| Rolling Stone's
Cover Story, November 2002 continued
"Yeah. I heard something about that,"
Aguilera says. "Who cares what we wore to a damn awards show? It's
the VMAs. I was happy with my outfit, and I'd wear it again."
Reading about it afterward, I say, was
the first time I'd seen the term "under-cleavage."
"Oh, yeah, I was giving reverse cleavage,"
she says. "Shoot. I was up there and doing my thing, and it felt
comfortable. It's just a bit of clothing. If I was in a back alley at
midnight and wearing a get-up like that, I could see, yes, that's a little
bit hookerish. But I'm at a damn awards show! I'm an entertainer! I'm
playing a part. I don't go out to clubs like that at all. That's the only
time I dress up like that. Hookerish. Whatever."
When you get shit for that, I say, what
do you think?
"I like being different. I have never
followed the pack, and I'm not going to change now because in some magazine
I made the list as -- what was it? -- one of the skunk-haired celebrities."
She roars with laughter.
"Oh," she adds. "But I was
the 'funkiest skunk of all.' "
Aguilera is being driven, in an SUV, to
the recording studio by Allison Azoff, her manager's daughter and the
day-to-day guardian of her business. Aguilera wants to play a new mix
of one of her songs, but she can't get the CD player to work. Her frustration
is mounting. "I hate this fucking car," she says. She sits in
silence for a moment, then begins browsing through the radio dial, rarely
staying on one station for more than a few seconds.
At Enterprise studios, she meets Scott
Storch, who co-wrote and produced much of Stripped and who, though he
mutters, "No one knows who I am," is one of the key collaborators
on some of Dr. Dre's best records. She has come to hear what she hopes
will be the final mix of "Keep On Singin' My Song," the ballad
scheduled to close her album. He puts on his new mix.
"Been feeling like nothing's going
my way lately. . . ." sings Aguilera, sadly, from the studio speakers.
Halfway through, when the drums come in, Aguilera shakes her head. "Before,
it had that energy that was kind of off," she says. "It was
more Stevie Wonder. This is so on the beat." She picks apart details,
one by one, explaining what she wants or what she's thinks is missing:
"I want that big note to be crazy washed-out. . . . Do that sparkle-magic
reverb. . . . It doesn't sound soulful, it sounds plastic-y. . . . It's
lost some of its stripped-down magic." Storch makes his case quietly.
Often he tries to argue that what she thinks has changed has not changed
at all. He defends one alteration by saying that part of the original
was a mistake, but she jumps right in.
"Well, it was a good mistake,"
she says. "Scott, I think you did a great job, I really do. This
song means a lot to me."
"It sounds a lot better," he
says.
"Yeah, but you weren't in love with
this song like I've been in love with this song," she says. She begins
to get annoyed. "Fuck, I hate people who are like that -- you're
just pissed because I don't like what you did. I just want to make sure
that this song isn't overproduced. Before, it sounded like you and I did
it in a room -- now it sounds like you gave me the track to sing over."
Storch looks increasingly uncomfortable
and eventually leaves the room. "I feel really bad," she says
to Allison, "and I don't want to upset him, but it had a kind of
imperfection that really worked for me. It was almost like he turned it
into Diane Warren-y perfect, rather than emote shit. . . . "
After a while she says, "Shall we
go and talk to Scott?" She finds him in the corridor, walks up to
him and gives him a hug. They go back into the studio, open bottles of
Corona and clink them together.
"Do you want to do a toast?"
he asks.
Later, she goes to the dance auditions
for her latest video, for the single "Dirrty" (she is late).
In a large, featureless room at the Millennium Dance Complex, a hundred
or so dancers await their chance. She keeps complaining that they're not
dancing dirty and hard enough and that the girls are being too feminine.
"It's all about stank," she says. "This is the stank video."
While the fourth group of men is lining up, Aguilera leans over and gestures
discreetly at one of the dancers, who at the same time is glancing over
at her.
"That's my ex-boyfriend," she
says.
You make him audition? I sputter.
She grins. "Hell, yeah."
After two rounds of auditions, he is still
on the final shortlist. (Eventually, he will make the video.) In the car,
Aguilera and Allison discuss what they have seen. "Some of those
guys are really cute," Aguilera says.
"I thought that white girl was a good
freestyler," says Allison.
"Yeah," says Aguilera. "I
guess we have to have one white person, right?"
continued
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