by Arden, Jann
My parents, in the meantime, kept buying me used furniture at yard sales. They hauled all of it into my apartment, piece by horrible piece. After I’d lived there a few months, my quaint little space started to look like some bizarre furniture emporium. Nothing matched. The last straw was when they brought in a fluorescent, psychedelic, puffy armchair they’d bought at an auction. My mom thought that it would look “cute” in my living room. My dad, of course, mumbled “Goddamn this goddamn chair, Jesus Christ!” as he carried it awkwardly down my little staircase. I was officially out of space.
I would meet Neil a few times a week and play him the songs I’d written. He’d have lots of notes and make suggestions about what I should change or work on. It was the first time I had ever had that kind of constructive input. We talked structure and content and how I could be economical with my lyrics. Most of my songs were simply too long. I had to learn to say what I wanted to say but preferably in under sixteen verses. Neil was hard on me sometimes, but he wasn’t trying to be mean; he was trying to get me a record deal.
At some point Neil decided it was time to reintroduce me to the live music scene. He got busy making calls and asking favours, determined to put together the best band he possibly could for me. He knew many musicians and had a firm grasp on how he wanted to put it all together. I was relieved to be working with someone who knew what he was doing. We would need to have extensive rehearsals because I was going to be playing some covers alongside my own songs, and Neil wanted the whole set to make sense. He definitely had a vision. He wanted it to be not just a regular bar gig, but a showcase where he could bring in important label people to hear me sing. He wanted to have hype surrounding the show, so he was very particular about when and where he had me play. He thought that the best way to get my name out there would be to create the illusion of success. He wanted people to think that I was much bigger than I was. Neil was a clever man with a plan.
A few nights before the first gig with the new band, I was over at his apartment going over some last-minute details. Neil was going through his yellow legal pad of notes and checking off the things that he wanted to address. As he neared the end of his list he cocked his head to one side and thoughtfully asked me what my middle name was. I told him that it was Arden.
“How do you feel about being Jann Arden?” he said.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about it at all. I had been Jann Richards all my life. Arden sounded really weird to me.
“I think you should be Jann Arden because it puts you in good alphabetical order,” he said. “Plus it kinda sounds like Ted Nugent.” I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but we both laughed. Neil and I laughed a lot. I had so many great times with him. We worked hard and we laughed even harder.
Before my first official gig with the band, I became Jann Arden. Neil was going to get posters printed up and do a fair amount of advertising for my future gigs, and I was beside myself. I was going to have posters with my name on them! I had to figure out how I was going to sign my new name. I practised signing “Jann Arden” for at least fifteen minutes and then I got completely bored and figured it would have to sort itself out. Besides, I had to go and pull a shift at Fairview Video. The universe had a way of keeping me humble at all times.
Neil had discovered a young photographer named Jeth Weinrich who he thought was a genius, and he was going to arrange a time with him to take some pictures of me. I had never had my picture taken professionally before, so I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I didn’t have a lot of clothes. My stage outfits to that point had consisted of my friend Patti’s dad’s old suit jackets. That’s what I’d always worn when I worked with David. I looked like a midget who’d had sex with a tuxedo.
I ended up borrowing some outfits from my friend Tia, whom I had met while I was involved in amateur women’s boxing. (I really wish I was kidding, but I’m not. The boxing happened around the time I was hanging out with Leslie at college and was how I had met the Great White Hope. For two months I participated in a women’s boxing league. Problem was, every other girl was a swimsuit model who didn’t want to be punched in the face. Where else are you supposed to punch somebody when you’re boxing? Like I said, it was a short-lived hobby.) My friend Tia was the best boxer of the lot of them, and she also happened to have beautiful taste in clothes. I was relieved to have her dress me up for my photo shoot with Jeth. The posters turned out beautifully, and I can’t tell you how exciting it was to see my name plastered across the front of them. Jann Arden. I felt like I had suddenly become somebody.
I had a great time singing with the band Neil had put together. The few places he had me play in were always packed. If a club had a dance floor, Neil would make sure the owners put cocktail tables all over it to make the room more intimate. I would never have thought about that—few people would have. He’d make them put candles and tablecloths on all the tables, like you were in Paris somewhere listening to poetry. I performed in these big ugly bars, but Neil would somehow disguise them with his clever ideas.
After he and I had worked together for a year or so, he brought in his friend Rudy to work on our project. Rudy had worked for years with Sony Music and brought a wealth of experience with him. Rudy was generous to a fault and he and Neil were a good team. When they joined forces I felt like we were gaining momentum. The only negative thing I could say about either of them was that they smoked way too much pot. Neil said he was more creative when he was stoned, so perhaps that worked in my favour. I was never a pot smoker, so I didn’t understand the attraction. After awhile it did get to me. If Neil wasn’t stoned, he wasn’t fun to be around. He could be a very dark person. I think he struggled a lot with depression. There were many times when he was unreachable for days. He’d hole up in his apartment and ignore the world completely. I always thought that pot was half of his problem. Mind you, Neil didn’t drink at all and that had a profound effect on me. Ironically, he always encouraged me to live a healthy lifestyle. I eventually quit drinking altogether, and it had a lot to do with him. He also told me to never start smoking pot. I think he recognized it for what it was—a cop-out.
Neil and Rudy introduced me to some incredible musicians. One of my favourites was a piano player named Bob Foster. He was such a quirky, talented, funny person. He came to Canada from England to make a new life for himself, and in many ways he reminded me of one of the indelible characters in a Dickens novel. I loved the way he spoke. I loved his good humour and his extraordinarily good heart.
Bob had all the wacky computer gadgets you could possibly get back in those days. He loved to experiment with sounds and textures. He had such great instincts when we played my songs live. I loved how he played piano. His parts were always haunting and mysterious. One day he offered to have me come to his house to do some demos with him. Neil was all for it. He, too, was a fan of Bob’s. Bob rarely if ever charged me for the demos we made, and if he did charge me anything, it was for the tape or mic rentals. I loved working with him. It was an adventure to flesh out some kind of original sound for me. I had written so many songs but had never really produced them. I knew in my head what I wanted to hear, but I needed someone to help me get that sound out. Bob was that guy.
He was great at programming drums and could play not only keyboards but guitar and bass as well. I had my own one-man band. We spent hundreds of hours in his basement producing my songs. It was addicting. All I did was write songs, take them to Bob’s place and record them. Between Bob and me and his wife, Astrid, we did everything. We sang everything and played everything and produced everything. We had developed a system that suited me to a T. I could feel the world turning in my favour. I couldn’t wait to see what was in store.
Patrick was busy studying at the University of Calgary. He was up to his neck with the stress and anxiety of getting all of his work done. Pat had always been so easygoing, but university brought out the temper in him, which surprised us all. He would punch holes in the walls in his bedroom out of
sheer frustration. (My parents were none too pleased about having holes in their walls, and who could blame them?) My mom said she didn’t know what to do with him. I am sure there were days when she felt like the whole lot of us had lost our marbles. I didn’t see Pat that much. He was five years younger than me and school was taking up most, if not all, of his time. I was busy writing music and playing in the bars, and Duray was working diligently on his criminal record. Maybe we had all lost our marbles.
My dad stayed on track. He continued going to AA meetings a few times a week and they, combined with his sheer determination, turned his life around. I can’t imagine how hard it was to face his demons head on and come to terms with the changes he needed to make for himself and our entire family. It’s incredible to me now how much both of my parents sacrificed to remain a committed team. They didn’t give up, ever. They kept us all together no matter what that took. I am beyond grateful now as I look back on those difficult times.
Sobriety suited my dad for the most part, although he still yelled a lot. Still, the yelling came in fewer and shorter bursts. He had started his own concrete and construction company and was working harder than anyone I’d ever met. Fourteen- to sixteen-hour days had always been the norm for him and for my mom. When it came to work ethic, they set the bar high.
Neil and Rudy thought I had hit a wall and needed to expand my horizons a bit more. I knew they were right. Sometimes I felt limited in what I could do with Bob, although working together was completely wonderful. Neil had mentioned many times the possibility of going down to Nashville to record. He had a friend living down there, a producer named Miles Wilkenson. He thought Miles would be able to do a really professional job and provide us with demos good enough to shop to the labels. All we needed was the money to get down there.
I was excited about going anywhere. I hadn’t travelled much other than my ill-fated trip to Vancouver. (I guess I should also mention my Hawaiian adventure with Theresa and a vacation to Disneyland that my parents took us on in the seventies.) Other than that, I had been stuck in Alberta.
I told my mom and dad about Neil’s idea of recording some songs in Tennessee and they both seemed very excited for me. I didn’t dare bring up how we were going to get there. I knew that my folks didn’t have that kind of money lying around, so I didn’t ask.
A few weeks went by, and I had more or less put Nashville out of my mind. I was going to meet my parents at Tony Roma’s for dinner. We didn’t go out that often to eat, but when we did, mom and dad would always split an entree. You could call them frugal, but they certainly weren’t cheap. Near the end of our meal, my dad was rummaging around underneath the table. The waitress was in the middle of clearing away our rib bones when my dad placed an envelope on the table in front of me. He had the funniest look on his face. He said, “Your mom and I want you to have a chance.” That’s all he said. I knew what he meant. They wanted me to be able to go to Nashville and record my songs. He told me to open the envelope. It was sealed shut so I had to rip it open. My mom told me to be careful not to rip what was inside of it.
I pulled out five brand-new, crisp, one-thousand-dollar bills. I could not believe my eyes. I looked at my parents in disbelief. For one thing, I had never seen a one-thousand-dollar bill. I didn’t know they existed. My mom said that maybe something good would come of it, and I wouldn’t know unless I tried.
The lump in my throat was the size of a grapefruit. My parents could not afford to be giving me five thousand dollars. I didn’t know what to say. I kept looking at it like it wasn’t real, like I was dreaming. I was so grateful not only for the money, but because they actually believed that I could make something of myself. I am sure they were scared for me. They didn’t want me to be hurt or rejected. Lord knows I didn’t want to be hurt or rejected either.
So Neil and I went down to Nashville. We recorded four songs with Miles in the basement studio in the EMI building. I felt like I was on top of the world. I got to work with some brilliant musicians. I couldn’t believe how my songs took shape. The sounds were so lush and so rich. Miles was an amazing engineer and a gifted producer. The five thousand dollars went a long way. Looking back, it was the best investment my dad ever made.
We flew home a week later with our treasured tapes in our hands. I knew that what we had done was really good—I didn’t doubt it for a second. I played the songs over and over again in my little basement apartment. I am sure June was ready to kill me but I didn’t care.
Neil had a plan. He sent my four-song cassette to Virgin Records. That was his number-one pick, so that’s where we started our campaign. A guy named Doug Chappell was the president of the label at the time and he had a solid reputation for being a “song guy.” I was excited about Virgin Records because a little band called U2 was signed there. I loved U2. Doug listened to the songs and wasn’t too sure of what to make of them. He remarked about how personal they were. I think that made him a bit nervous. He was very constructive and positive with his criticism. He doled out the kindest rejection I ever received. He said he liked them but wasn’t sure if the label was in a position to break a new artist. Unbeknownst to us, Doug sent the cassette along to a young A&R guy named Allan Reid, who had just started working at A&M Records in Toronto.
Allan was really set on signing a grunge band of some kind. The Seattle scene was exploding and he wanted to become a part of that. Doug told him to give my songs a listen. “She’s got something there, and I’m not sure what that something is.” Allan said he’d get to it eventually. I am pretty sure that signing a nearly thirty-year-old singer/songwriter from Springbank, Alberta, was nowhere near the top of his list.
Lucky for me, Allan’s girlfriend had dumped him a few days after he got my cassette. Heartbroken and completely down in the dumps, he went for a drive to clear his head and listen to some tunes. The tunes he ended up listening to were mine. One song in particular, called “I Just Don’t Love You Anymore,” struck a nerve. He said he pulled his car over and “got it.” He thought that if a twenty-six-year-old guy who liked grunge could understand this kind of music and be moved by it then he wanted to be a part of putting it out there.
Allan called Neil and set up an appointment to come see me sing in person. When Neil told me that there was some real interest coming from A&M Records, I nearly fell over. I didn’t think it was possible. Everything we’d been working towards was coming together, and I was nearly breathless thinking about it.
Neil knew he had to present me in the right situation. He wanted it to be very simple. He didn’t want the band backing me up; he didn’t want a lot of people in the audience. He wanted me to sing five or six songs on my guitar in a stripped-down, almost bare setting. I hoped he knew what he was doing. I was beyond nervous—I was a wreck. Didn’t I need the band behind me? But Neil was adamant: no band.
He rented a small space called the Pumphouse Theatre in Calgary. He told them he only needed it for a few hours one evening, but they told him in turn that they had a production going on at the time and it wasn’t going to work. Neil begged. He arranged for us to go in the early afternoon so that we could be out of there before the play began. The Pumphouse people seemed okay with that. There was only one drawback. The stage I was set to perform on had a giant eight-foot papier mâché penis on it. They said they could move it to the side, but you’d still be able to see it from the audience. Good grief.
Neil didn’t seem to think it was going to be a problem. He said that, if anything, it would be memorable. I mean, how could Allan forget a giant penis? So I stood beside the giant you-know-what and played my songs for an audience of three—Neil, Allan and Rudy. I could see the three of them sitting there, but just barely. The lights were in my eyes. Neil didn’t want me to talk in between songs, he just wanted me to sing, so that’s what I did.
I went home afterwards and waited on pins and more pins to hear back from Neil about what Allan thought. It was an eternity. It was longer than an eternity.
I f
ound out later from Neil that Allan had listened carefully and hadn’t commented at all. He’d just sat there looking at me and bobbing his head back and forth. At the end, as they made their way out of the theatre, Allan said to Neil, “Let’s make a record.”
Neil had done what he had told me he was going to do five years earlier—help me navigate the complex world of the music business. He called me later that night to tell me the good news.
“You just got a record deal, Jann. Congratulations.”
I hung up the phone and cried for hours.
I was nearly thirty years old.
I was in a wonderful, beautiful, blissful state of shock. It took days, if not weeks, for the whole thing to settle in. I walked down the street with my feet barely touching the ground. My parents were beyond happy for me. My mom told me that she always knew I could do it. My dad was excited too. He wanted to know about the practical side of things, contracts and the like. I knew he would be looking out for me, and that he wouldn’t take any crap from anybody. I was glad to have him on my side. Neil told me that we had a lot of challenges ahead of us, and that the real work was about to begin. I didn’t care how much work it was going to be. I was willing to do whatever I needed to do to succeed.