Many things stood out about Jackie Shane’s singing – her conviction, phrasing, power and range, for starters. But, given her backstory, one quality seems particularly surprising: her poise. Amid the tense and manic music that backed her, a hallmark of the 60s R&B and soul she favored, Shane’s vocals seemed almost supernaturally controlled. Hers was a voice of sublime confidence, delivered by someone sure of her power and purpose.
She really had to be.
Shane, who died last week at the age of 78 of undisclosed causes, was a transgender woman performing in the clubs of Nashville and Toronto in guises, and with affectations that, at the very least, would suggest homosexuality, if not the full truth of her identity, during a time of profound ignorance about such things. Sporting a bouffant, full makeup, and a sequined top over a pantsuit, some patrons at the clubs where Shane performed thought she was a lesbian. Only those very close to her, including her highly supportive family, knew that she identified as a woman. Though, at that time, transgender people were almost universally vilified, Shane had the moxie, and chops, to appear on television in Nashville and to headline clubs in her adopted town of Toronto, where she scored a No 2 hit with soulful ballad Any Other Way. The song, cut in 1963, features the refrain “tell ‘em I’m gay”, which, at the time, just meant “happy” to everyone but those conversant in the code. Despite her subversive winks, the resounding power of her voice and her commanding stage presence drew interest from Motown and Atlantic Records, as well as discussions with George Clinton about possibly joining Parliament-Funkadelic.
Outside of her adopted country of Canada, however, few knew her story. It didn’t help that she quit the music scene back in the early 70s, preferring to stay close to home, near her aging mother.
Fast-forward 40 years and something remarkable happened: an archival record company, Numero Group, managed to convince the highly elusive star to at last sanction an official compilation of her 60s work. Sixteen months ago, they released it under the title Any Other Way. (Earlier this month, the album was nominated for the best historical package Grammy.)
Upon the album’s release in 2017, the question became: how to promote it? Shane wasn’t ready to tour or to appear on TV. And because she had been out of the limelight so long, and was unschooled in the ways of modern media, her record company suggested she do only a handful of interviews. I was lucky enough to conduct one for the Guardian. As interviews go, it was both fascinating and strange. Going in, there were ground rules. All her interviews were to be done on the phone, and they were to last no more than half an hour. While that first edict held, the second did not. We wound up talking for more than twice the allotted time, a good thing considering the fact that, for a while, I wasn’t sure I was going to get her to answer a single question. The “interview” began with a long, out-of-nowhere speech, in which she railed against drugs and the coarseness of human behavior in general. She was barreling ahead, listening to her own inner voice. I felt shut out, and resentful, but, as her speech ran on, I began to understand the likely cause. Imagine the gut confidence it took to be Jackie Shane. Imagine how much of the world’s ignorance and noise you have to shut out, and how strong in yourself you have to be to do so. In that light, her distance seemed logical, if not inevitable. I’m also happy to report that, after about 15 minutes, she began to let my questions in, answering them with candor and conviction. Throughout our talk, it was clear that her boldness – partly a strategy, partly a product of her gifts – had served her well. “Even in school, the other kids accepted me,” she said. “So did their parents. There was something about me that drew them in.”
She credited her confidence to her grandparents and to her mother. “They understood me,” she said, adding the caveat that “some adults were afraid of me because I was intelligent. I thought for myself.”
Her brio even allowed her to stand up to the less enlightened teachings of her local church, where she began performing as a child. “I told them, I will sing, but when the minister comes on to do his bit, I leave,” she said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Shane joined her first secular band at 13 as a drummer before moving to lead vocals. Eventually, racism caused her to leave the Jim Crow south. “Other entertainers told me: ‘You’ll never make it here,’” she said. “You have talent, you’re attractive. Other people should hear and appreciate you.”
First, she moved to Montreal, where she began singing with a hard-pumping R&B band, led by Frank Motley. By the early 60s, they were regulars on the club-packed Yonge Street of Toronto. On YouTube, you can see a choice Shane performance from that era of Walkin’ The Dog on a TV show named Night Train. Her demeanor is courtly, her delivery cleverly measured. A representative from the all-powerful Ed Sullivan show was impressed enough to ask her to appear there, but Shane turned them down flat. “His scout came and said: ‘You’re going to have to do this without makeup,’” she explained. “I said: ‘Please stuff it.’ Ed Sullivan looks like something Dr Frankenstein had a hand in. He’s going to tell me what to do?”
She also turned away Berry Gordy and the folks at Atlantic. “I’ve never really wanted to record,” she told me. “I get my charge from performing in front of people. That’s my energy.”
In fact, most of her recordings were cut live. Her in-concert covers of songs such as Cruel, Cruel World and Money display a rich vibrato, which can sound like Nina Simone, and a tense shout, worthy of prime Michael Jackson. She also proved herself a master at extended stage patter. In one long, and hilarious, speech she talked about stepping out with some chicken (a well-known term in the gay world for a young lover). Even so, the pronouns she used to address her romantic partners in the songs were those of women, something that would have provided vital cover at the time, even in the most accepting environments. It was only with interviews like ours that she publicly acknowledged her transgender identity.
To complete the story, I later spoke with the A&R man from her record company, Douglas Mcgowan. Given the fact that Shane allowed no in-person interviews, I asked him what physical shape she was in. He assured me she was healthy and looked far younger than her then 77 years. He also said that he hoped that she would perform in the next year. Shane told me she wanted to do so as well, but she was very concerned about doing it right.
That was the only time I felt a flash of doubt cross her mind.
It’s sad that Shane will never get the chance to perform in an era when she was being recognized as a retroactive role model. Luckily, the recordings she left not only preserve her skills, they display her unshakable faith in herself. Perhaps, for her, it couldn’t be any other way.
