From This Moment On (46 page)

As we counted in the song, the sound engineer rolled the tape of all the guitars from the night before. The only live sounds actually emanating from the stage were my voice and J. D. Blair’s drums. The audience heard a wonderfully played “No One Needs to Know,” not realizing that the instruments were on tape. And each musician heard only the wretched sound coming out of his sabotaged instrument. Every string, totally out of tune. Best of all, he had no idea that the others were trapped in the exact same nightmare. As far as he knew, he and he alone was massacring the song.
What the hell is going on?!
Oh, man, Shania is gonna be pissed!
Their panicked expressions had the guitar techs laughing so hard that they nearly passed out.

J.D. kept playing, as of course there was no way of messing up
his drums, and he had to be live, so if the band decided to stop in the middle of the song out of confusion, J.D. would be the only one that to the audience would have been noticeably
not
playing. The other musicians could stop and start off and on in their confusion, but it’s hard to decipher who’s playing what in that song, as it’s a wall of acoustic instruments.

But we were not finished with them yet. Nope. One by one, Brent, Randy, and Andy snuck off to the side of the stage to have one of the guitar techs take the unplayable instruments off their hands and replace them with ones that worked. The techs just ignored them. In that moment, I am sure that three guitar techs could easily have been sent to the hospital with injuries sustained from an out-of-tune guitar employed as a deadly weapon. But all Brent, Randy, and Andy could do was glare at them.

Each of the guys eventually caught on and played air guitar for the rest of the song. The audience never suspected a thing, but only because I managed to keep myself from cracking up in the middle of singing. You have no idea how hard that was.

When you’re on tour, the music usually continues after the show, on the bus. “But that’s your day job. Don’t you get tired of it?” Singing with other people? Never. I passed a number of late nights jamming with the opening act, Leahy. I had seen this eclectic Canadian group consisting of four multitalented brothers and seven sisters, ranging in age from about their early twenties to their midthirties, on the 1998 Juno Awards and thought they would make for a terrific show opener. Not only did they play and sing, but they were also first-rate Irish step dancers. Very impressive.

Whenever we could coordinate our two buses in the convoy to the next town, I would hop on theirs until bedtime. It was crowded, but it seemed the more the merrier. I’d snack on Froot Loops out of the box and join in the laughter and dancing. The girls taught me how to swing dance, and we’d all dance in twos, sister-to-sister, sister-to-brother, and as the girls knew the guy moves, they made great partners
for me as well, and I never ran out of partners. The Leahy bus would rock down that highway until the last man was standing. That was usually me.

During the course of the two-year tour, some of the smaller Leahy children sometimes tagged along on the bus as well. I was thankful to be around this close-knit family; it lent me a badly needed sense of reality and kept me from drowning in isolation—an unfortunate consequence of both fame and being on an endless road.

Finding freedom and solitude during touring was not easy for me, so the people who surrounded me were important for keeping my own morale up. I was also feeling the wear from the lack of freedom I had to do simple things like go to a park for a walk by myself or pop out for a pizza without planning it. Doing anything outside the venue walls without planning was almost impossible. I loved being around my road family, but I also liked being out in the world, alone. Sitting on a bench along a river with the world happening around me, lost in my own solitude, anonymous and free to be there undisturbed in my thoughts without having to isolate myself to do it … this I missed.

There were periods I felt like a babysat child while out on tour, someone knowing where I was at all times. Frustrated by the lack of independence, one day I just decided to break away. Completely and irresponsibly ignore security concerns and without a plan, without telling anyone … just walk out. Stomp out like a little kid fed up with being told what to do all the time. At the time what was really going through my head was that I was damned if I was going to live in Michael Jackson–type isolation and seclusion. I imagined how lonely it must’ve been for him; hibernating and hiding from the outside world was something I could not live with. I needed out of the prison bubble and didn’t want to take a simple stroll with a whole production of elaborate disguise and undercover security. I accepted that as my professional life, not my real one!

Wearing some sweats and a cap, I walked out of the venue onto the street and just like that, I was free. It was a show day after sound
check, so it was about four in the afternoon. I still had a few hours before showtime, so I picked a direction and just started walking. I felt so free and light. Giddy and chirpy, I skipped along so pleased with myself that I’d made the decision to just take the plunge and head out somewhere on my own. No security, not telling anyone that I was going or where I was going, just like any other normal citizen in the civilized world, I’d simply gone out for a walk. No big deal. I kept my head down for the most part, avoiding eye contact, and for a time I got away with my escape really well. It was a temperate, sunny afternoon, perfect for a stroll, and I was enjoying my freedom adventure thoroughly. Too soon, however, the time came when I had to start heading back to the surreal, real world of my bubble cage.

I got about ten minutes out from the venue and I noticed the streets were getting pretty thick with other walkers. With every block there were more and more strolling bodies that soon became a crowd, and before I knew it, I was locked in the mob of people inching their way to the various entrances of the venue. My venue. Shoulder to shoulder with people wearing my face across their chests and backs, I was right among the audience. So freaky to be walking behind someone, looking eye level at myself on the back of her T-shirt. I thought,
Oh no, how am I going to get through this without anyone noticing me? I really got myself into it this time.
I actually felt like a naughty child preparing for my scolding once I got in the door. I imagined hearing things like:
Where have you been, young lady? We were worried sick about you. You could have gotten yourself into trouble out there. You have a responsibility and you better start taking it more seriously and stop running off like that whenever you feel like it.
It was true, I hadn’t thought it through very well with the timing; it hadn’t dawned on me that I was going to be trying to get back into the venue at the same time as twenty thousand other people, all there to see … me, and I’d be standing right among them.

I did not have a cell phone with me, so I had no choice but to blend in with the crowd of twenty thousand or so fans until I made it inside. The thought that I could very easily be late to my own show
made me giggle. I resigned myself to the fact that I was in for a scolding and decided to just enjoy the moment. Everyone was all pumped and chattering away. I tuned in to the conversations around me:

“What song do you think she’ll open with?”

“Wonder what Shania will be wearing tonight?”

“I hope she sings ‘You’re Still the One.’ That’s my absolute favorite.”

“I’m gonna try to make it to the stage and get an autograph.”

I allowed myself to become temporarily lost in the audience’s vibe and fantasized that I was there for one of my own favorite artists. I understood how the fans felt as I imagined that every inch toward the entrance was one inch closer to seeing Prince or Michael Jackson, for example, both of whom I adored and had never seen live in concert.

I can’t imagine many performers get the chance to stand anonymously among their fans and experience firsthand the run-up to the show, feel that excitement build. I have to tell you, it was a rush, and something that I will cherish forever. Especially since I probably will have the good sense never to do it again, at least if I don’t want to risk being late for my own show!

Finally, I made it to the entrance. “Where’s your ticket?” demanded the local security guy. Obviously, I didn’t have one.

“It’s me,” I whispered. Not that I expected him to believe me. Before I could find out, a crew member walking by spotted me and whisked me inside. “What were you doing outside?!” were his first words. “Outside.” That word strikes me even now as I reflect. When I was in the sheltered environment of touring, there was a threshold to cross and I went “outside” of it, like passing from one reality into another. Anyway, I made a long story short and told him that I’d gone for a walk and just timed my return badly. He looked at me quizzically, like, “
That
was a weird thing to do,” and escorted me backstage to prepare for the show.

The North American leg ended on July 1 with a concert in Hollinger Park before twenty-two thousand people, making it the largest event
in the history of Timmins. This park is the same park me and my two sisters, Carrie and Jill, walked to in our little threesome, growing up. The pool was just up the road, and the McDonald’s where I worked in high school was directly across the street. In summer the park holds local concert events, one of which I participated in one year with the band Longshot. We entered a talent contest in a “battle of the bands” type category, and we won first place. (In the photo I included of that performance, I’m wearing the mukluks my grandmother gave me.) The park built stages for these events, the same way they built one for me eighteen years later during my Come On Over tour.

I was giddy throughout that entire show, spotting so many familiar faces in the audience. It was nonstop identifying people I knew or recognized, as my eyes shifted and scanned the audience: family, friends, schoolmates I hadn’t seen since high school, neighbors, merchants. I felt like I knew everyone personally, and a sort of hometown pride came over me, knowing they’d all come to celebrate with me. It’s maybe like the way you might feel if you organized a birthday party and a lot of people showed up. It makes you feel cared about, thought of, like your existence has some importance and meaning to them. This is probably ego coming forth, giving a false sense of worth, but after you toil for years to accomplish something, it’s rewarding to know that you are appreciated. I’m not always sure where to draw the line between self-worth and actual worth, I guess. All I know is, that day, I felt as though I’d earned that support. It hadn’t come free, and I was relishing that satisfaction.

I wondered what my hometown people must think of this event, of me. Were they there as genuine fans, did they even listen to my music, or were they there because they were curious to see me again in person after all this time, like you might feel at a reunion? Did they find it novel that one of their own actually made it to the big time, or were they just taking advantage of a day at the park because something was going on? I didn’t really know what to expect from my hometown, and I supposed what they were thinking and their reasons for being there that day were probably a bit of all of the above. My
own friends and family were proud of my success and were there to enjoy the moment along with me. Overall, the feeling from the crowd was one of support and enthusiasm. For me it was a walk down memory lane and a way I could get some perspective on where I’d come to in my life, by connecting to where I’d come
from
.

From Timmins, we flew to Glasgow, Scotland, for the first of four shows in the United Kingdom. Nineteen ninety-nine was to mark
Come On Over
’s breakthrough in Europe.

But before heading to Europe, I’d sent Dancer to Switzerland, where our château was now complete, and we’d moved in and settled once and for all in our Swiss home. The night before I had to leave, Dancer was frolicking out in the paddock with the other horses and got kicked in the knee. It was hard to tell the extent of the damage that night, as he had to be brought to a clinic for X-rays. I didn’t feel good about leaving Dancer but had to fly out for the next show.

A couple of days later, I got a call from Mutt that would break my heart in two. It was late morning, not long before sound check. “Dancer is gone,” my husband told me. Nothing could be done to save the knee, which had shattered completely, and given that Dancer was pushing fifteen years old, the vet felt that there was no other choice but to put him down. I was out of my mind with anguish. How could the vet kill Dancer? Why didn’t he speak to me first to at least explain before he took the liberty of killing my prince, my beloved friend? A rush of anger and grief overtook me. I’d lost my beautiful boy.

I felt empty and lonely after the news about Dancer. I already had such a small circle of comfort in my bubble as it was, and losing him at that moment was like losing a limb. I’d lost a part of me like someone had just hacked off my arm. Just a brutal attack on my being, and it left me feeling like there was less of me, less of everything at that point. I was now even more lonely, more insecure, more unhappy. I was numb for days after the news of Dancer’s death and
went through my shows on automatic pilot in my sadness. I would never get over the loss of Dancer and still miss him so much.

We were now in our last three weeks of the Come On Over (and Over and Over) tour, which ended just before Christmas in West Palm Beach, Florida. I learned everything I needed to know about being an international artist on tour at this point, and I learned more about being lonely, tired, isolated, and creatively uninspired than anything. I didn’t do any songwriting, and as my closest friend was my horse, it speaks volumes of where my personal life was at. And now even he was gone. Despite all this, it was one of the biggest concert tours of 1998 and 1999. Meanwhile, the album showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, during Christmas week,
Come On Over
sold 355,000 copies, more than in any week since its release two-plus years before. The CD would hit worldwide sales of thirty-nine million.