******************
Note, this interview was from May 1997

Interview with Jewel
by Chris Mundy

Within two days you catch a glimpse of what her life
was and what it has become. 

Tuesday afternoon, Jewel's hotel room: She is alone, 
barefoot and cross-legged on the king-size bed, guitar 
in hand, belting out a tune she wrote just yesterday.

As she sings, Jewel closes her eyes and disappears 
somewhere within the song. When she finishes, she smiles 
broadly, rocks forward until her head hits the mattress 
and then bounces back as if she is taking a private bow.

Thursday afternoon, NBC studio 8H: Jewel sits up straight 
in a makeup chair at a rehearsal for Saturday Night Live 
while one woman applies eyeliner and a second awaits the 
chance to coif her hair. As they work, Jewel simultaneously 
approves the promotional items her publicist hands her and 
speaks to a manager via cell phone. Luckily, as she points 
out, she is a Gemini and feels comfortable living in two 
different worlds.

What is most striking is how peacefully the dual lives 
coexist, mostly because Jewel does not so much adjust to 
other people's realms as invite everyone else into her own 
--- to the point where those around her adopt her mannerisms. 
She giggles at one moment, spouts romantically the next 
("Poetry is the snakeskin of the soul," she says. "You're 
going to watch my evolution"), and she asks a litany of 
questions "What's your middle name? What's your sign? What's 
your favorite food and why? " of whomever is near. Jewel's 
defining characteristic, in fact, is her knack for remaining 
equal parts curious and at ease, like a kid enjoying the 
field trip that has become her life. "This is my life now," 
Jewel says. "The amount I'm getting out of it personally 
and what I'm learning has made me grow by leaps and bounds. 
I'm greedy with that."

At the moment, it is the business of being Jewel that 
beckons. She is in New York not only to perform on SNL but 
also to tape an episode of MTV Unplugged, for which the 
usually solo Jewel will be accompanied by more musicians 
than she has ever played with in her life. Between the two, 
she'll take the time for two in-depth discussions. The only 
problem is that Jewel is not interested in retelling her 
vivid, albeit short, life story. "I don't think it's for 
people to understand," she says by way of explanation. "I 
come across like a cartoon character in print."

Then again, not really. A 23-year-old Alaskan folk singer 
who has been yodeling onstage since the age of 7 and who 
within six months went from living in her car to signing 
a deal with Atlantic Records is too far-fetched to be 
believable. Even cartoon writers know enough to script 
their heroes out of mundane realities. How would Spiderman 
feel if his boyhood got more attention than his ability to 

scale buildings? A little fed up, if Jewel's reaction is 
any indication.

When you first meet her in the lobby of her hotel, you 
offer a hand. "Ah," she says, sizing you up, "the predator."
You get the feeling that things have not started well.

What you expected was Jewel Kilcher, the naive girl whose 
father, a folk musician, and mother, a glass sculptor, 
divorced when she was 8, leaving Jewel and her two 
brothers to forge a pioneer existence on their father's 
800-acre homestead in Homer, Alaska. At the time, Jewel 
spent her days milking cows and her nights reading poetry 
or singing at bars with her father. As a teen-ager, she
was briefly adopted by an Alaskan Native American tribe; 
moved for a short time to Hawaii; moved back to live with 
her mother in Anchorage; attended Interlochen, an arts
school in Michigan; then wandered around the country for 
six months, eventually settling with her mother in San 
Diego, where she waitressed and sang in a coffeehouse.

The person you first meet, however, is more the road-weary 
traveler who has been promoting her debut album, the 
quadruple-platinum Pieces of You, at times at a rate 
of 40 shows every 30 days, since its release back in 1995. 
Since that time, Jewel has gone from watching her record 
go virtually unnoticed for more than a year to scoring 
back-to-back hits with "Who Will Save Your Soul" and   
"You Were Meant For Me."                 

Now, with the album firmly tacked in the top 10, Jewel 
has flashed the nation (when she showed up at the Grammys 
in a dress that appeared to be made of saran wrap), has 
been requested by the first daughter to play at the 
presidential inauguration and has parlayed a one-off 
stage performance as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz into her 
first movie lead. Not to mention that the prolific Jewel               
recorded an album's worth of songs last July, a few of 
which will come out on her next release.

In short, Jewel is tired. She is tired of the schedule, 
but mostly she is tired of reading depictions that make 
her past sound less like the romantic childhood she 
remembers than something akin to the Unabomber's.

"You can't tell a whole life story, even if you've lived 
it," explains Nedra [Carroll], Jewel's mother. "As soon as 
you start pulling out pieces, it looks like something else. 
There's a tendency to focus on the more dramatic. The 
natural flow of things gets lost."

For her part, Jewel finally settles into the interview 
process, albeit slowly. She is sweet and friendly, although 
often guarded, armed with questions of her own in order to 
sidetrack the interrogation. After two days, she articulates 
her fears. "I'm very leery of creating a gap between me and 
any person that's going to read this." she says.

CM: Why would you create a gap?

JK: What someone gets out of the way I lived my life 
can be immediately diminished by them thinking that I'm a 
phenomenon. I'm not a phenomenon. I didn't think I was 
this talented. It wasn't until I really decided, talent or 
no talent, I have to do what makes me feel like a real 
person. I would be absolutely useless onstage if people 

looked at me like a phenomenon. It makes me so scared 
that I could cry right now.


CM: How can I get a sense of your childhood that you're 
comfortable with?

JK: Look at it like a science project. I was spared a lot 
of media. I was spared a lot of fear talk. I'm aware now 
how affected I am when I hear on the news how violent we 
are, how we can't trust our religious or political leaders. 
That affects your ability to interact as a person. I was 
spared that and instead given a natural curiosity about 
life.


CM: Did growing up on the homestead also give you the 
strong work ethic you have now?  

JK: I'm able to focus mercilessly for a long time 
because I was trained to do that at a young age.
However, it's not like I worked this hard waitressing. I 
can work this hard because I had one shot at this. I really 
thought I would live in a car or probably have an 
apartment, but I thought I would live on that level my 
entire existence. I was given a shot and it all fell on my
shoulders. I'm glad it did, because I knew I could do 
something about it.


CM: You and your mom lived side by side in vans for a 
while. Why?

JK: We could have gotten an apartment. It was a decision 
to do that, it was freedom. An apartment allows you freedom. 
And then you go get in your van and drive somewhere.                       
If I could afford an apartment, I couldn't afford a car. 
If I could afford to pay rent, I couldn't afford food. I'm 
not exaggerating. So you can imagine that having that 
burden gone was tremendous.


CM: Where did you park it?

JK: I found a favorite spot that was near a little 
flowering tree. I pulled my van up close so the tree hit 
the window and nobody could see in. And you light candles 
and you read at night.


CM: What about running water, a bathroom?

JK: I grew up without all that. It wasn't a difficult 
thing for me or my mom. Running water? Who cares?

                                                   
CM: You've said you were lost at that point. What helped you 
turn the corner?

JK: My mom kept challenging me. I'd say, "I have to go to 
school," and my mom kept saying, "What do you want? What 
does your spirit say?" Finally I said, "I know what I want.
                
I want to sing until people never feel alone." And when I 
said that, she said, "OK."


CM: Did you realize your spiritual side on your own, or is 
it from your parents?

JK: It's picked up from a lot of people. The American Indian 
thing had a big influence on me.


CM: What was that about, anyway?

JK: [Laughs] That's what I'm talking about with me as a 
cartoon. I went to a gathering when I was 16. You adopt the 
Indian way. Everybody is your uncle or aunt.


CM: How seriously did you take it?

JK: It was serious for a while, but then it lost its' 
usefulness.


CM: How has the dynamic with your mom changed now that 
she doesn't have to worry about you?

JK:  Our energies are less focused on surviving, so we can 
put our energies more into creating. Too much of our flesh 
is wasted on survival.


CM: You speak in proclamations, almost religious 
pronouncements.


JK: I don't understand.


CM: Oh, I don't know...how about: "Too much of our 
flesh is wasted on survival"?

JK: It's because I'm a writer. It's probably from reading 
so much at a young age that my brain is shaped in a certain 
pattern.


CM: You had dyslexia as a child. Did that hurt your 
confidence?

JK: Mostly, having dyslexia made me feel like I would never 
be interested in life again. I used to love reading when I 
was little, and then it became difficult and I didn't              
understand why. I thought, what a bummer, my passion all 
drained out of me. So when I found out I had dyslexia it 
was like, oh, that's what it was.


CM: Your parents got divorced when you were at a critical 
age. Were you confused about which parent to live with?

JK: [Very quietly] It was joint custody. I couldn't have 
chosen. None of us could choose. You love both your 
parents; there's no way to choose. It's unthinkable.


CM: Are you close to your father?

JK: Yeah. He went to the Grammys with me. He toured with 
me and taped VH1's Hard Rock Live with me. The last time 
I was onstage with him, I was looking up at him because 
I was so much littler. And then to have him on my stage 
with my crowd...it was staggering.


CM: When you were onstage as a little kid, did you ever 
resent not having a choice?

JK: I always had a choice. I really did. People always 
think, "Oh, an 8-year-old in a bar," but it wasn't
like that. I didn't feel unsafe. It was more 
family-restaurant bars. My brothers didn't do it. I was 
the one that liked to practice five hours a day.

                                                
CM: Was it out of boredom?

JK: It definitely wasn't a boredom thing. I loved it. I 
feel most myself when I sing. I constantly skip around my 
hotel room going, "I'm a writer. That's what I do. I 
write."                                         


CM: A lot of people accuse you of writing songs that are 
derivative, but you've said you didn't hear the radio 
growing up. Is the truth somewhere between those two 
things?

JK: Probably. Who cares anyway? Derivative? I don't think 
they are.


CM: There's part of "Little Sister" that is more Joni 
Mitchell than Joni Mitchell.

JK: I'd never heard Joni Mitchell before I did my album. 
I'd heard a lot of Bob Dylan, Ella Fitzgerald. I wasn't 
raised in a vacuum --- I did hear things on the radio, 
but I didn't have a tape player. I've never been a real 
music fan. I'm odd that way. But the people I love, I
totally studied. I studied Jennifer Warnes until I could 
do her voice perfectly.


CM: How can you grow up not hearing Joni Mitchell but 
reading Pablo Neruda?
                                
JK: Books are much easier to get ahold of. [And] I can't 
stand listening to music. [Laughs] Isn't that weird? It's 
just not a habit. I don't like the noise. [Laughs] I do 
like beautiful cello concertos or Rickie Lee Jones albums. 
But it's nothing I do when I come home.


CM: Who teaches you about different bands?

JK: My friend Steve from the Rugburns has been instrumental. 
I'd never heard the Replacements, I'd never heard the 

Beatles' White Album. He sat me down and had what he 
called Jewel 101 classes. [Laughs]

CM: You two used to go out; isn't that hard?

JK: Not at all, not with me and Steve. We just dig each 
other a lot.


CM: Then why don't you go out now?

JK: It's not meant to be that way. It's not always about 
sex. We write incredible songs together. It makes me get 
goosebumps.


CM: When you went out with Sean Penn, were you worried 
that you'd be overshadowed by his celebrity, that you'd 
be "the singer who goes out with Sean Penn"?

JK: Not at all. God, I don't get overly caught up in 
what people are going to think or not think. Whatever.


CM: You don't seem comfortable with that question.

JK: No, I'm not into that one.


CM: Do you have to be extra-careful trusting who you have 
around you now?

JK: I don't think about that. These things you're talking 
about aren't part of my daily life.


CM: Aren't they part of this new reality that you're in?

JK: I think how you deal with it spiritually is much 
more important.


CM: So how do you deal with it spiritually? Have you 
turned to other artists for advice?

JK:  For certain things, I do. I don't know many people 
who have emotionally handled [fame] well. I think Flea 
has handled it well.


CM: Flea? I wouldn't expect you to hang out with Flea.

JK: Ah, what I am now has little to do with what I will 
become.


CM: What will you become?

JK: Many things. This is just the tip of the iceberg. 
That album --- I was 19 and had been writing for only
a year and a half      


CM: Is it strange to have it out there?

JK: I didn't expect anyone to hear it. It was a time 
capsule of me at 19. It's like a jalopy winning the
Indy 500.               


CM: What's the biggest difference between you now and 
you then?

JK: Well, I'm becoming more and more myself with time. I 
guess that's what grace is, the refinement of your soul 
through time.


CM: Can you burn out on the number of people swarming 
around you?

JK: You talk your guts out. Your nerve endings are shot 
and you're totally useless as a human being. But you need 
to adjust to the lifestyle. My whole goal is to keep my 
spirit intact --- if that doesn't happen, none of this 
is worth it. Let's face it, fame isn't that fun. I'd
   
rather go home.


CM: How do you balance being sweet and being a survivor?

JK: It's one thing I'd like to say to women: Be brave in 
your living. You can be sexy and spiritual. You can be 
seductive and innocent. You can be wise yet incredibly 
naive.


CM: But men have it easier because they run things more. 
Women have less of a support system.

JK: That's true. That whole thing with the Grammys was 
hilarious. The dress.


CM: Then again, if you didn't see what that dress looked 
like, you're the only woman in America who gets dressed 
without looking in the mirror.

JK: But I wasn't backlit in the hotel room. You're in a 
dress, you feel like an angel. I didn't have an entire 
spotlight up my ass. [Laughs] I still haven't looked at 
the videotape.


CM: The music industry wants to play up a woman as a sex 
symbol no matter what.


JK: That's very tough. As liberated women, sex has been 
our power.


CM: But it's helped you a lot.

JK: I think it's definitely helped, but it's also helped 
Jakob Dylan a lot, too. Sex sells. However, I think it's 
been easier for men to be taken seriously as intellectuals 
and be good-looking at the same time.


CM: Do you ever imagine yourself five years from now?

JK: Yeah. I hope to be in other arts fields by then. 
Movies. I definitely want to have a poetry book by then.


CM: What questions are you not asked that you'd like 
to address?

JK: I'm going to go off on a tangent. I never thought that 
so many people would lend themselves to my dream. Because 
I lived with such hopelessness for such a long time that 
I thought it would kill me. You can't live with 
hopelessness.


CM: I thought things were difficult but you were hopeful.

JK: During a certain phase it got to the point, when I 
was 18, just before I lived in my car, why was I going to 
continue.


CM: Continue playing or continue living?

JK: Continue living. I wouldn't say I was suicidal, but 
I became consciously aware that I could not face time 
anymore. I think a lot of kids get to that place. You think
"What the fuck is the point? To have a family? Maybe, maybe 
not. To be a secretary? Maybe not. To be famous? Probably 
not." Even when I was [living] in my car, I hoped I would 
get to do what I loved. I never thought it would be on
this level. I don't mean so much the level of success but 
the actualization of knowing that for the rest of my life, 
I'm going to be OK. I'm going to be OK. That's so amazing 
to get used to.