She recorded the bestselling album ever made by a woman, but later disappeared from the spotlight. She talks about the violent childhood and devastating divorce that do her pas great survivor
Shania Twain was at the crest of her strengths when she lost her voice. We are not talking a couple of nullified concerts or a few cases weeks on the throat lozenges. Twain did not make a record for 15 years.
” I never recollected I’d sing again ,” she says softly. It is only six weeks since she had laryngoplasty, an operation to reconstruct the vocal box. A two-inch horizontal scar is deprived across her neck.
Actually, she says, she was lucky. Her vocal cord paralysis was a result of being bitten by a tick and contracting Lyme disease.” Lyme disease can be so much more devastating. It can go to your brain .”
It is hard to conceive just how huge the country-pop star was when disaster struck. She was one of the first “crossover” starrings, blending country music with papa and boulder. Without Shania Twain, there might well have been no Taylor Swift. She made three monster-selling albums with the help of her husband and music marriage, farmer and columnist Robert ” Mutt ” Lange. Come on Over, which has sold 40 m copies, is the bestselling album by a female creator and the ninth-top seller of all time in the US.
Lange, who the hell is drew his appoint working with bandings including AC/ DC and Def Leppard, facilitated reinvent Twain. She lay down her acoustic guitar, put on ends, lippy and thigh-length boots and morphed from conventional country singer to rock goddess. Twain was sexy, entitling and funny. This was a woman who knew what she wanted- servicemen, action, dancing, self-control. As she sang on Man! I Feel Like a Woman !, the very best thing about being a woman was the prerogative to have a little fun. Her finger-wagging, top-hat-wearing vamp would not take any nonsense from the cloned moderately boys playing guitar on the song’s video.
In the video for That Don’t Impress Me Much, she is stranded in the Mojave desert, dressed from thought to toe in leopard-print, accepting trips from any number of narcissistic hotties (” Oh-oo-oh, you think you’re special/ Oh-oo-oh, you think you’re something else/ OK, so you’re Brad Pitt/ That don’t impress me much “).