Onstage Offstage Read online

  My musical director and piano player, Alan Chang, is my other constant co-writing buddy. Alan supplies the chords and likes to tell me that my writing is too simple, that I should write something like Johnny Mandel’s ‘The Shadow Of Your Smile’. I love that song and its complexity, both lyrically and melodically, but it’s just not in my DNA to write one like it.

  I believe there’s a simple thing we all hunger for, and I have no problem delivering that. We expect a certain note to follow, so I say give the listener that note. I’m a child of the Beatles and three-chord songs. They move me. There are songs like ‘You And I’ by Stevie Wonder, which I covered on my second record. The first time I heard it, I thought it was okay. But after five listens, it became beautiful to me. I could hear the nuances in it. As much as I appreciate that quality, it’s not my songwriting approach. I want a pop song that hits you over the head, that doesn’t sink in slowly. I need you to hear it three times and, next thing you know, you’re in the shower and humming it.

  That’s where I’m at right now, anyway. Maybe one day I’ll be more introspective and want to write more complicated, less accessible songs.

  I’ve known Amy and Alan since the early days, so we have a super- comfortable rapport. Amy is especially comfortable arguing with me because we’ve been writing songs together since I was hanging out in LA, broke and begging for work. I’d go over to the house she shared with her husband and stay for dinner, chat for hours and, ultimately, we’d write rough versions of songs. We started to compose what became ‘Everything’ that way, although we recorded it many years later.

  Amy has become like a sister to me, which means that no matter how heated our arguments get, there are never any hard feelings. A big joke between us is that we don’t agree on words that are supposed to rhyme. What Amy calls a rhyme is not what I’d call a rhyme. She also pushes me to be honest in my lyrics, to take them to a personal place. As I’ve said, when I was writing ‘Home’ on the second album, I called her up and said I was having trouble getting the words right. Amy said I should touch on the pain of being away from Debbie, my girlfriend at the time. I was reluctant because I thought it would be too cheesy, but she argued that people would relate to a song that came straight from the heart. And she was right.

  When we wrote ‘Everything’, the hit song from the third album, I’d originally penned a few lyrics about ‘when I dream’ or something like that. I just made up some words so that I could sing the melody – create what we call the ‘la-la tape’, usually with Alan playing piano. I give it to Amy so she can help me come up with some words. Then we go back and forth several times and I make lots of changes until we hammer the song into shape. Amy also writes novels, and she’s a great writer, but I need to contribute to the lyrics because I’m the one who might be singing them for two hundred shows a year, year after year. If I don’t believe in what I’m singing, it’s just not going to work.

  Another song on the third album, a ballad called ‘Lost’, I wrote with the great Canadian pop singer Jann Arden. Jann is a good friend of mine, and she’s also managed by Bruce. I relate to her because we’re both comedians who like to sing really sad ballads, which would seem like a contradiction. I think ‘Lost’ is one of my best songs, but judging from the numbers, the fans seem to like ‘Hold On’ better.

  By now, in 2007, I had been a major-label artist for four years. When you sign to a major label, the world thinks your career doesn’t start until the moment you put your pen to the record contract. So, in interviews, everybody would talk to me like I was some kind of newcomer who’d only been going four years – but I’d already been working for more than a decade and I felt like an old pro. That was why I took control of the third release. I did it in the nicest possible way, even though I wasn’t always that nice about it.

  By the time it came out, I was both excited and terrified because I truly thought I’d made the best record of my career, and I wondered if I could do any better. Even before it was released in May 2007, I knew that I was sitting on two more hit songs.

  One day, Bruce informed me that I had sold around thirteen million records, including the DVDs and my Christmas EP. Only four years in, and thirteen million in sales made me proud. It validated me as an artist, giving me the confidence to believe more in my opinions and instincts. David Foster said I had interfered just enough. I’d brought the songs and, conceptually, I made it clear that each one was a story. To me, each song was like a movie. For example, if singer Donny Hathaway had ever sung ‘That’s Life’ it would have been very soulful. Hathaway influences me stylistically, so when I covered the song, I wanted to make it an inspirational gospel tune rather than the famously guy’s-guy version that Sinatra did. I also wanted to do Eric Clapton’s ‘Wonderful Tonight’ as a bossa nova with Brazilian jazz genius Ivan Lins, in the spirit of the Frank Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim duets.

  I wanted to bring in Boyz II Men for the steamy ‘Comin’ Home Baby’, even though other people wanted Destiny’s Child for the song. They said, ‘Destiny’s Child has heat,’ and reminded me that they’d had a string of hits. I responded that I didn’t need someone else’s heat, I just needed to make great songs. There has to be the right mix of people. Back on my second album, someone had suggested I use the then fifteen-year-old singer Renee Olstead for the duet ‘Quando Quando Quando’. I said there was no way that a thirty-year-old man should be singing a love duet with a fifteen-year-old girl. I wanted Nelly Furtado, and if I didn’t get Nelly, I wouldn’t do the song. It was the same with Boyz II Men. If I didn’t get those guys for the song, I would have nixed it entirely. Once I get an idea in my head, it’s stuck there. You don’t want to argue with me. I’ll only get on your nerves. I love all the people who work with me, but I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. My friends will tell you I can be really stubborn.

  I’m stubborn because I believe I have a gut instinct for an appealing chord or lyric. If you play me a chord on the piano, I’ll tell you if it conveys happiness, sadness, melancholy, hope, remorse, whatever. Many times I hear a song and think that its beautiful melody doesn’t match the lyrics.

  I’ve always loved to write songs, but I’ve never put pressure on myself to do so. Great singers such as Elvis Presley, Ella Fitzgerald, Bobby Darin and Frank Sinatra never wrote their own songs. They were brilliant interpreters. If you can tell a great story with your voice, your style, your phrasing, then you can do this for ever. Look at Tony Bennett. He’s still going strong.

  I have arguments with my co-writers because I’m not always good at working with people. I prefer to write the song on my own and bring in the co-writers later. I produce the melody, at least one good hook and maybe the first verse. I’m really lucky because I get to write a pop song for the radio and I also interpret these great American pop standards to make them my own. I can’t think of any other artist out there who gets away with mixing the genres the way I’ve been allowed to.

  Since I began my career, some well-intentioned people have advised me to stick to contemporary pop and forget the old stuff. Some have even tried to turn me into a singer who looks like he just walked out of the Backstreet Boys. I said a flat-out ‘No’ to all of them from the get-go. That’s not who I am. Also, if I had started off as a contemporary pop singer, people would have called me a fraud if I’d then switched to the classics. My credibility as a singer of standards would be drawn into question. Even now, as much as I enjoy straddling both the new and the old, why would I do a complete 180-degree turn and become something I’m not?

  Looking back at the release of that album in 2007, I remember I was still adjusting to the idea of relentless touring. As much as I love live performance, the grind did not come naturally to me. Back in those early days, I didn’t have the luxury of giving myself a day off if I needed it. I had to go where the work was. I’ve learned several coping strategies since then, such as making sure I’m always in touch with my loved ones and taking regular breaks. In the early days, there were times I’
d go home after being away for months and feel so detached, exhausted and self-centred that I just wanted to avoid everyone. I wasn’t always nice to my family, even when my mom wanted me to come over for dinner. I was so tired I just wanted to be free of appointments and responsibilities, even family ones.

  Bruce is a great manager, because he has foresight and he knows the business so well. He knew that I’d need to focus my energy on live performance if I wanted to be successful. He pushed me to tour and make television appearances even when I was so exhausted I got angry with him. When I was tired, he’d say, ‘I know you’re tired. But you’ve got to go to South Africa or Australia, kid. Don’t stop now. Get to these markets. They’ll be loyal, and when you’re an old man, you can go back and sing there again.’ Now that I see how the business has gone, I appreciate his foresight. Believe me, I wasn’t so grateful back then. Bruce took the brunt of my frustration, my loneliness and my anger. If I argued too much, he’d bark, ‘Don’t be a wimp. Go out there and do it.’

  I remember a particularly low point. I had just flown a twelve-hour red-eye from London to Vancouver. I’d gone to London to do a TV appearance, and I was happy to be home, because I only had a short break before I had to fly off to the US for some shows. The plane had just touched down when I got a call from Bruce. He said, ‘Kid, we have a big show in the United Kingdom lined up. Do you want to do it?’ I said of course I did. He said, ‘That’s great, because you have to get on another plane and fly back to London.’ I didn’t even have time to leave the airport. I was so tired and devastated I actually cried.

  Another time, I was in Paris touring for my second album. Debbie and I had broken up and I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t feeling mentally strong at all. I was sitting in my hotel room feeling so run-down and depressed that I pulled out my laptop and started making plans for a trip to the Bahamas or some place where nobody could find me. I’d just disappear and no one would know. I’d be gone for two months. I didn’t do it. But I was at breaking point. I hadn’t seen my grandpa in months. I was missing out on seeing my nieces and nephews growing up. I thought, I don’t need to do this any more. I’ve made a couple of million dollars. Enough is enough. Of course, no matter how bad it ever got, I’ve never bailed on anyone, because my need to please everyone is fortunately bigger than any moment of despair.

  That brings me back to the attention I was receiving as a celebrity around this time. It was all so new to me and, like I said before, it was a major adjustment on top of everything else. Life was exciting. I remember sitting at the Academy Awards in Los Angeles: I was next to Anne Hathaway and behind Queen Latifah. I’d recently done a compilation of Ella Fitzgerald songs with Queen Latifah, Diana Krall, Natalie Cole and others. I didn’t feel like one of them, exactly, but I was starting to relate to them as people. I remember meeting Tom Cruise at a party and thinking he was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. I entirely forgot he was a celebrity. My world was becoming surreal.

  On the flipside, I’d done some interviews that had got me into hot water because I was too sarcastic, too jokey, or simply too bloody clever for my own good. I was getting a reputation as a bit of a party boy or ladies’ man. The reality is never as exciting as the sensational tabloid stories. Honestly, I’ve always been a homebody. I find going to awards shows or walking red carpets to be so much anxiety it’s not that much fun. My favourite thing is to watch hockey with my family, talk hockey with my grandpa, or cook with my sisters and their families. I’d rather be playing ping-pong than on a red carpet. My wife, Luisana Lopilato, who is a star in her native Argentina, values time spent with family as much as I do. I am not blown away by celebrity trappings, like being behind the red velvet rope at lavish parties and getting the best tables at restaurants.

  David advised me early on not to talk to my friends about my new life. He said that, no matter what I say, it’s going to come off like I’m bragging. But I have the same friends I had when I was a kid, and those guys won’t allow me to get a big head. They’re the first to tell me that they read a magazine interview I did and I sounded like a goof. They keep me in line.

  One ongoing problem is that I’m unable to censor myself in interviews — maybe it’s because I don’t realize that not all reporters are my friends and that they’re more interested in a good soundbite than what I really mean. I can say stupid things, but please don’t hold me to it: I’m only human. And I’d rather be entertaining and silly than a boring stuffed shirt. But as a result of several interviews that have come back to haunt me, I no longer read anything that’s written about me. I just don’t have the stomach for it.

  It seems that everybody wants to be famous, but when you make it happen, you may discover there’s more bad to it than good. Around the time of that third album, I was feeling that the bad far outweighed the good. One thing I do like about being famous is that when I go to a party I’m no longer standing there like a lemon, making ridiculously nervous small-talk. Now we can skip all that. There’s always a conversation starter.

  Don't Take Away Their Dignity

  Some time after I’d made my second album, I was on a flight with my tour manager, Chris Chappel. We were seated in first class, and I had expensive Hugo Boss suits in a bag that I wanted to hang up. I handed them to the flight attendant in a way that sounded too much like a demand. They were worth something like ten thousand US dollars. I said, ‘Could you hang these suits?’ because they were going to get creased. Chris felt I was being rude. I always say that if I was twenty-one when success had happened, I would have been a nightmare. Looking back, an episode like that makes me cringe. Chris told me I’d acted like a diva. I’d embarrassed him. And he was absolutely right: I had behaved like a jerk. I spent the rest of the flight humiliated, feeling like the kind of person my parents had taught me not to be.

  You get self-absorbed out of necessity, trying to survive this life. And when you come home, it’s hard to sit down with everyone else, because you’re used to doing what you want to do when you want to do it. There’ve been times when I’ve looked in the mirror and said, ‘Get over yourself.’ I have to remind myself to stay true to my roots, not to let my temper or my ego get the better of me. In 2007, I had released my third album, Call Me Irresponsible, and I was sitting with record sales of thirteen million. I was feeling cocky, and about to start promoting my world tour with appearances on big American daytime shows, like Live With Regis & Kelly and Rachael Ray. I had a big world tour coming up, with shows booked in arenas for the first time in my career. I was getting major radio play. I was riding high.

  CBS Sunday Morning wanted to capture me shopping in my hometown, so I took them to a popular public market. I wanted to show them a soup place I love. I was bragging about it. So, we went up to the counter and I was about to order soup for the cameras, and the girl serving me said, ‘Turn off your cameras, please. We don’t allow cameras here.’

  And I said, ‘Listen, this is CBS, and I’m Michael Bublé, and all I’m doing is telling them that you’re great. So don’t trip about it. It’s okay. It’s the greatest soup. It’s a huge amount of press, it’s a huge TV show.’

  And she said, ‘I said, turn off the cameras.’

  Oh, my God, I was angry. Me being me, instead of being the reasonable person and saying to the TV guy, ‘Okay. Turn the camera off,’ I said to the girl, ‘What the hell? You guys are getting so much goddamn business that you don’t need this gigantic TV show to come and have me testify to how great your soup is? I’m sorry, big shots, sorry you’re doing so well.’

  She said, basically, ‘My boss doesn’t want your TV exposure, so go away.’

  I said, ‘Tell your boss he’s a f****** idiot.’ Yep. That was me. Such a brilliant guy. And they kicked us out of the market. That’s right. They kicked us out. They called security. And I hated myself for two days after that. Couldn’t I just have said, ‘Shut off the camera,’ and walked away? I can’t think how many times I’ve said to myself, ‘Ah, man, I’m a jerk.’ I’ve ha
d such anxiety because I’ve been rude. It bothers me for days. I think that talking about it to people, even reporters, somehow makes me feel better – like, if I admit it out loud I’m learning to be a better man.

  The Internet and cell-phone technology have really made it difficult for people who’ve achieved a bit of fame. Everybody can know what you’re doing within nanoseconds of you doing it. One time, when I was home in Vancouver with Luisana, we were out shopping and dropped into a lingerie store. We noticed some people watching us, and we smiled and kept walking. We ended up at a Starbucks coffee shop and within minutes people were surrounding us, literally lined up for autographs. I got a phone call from my mother and she said, ‘I hear you were shopping for lingerie.’

  I asked her, ‘How do you know that? Are you in the mall somewhere?’ and I started to look around.

  She said, ‘No, I heard it on the radio.’

  I couldn’t believe it. When I told Lu, she said, ‘Amore, look outside the window.’ And I looked up, and there were paparazzi taking pictures of us. Stuff like that just freaks me out.

  Another time, while I was on tour, I was walking through a shopping mall with friends and we stopped to watch a girls’ choir that was singing. Suddenly one of them spotted me, screamed my name, and the entire choir rushed towards me and smothered me. I was almost buried under a pile of girls. My assistant and my friend from the record label were doing their best to help me get out from under them, which, you can imagine, wasn’t easy. They were screaming, ‘Let him breathe, let him breathe!’ I think they were actually worried I might suffocate to death.