Suburban Turmoil
I’m standing in the tiny hallway of a Nashville production studio, unabashedly eavesdropping on the woman sitting in a makeup chair around the corner. Wearing oversized rollers, a flirty sequined dress and stiletto heels that could easily be used as murder weapons, she drones on about her life with the easy cadence of someone who’s been talking about herself for years.
“…and so now that my kid is playing school sports, practice goes until 5 every day,” she tells her hairdresser. “Every day,” she continues. “It never ends, does it?”
“No kidding,” I want to tell her. “I have two girls going to school soccer practice in 100-degree weather, despite the fact that school is letting out at 10:45 every day because of the heat.”
Instead, I stay silent. I’ve interviewed hundreds of celebrities, first as a reporter and later as a writer for CMT, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the stars don’t want to hear about anyone but themselves. Even, I’m guessing, Martina McBride, who spies me hovering at the door and gives me a quizzical look. I smile and briskly turn back to watch the cameraman set up for the interview with Martina that I’m here to oversee.
I don’t do a whole lot of field producing anymore because having four kids really isn’t conducive to last-minute jobs, but there was a time when I’d fly all over the country, picking up interviews with everyone from Sheryl Crow to Ashley Judd. If you think that most stars are preoccupied with themselves and their image, you’re right. The way I see it, though, they can’t help themselves. I mean, if I had between three and 10 assistants running all of my errands, laughing at all of my jokes and telling me I was wonderful and could do no wrong, after a few years I’d probably start to believe them.
So when people ask me what Ashley Judd is like, I can say with all honesty that if she weren’t famous, I’d probably like her a lot. As it was, though, with her yapping lapdogs knocking over our carefully placed background lighting and her insistence on making us wait 10 hours on a film set for an interview while she spent most of the afternoon and evening sitting in her trailer, well, I found her really annoying.
The upside of all the Ashley-induced waiting on that particular shoot was that I ended up befriending one of the film’s producers, who let me sit in her chair and watch the scene that was being shot that day. On the set before me, Ashley Judd and Andy Garcia stood in a morgue, uncovering the details of some dire and frightening mystery. The plot was beyond dull, but I was fascinated by the way they’d abruptly drop their anxious expressions at the end of each take and gaily chat away on their cell phones or with members of their respective entourages until the last possible second before the camera started rolling again. So this is why so many movies suck, I thought to myself, watching them. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Marlon Brando jumping in and out of character like a jack-in-the-box on the set of The Godfather.
Still, these kinds of rich-and-famous revelations are marvelous fodder for the most absorbing part of any celebrity shoot: listening to the stories traded like baseball cards among photographers, field producers and makeup artists while waiting for the inevitably late celebrity to arrive.
“My ex-boyfriend used to sell this guy blow,” a makeup artist muttered to me as we prepared for one interview with a big shot record executive. “I wonder if he’ll recognize me.”
“You watch,” a photographer told me another time as we set up for a shoot with Garth Brooks. “I met Garth three years ago and talked to him for less than a minute. But I bet he’ll remember me when he sees me again. He remembers everyone. Everyone!”
“Bob,” Garth said, smiling at the photographer when he walked through the door. “How ya been? It’s been, what? Three years, right?”
All this, of course, brings me back to Martina. I needed some dirt, but the former farm girl wasn’t giving me much for the gossip files. Unlike other stars I’d dealt with, she was friendly and talkative, and the wardrobe assistants and studio reps filing in through the front door seemed genuinely happy to see her. Bored by their chatter, I quit listening long before she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Once she was finished, I took my own turn, locking the rest room door behind me. Oh well, I thought. I guess I can tell people I sat on the same toilet seat as Martina McBride. I giggled as I looked down, then gasped. There it was, the story I had been waiting for. America’s Country Sweetheart might seem wholesome and pure, but I’ve got news that’s going to blow the lid right off of that idea.
Martina McBride doesn’t flush.
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