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet for devotees of country music. Performers, ranging from
the most famous names to relative unknowns, play concerts, sign autographs, and, in general, rub shoulders with the most enthusiastic fans you’ll meet, more than 130,000 of them, on average.

I was scheduled to make my Fan Fair debut on the main stage; I believe it was Tim McGraw’s first appearance there, too. Mutt was going to be at the Tennessee State Fairground to see Randy Travis perform, his favorite of the country artists of that period.

We had agreed to meet backstage after my performance, and I was so excited to finally see him face-to-face. I was also nervous to know that he was watching me onstage, as I wanted to live up to whatever his expectations were of me as a singer. Obviously Mutt knew what I looked like; I was still expecting that tall, pudgy, balding dude with the ponytail. As soon as I walked around the back of the stage, Mutt approached me and introduced himself. We hugged like two long-lost friends, and out rang that familiar voice I had been speaking to for so many weeks. But aside from being tall, nothing about Mutt’s appearance fit my image of him. He had curly blond, shoulder-length hair, light blue eyes, and a slender, fit physique. He was older than me but looked younger than his voice suggested. I was surprised that he looked so different from what I was expecting. He was even warmer and more approachable in person. I loved Mutt Lange at first sight. Not that I was
in love
with him, but I loved him with a familiarity I could not explain. We had a connection that I didn’t understand and didn’t question. It was natural and easy. Not romantic; not yet. It was a love that felt innocent and comfortable, just the way it was. I had not looked ahead or anticipated a deeper relationship with him at that point.

I was excited at the thought of seeing him again and creatively charged to be writing music with someone so musically incredible.

The next month I flew to London to meet with him, loaded with a long list of song ideas, titles, and melodies I’d been banking since Deerhurst, including those rejected by the record company for my first record. We stayed overnight in a little area on the
outskirts of London called Hind Head, where Mutt lived in a charming country-style cottage that sat at the bottom of a small valley with patches of ivy and spotted moss cloaking the exterior walls. It was very picturesque, this cozy home of Mutt’s, I thought. On the inside, it was always very tidy and particularly quiet. He had stunning gardens that he’d designed himself and also planted much of with his own two hands. I related very well to his own approach of rolling up his sleeves and digging in, so to speak, when something needed to be done. The rooms in his house, with windows looking out on the gardens and framing them like masterpiece paintings, stopped me in my tracks as I took in the glorious views of fountains and pristine, carpetlike lawns framed in by flower beds of tremendous contrasting color and texture. Mutt was a gifted garden designer.

The next day we flew to his house in Spain, where he felt the change of scenery would be more creatively inspiring. I was already awed by Hind Head, but as he lived there, I could see his point, so off we went to his hillside retreat overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. It was a two-story house embedded in the side of a rock face, with a sun-and-sea holiday feel to it, creating a relaxed vibe, perfect for artistic inspiration. It wasn’t an extravagant house, but I could tell Mutt had been thoughtful about the décor. I appreciated his sense of style and attention to aesthetic detail. Like in the Hind Head house outside of London, it was clear I was in the home of someone particular about his surroundings and sensitive to quality and personal taste. Mutt and I made great progress in the two weeks I was there, combining our collective writing. It was a concentrated time of all writing. We stopped for meal breaks but stayed focused on making the most of each day writing songs. I enjoyed this time indulging in being creative with no interruption. It was almost like a songwriting vacation. All I was required to do was sit around thinking of musical ideas. It was fantastic! It was reminiscent of the period when all my friends were at university and college all day studying, while I stayed back in the apartment working on music. Only this time, I had a partner,
someone who was doing the same thing I was: living and breathing music intensely for an extended period of time until he came up with something satisfying.

There was never anyone around except for the two of us and the cleaning lady, who came with a whispered presence off and on throughout the weekdays. I remember very clearly feeling uncomfortable with her doing my laundry. I wasn’t used to people doing domestic chores for me and felt guilty when she took it upon herself to add it to her other cleaning chores. I was more accustomed to rolling up my own sleeves to either do it myself or at the very least pitch in. I asked her how to use the machines and insisted on doing it myself. This was very odd behavior to her, I could tell, but she smiled and obliged. I felt awkwardly spoiled letting someone else clean my dirty clothes. Such luxury was for the likes of Scarlett O’Hara in
Gone with the Wind,
not for Eilleen from Timmins, Ontario.

Too soon for me, my songwriting holiday was over and I had to fly back to Nashville, pack my bags, and hit the road again to carry on promoting Shania Twain. The second I walked into my Brentwood apartment, I called Mutt and told him that I missed him already. I didn’t feel coy about saying it, as I missed him in the way that you would miss a family member or close friend. At this stage of our relationship, Mutt never indicated that he was interested in anything other than creating songs together. He was a gentleman and never made me feel uneasy in any way.

I made a second songwriting trip to Mutt about a month later and the songs between us were really taking shape. But it was our third round of writing sessions that would change the course of my personal life forever.

I could sense that being with Mutt was awakening something else inside me other than friendship. My impression was that Mutt was a humble and sincere person, interested in music more deeply than anything else, but he began to reveal a sincere interest in me personally, which I was also feeling mutually. Mutt didn’t concern himself with what I knew about “who” he was and what he’d accomplished.
I appreciated this quality in him. Instead, we spoke about our music and our childhoods, and entertained each other with endless conversation about life overall. We were getting to know each other as people in this week and discovering that we wanted to spend more time together. We wanted to be closer. By the end of our Majorca writing session, I knew my life was changing before my eyes and by the second. Just being around Mutt gave me energy, and we had so much to talk about.

Although this time brought us to admit a personal affection toward each other, I wasn’t certain what my feelings meant, and in this confusion, I tried to control my burgeoning feelings for him. Life would just carry on as before. I would go home to Paul, his family, and our little cabin by the river and ignore that something within me was somehow different. I wanted to sit around the campfire and sing my new songs, deny the realization that the person I’d spent the last six years in a relationship with was not the one I would build my future with. I was afraid to let go, as letting go of my relationship with Paul felt as though I would be letting go of stability itself. I was unsettled by the thought of leaving his companionship, his caring family, and the comfortable familiarity we’d developed between us over the years. We had a special bond that was painful to imagine living without. Paul made me feel safe and loved, but I could not hold on to something for the sake of feeling safe. I had to be honest with him and myself that I was not committed to marrying him, and holding on would be wrong. I knew I had to let go of one to have the other, and not when it necessarily suited me. My relationship with Paul had been too meaningful to abuse, so I left the security I had with him, his family, and our friends more abruptly than I was emotionally prepared for, and it felt as if I were flying from the nest and about to enter a whole new, scary world.