"I really thought that I could find a way to make the career," she recalls. She was making headway on the Texas club circuit and burning through the 3,500 copies she had of her independent CD, selling them out of the trunk of her mom's car. "I told everybody, 'I'd rather spend another decade in honky-tonks and do it my way than be the pretty girl for you.' Because back then it kind of was happening still, you know, changing the image and rewriting the songs and all that stuff." In Lambert's mind, "Whatever they were going to have me doing that was uncomfortable wasn't worth it," she says. "The story goes that she more or less told the company that was how it was going to be - either this way or I'll just go home," marvels her longtime guitarist Scotty Wray, who'd already logged a couple of years with Lambert and decades of performing before that, some of it with his brother, country singer Collin Raye. When it came time to hash out details with the label brass, the still-teenaged Lambert walked into a conference room and delivered an ultimatum that's become the stuff of legend among those in her orbit. Mere months after her loss, one of the show's judges, Tracy Gershon, who worked in the artists and repertoire department at Sony Nashville, got her signed. "I felt like, 'Well, that's gonna be fleeting, because that's not really who I am.' So I didn't want to win." "I'd be promoting something that I'm truly not in love with," she explains now. The 19-year-old searched the front row of the audience for her parents' faces and mouthed a relieved, "Yes!"Īs with the rest of the show's finalists, Lambert had been asked to record a song, though only the victor's would be released as a single. In 2003, when she was eliminated from the reality show music competition Nashville Star, winding up in third place, she didn't have to feign cheerfulness for the television cameras. Turning the Tables Miranda Lambert Is The 21st Century's Advocate Of Imperfectionįifteen years into her recording career, Lambert, raised in Texas and still deeply attached to her Lone Star roots, is a Nashville insider and a rarefied embodiment of country ambition who hasn't entirely let go of her outsider's irreverence.
"I appreciate everybody in this room," she said, but she couldn't resist getting in a little crack as she introduced "Tequila Does," with its wryly tipsy, waltz-time feel: "If you don't like this and you don't think it's country, then you don't like country music."
Her audience was an invite-only industry crowd of management reps, label staffers, media company executives, professional songwriters, journalists and others who'd have a hand or stake in the reception of her new music, and who she'd already loosened up with catered burritos and nachos, themed cocktails and a photo booth with a bucket full of cleaning-related props, in honor of her single "It All Comes Out in the Wash." With her full band crammed on the stage, Lambert performed that and several other songs from new album Wildcard.īetween tunes, she spoke like she was addressing comrades and confidants, thanking them for their continued goodwill and support. "We always get a little jittery when we play in Nashville," she admitted briskly, "'cause the energy is high and the expectations are high." I don't have to scream it out anymore."īehind the microphone in a club a fraction of the size of her usual venues, Miranda Lambert was nervous.
"I'm still stubborn and hardheaded," Lambert says, "But I have a career.
Miranda Lambert released her seventh solo album, Wildcard, on Nov.