By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
McGraw's other producer was Byron Gallimore, a youngish publishing vet who, referring to a band for whom he was then trying to secure a recording contract, said to me on the phone one afternoon during the early '90s, as I gazed at the dull river out side my downtown Nashville apartment, "People here like 'em, but this band could really go to town with a big-picture guy, with a Clive, involved." I wasn't nuts about his band, but Gallimore obviously could think beyond Nashville, and I never forgot his name.
A former receptionist at Warner Bros. Records, Faith Hill, on the other hand, seemed the total if lovely creation of handlers; she was lousy with them. Her A&R person was Martha Sharpe, who had signed and done brilliant work in the '80s with Randy Travis. Her manager was Gary Boor man, an L.A.-based powerhouse who represented Dwight Yoakam and whose rock clients now include Garbage. And she was produced by Scott Hendricks, a former engineer who had zoomed into megahitmaker position, crafting records for Restless Heart, Alan Jackson, and Brooks and Dunn.
The package for Take Me as I Am, Hill's '93 debut, found her sitting innocently and gorgeously on a sofa in softest lighting, dressed in faded jeans and a starched white blouse, yet it conveyed the kind of contemporary casualness that comes only from a million meetings and phone calls; she could have doubled as a New Orleans Gap model. McGraw's package for Not a Moment Too Soon, his quintuple-platinum second album facilitated by "Indian Outlaw," evinced few de sign aspirations beyond filling Wal-Mart shelves. It was the sort of down-market presentation that New Yorkers occasionally imagine Nashville concocts on purpose.
Cut to 1996: The Louisiana "Indian Outlaw" phenom marries the Mississippi biz princess. A year later, McGraw releases Everywhere, the second straight album on which, defeating the "Achy Breaky Heart" syndrome of death-by-novelty as resoundingly as anyone ever has, he flat-out refuses to be a prisoner of even wonderfully funky cheese. On the title song, a swift ballad indicative of Stroud's technical know-how, Gallimore's ambitious soulfulness, and the singer's own increasing vocal definition, McGraw grapples with geo graphical distance and psychological intimacy, using a liquid word-to-word conscientiousness that's turning into a major country singing style.
One song is a McGraw-Hill duet. It is Hill's first recording since '95's It Matters to Me, her superior follow-up, an album marked by songs of discontent, by the elegantly twangy title suggestion of deep unhappiness as well as an even more intense portrayal of female dissatisfaction (excellently written by Alan Jackson) called "I Can't Do That Anymore." "It's Your Love," the duet is called, and nowhere in '90s pop will you find a more unevasive portrayal of one person wrapped up in another. "It sends a shock right through me," McGraw sings, as though he might literally fade away, vaporizing into the heady air of unalloyed desire itself. Hill, in the background, ditches the prim, careful, heavily comped vocal style of her previous albums. She blossoms into a real Nashville pop-soul singer. Together, McGraw and Hill create one of the great singles of the decade, a duet of George and Tammy dimensions. To hear it is to be swept, messed, torn up.
The extraordinary thing about Faith, the album Hill, now 31 and the mother of two children, released in 1998 is that it benches her early handlers. Instead, it applies the maverick lessons of Tim McGraw, who has al ways worked within the Nashville sys tem with the self-determination of an indie-rocker, a guy who once rushed to sing Tony Rich's r&b crossover hit "Nobody Knows" in concert. And Faith brings on Dan Huff, who produces country now from the point of view of the hotshot L.A. session guitarist he used to be, and Gallimore.
Faith also offers the most free and true music Hill has ever done. On "Let Me Let Go" Hill arranges the lush accumulation of fraying edges of her voice to a swaying Michael McDonaldish country-soul tune about leaving; it's like a bigger-voiced Tammy Wynette gone on Faith Evans. On "Somebody Stand by Me," an awe some Sheryl CrowTodd Wolfe Southern rock ballad, Hill's voice breaks and scrapes with humid Mississippi breathiness, pulling itself together for a major beer-nuts bel canto effect on the choruses. But the key to the al bum is "This Kiss", the track that put Hill on VH-1 and in fashion mags, a billowing celebration of true love and multisyllabic adjectives; she dares to sing the word "centrifugal" as though it were "baby." Gallimore is all over this, lifting choruses heavenward, put ting bits of steel guitar where Patrick Leonard would do a string pad on a Madonna track. "This Kiss," it's something you might expect from a Clive.