Shania Twain: More Than the Music

There are some artists whose music becomes woven into the fabric of your life.

For me, Shania Twain is one of them.

I still remember hearing The Woman in Me for the first time and wondering who this woman was with the unmistakable voice and the confidence to sing country music that somehow belonged just as comfortably on pop radio. Then came Come On Over, an album that seemed incapable of producing anything other than hit after hit.

Life moved on.

So did Shania.

Through illness, heartbreak and the very public loss of the voice that had made her famous, she kept finding a way back.

Perhaps that’s why seeing her live felt like more than just another concert.

It felt personal.

When my daughter Jade surprised me with tickets to her Queen of Me tour at Manchester’s AO Arena, I was every bit as excited as she had hoped I’d be.

The only thing we got wrong?

No cowboy hats.

No cowboy boots.

Judging by everyone around us, we’d seriously underestimated the dress code.

The evening began with Breland, a New Jersey country artist I’d somehow never come across before.

Within minutes I was wondering why.

He has that rare ability to make an arena feel like an intimate venue. His blend of country, soul and R&B shouldn’t work quite as effortlessly as it does, but somehow it does. His voice was superb, his dancing even better, and by the time he finished with Don’t Touch My Truck, thousands of complete strangers were singing every word back at him.

Not a bad way to introduce yourself.

Then the lights dimmed.

Instead of appearing dramatically from the stage, Shania emerged from the middle of the audience.

The excitement was infectious.

People reached out to touch her hand, held up their phones in disbelief and grinned like children as she stopped to pose for photographs on her journey to the stage.

It struck me that she understood something many performers never do.

For the fans she’d just greeted, those few seconds would become a lifelong memory.

They hadn’t simply watched a concert.

They’d shared a moment.

She opened wearing a sparkling pink outfit designed by one of her fans, later inviting the young fashion student onto the stage to thank him personally.

“I Shania’d it,” she laughed as she pointed out the additions she’d made.

His face said everything.

Sometimes encouragement from someone you admire can alter the course of your life.

I hope it did.

The staging itself was surprisingly simple.

A wide staircase, an enormous screen and two incredibly talented dancers who doubled as backing singers created all the spectacle the show really needed. The screen regularly drifted into wonderfully surreal territory, complete with space cowboys and, at one point, Shania’s Pomeranian wearing a pink cowboy hat.

Even the dog had embraced the occasion.

There was, however, one thing that couldn’t be ignored.

Her voice.

It simply isn’t what it once was.

Years ago, I suspect I’d have found that disappointing.

This time I found it strangely moving.

Yes, many of the songs were performed in lower keys. Yes, there were moments when she visibly struggled.

But something fascinating happened.

Nobody cared.

Not because people hadn’t noticed.

Because they had.

The audience simply decided it didn’t matter.

Every lyric was sung back to her by thousands of voices, almost as though everyone had instinctively decided to carry the songs together.

It wasn’t about perfection anymore.

It was about gratitude.

We weren’t there to hear the Shania Twain of 1998.

We were there because she was still standing.

Still performing.

Still giving everything she could.

In a world obsessed with flawless performances, there was something rather beautiful about that.

One particularly memorable moment came when several VIP guests joined her on stage for photographs.

Then, completely unexpectedly, one gentleman dropped to one knee.

The proposal genuinely surprised Shania as much as everyone else, and when the answer came back “yes”, she dedicated From This Moment On to the newly engaged couple.

You couldn’t have scripted it better.

The evening closed exactly as everyone hoped it would.

That Don’t Impress Me Much.

Man! I Feel Like a Woman!

And yes…

The leopard-print outfit.

Some things simply belong together.

She looked every bit as confident wearing it today as she did when the video first appeared all those years ago.

I thought the evening had ended there.

It hadn’t.

At the time I was wearing a leg brace because of a torn meniscus, so a steward kindly directed Jade and me towards a lift to avoid the crowds.

We thanked him.

The doors opened.

And suddenly…

We were backstage.

Not metaphorically.

Actually backstage.

We wandered past the rear of the stage, through the maze of equipment, alongside the tour buses and eventually out into the quiet Manchester night, accompanied by one of the road crew who casually mentioned he’d previously toured with Muse.

It felt like stumbling into a world most concertgoers never get to see.

No glamour.

No bright lights.

Just hundreds of people quietly taking apart the magic they’d created only moments earlier.

It reminded me that every unforgettable performance rests on the shoulders of countless people whose names never appear on the ticket.

Sadly, Shania herself had already disappeared.

But somehow that didn’t matter.

Jade and I spent the journey home singing every song at the top of our voices anyway.

And perhaps that’s the real measure of a concert.

Not whether every note was perfect.

Not how elaborate the staging was.

Not even how close you got to the artist.

It’s whether, hours later, you’re still smiling without quite knowing why.

Some performances entertain you.

Others remind you why you fell in love with music in the first place.

For me, this was very definitely the latter.