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Then it happened: She was extended an invitation to make a demo tape for Sony/Epic Records, which she did. But her excitement waned when a trip to meet the producing powers in Nashville turned sour.
"They wanted me to deny my past and change my focus completely," Kane relates during a telephone conversation from her Encinitas, California, home. Her even tones betray no rancor. "I eventually told them where they could put their deal," she says.
Her stand has since brought fundamental changes to her stage shows and her personal world view--none of which requires her to cover up her colorful history.
Candye Kane grew up in East L.A., the daughter of "bohemian" parents who encouraged her early interest in music. She sang on The Original Amateur Hour and on The Gong Show, where her version of "I Am Woman" finished as runner-up to a band of juggling dogs. Converted to Mormonism by a neighbor, she sang in and helped direct her church's choir. But her first test with a truly demanding audience came at Franklin High School, where she was one of very few non-Hispanic students. It was her always-frank, no-words-barred style of speech--which remains--that gained her notoriety among the student body.
"I'd get beat up a lot, because I was a white chick with a bad mouth," she recalls. "But I escaped a lot of stuff, too, because I could sing. The cholos loved oldies, so I'd sing 'Earth Angel' and 'Angel Baby.' It soothed the savage beast."
Kane dropped out of school in her senior year, in 1979, when she became pregnant. She also was excommunicated by the Mormon church for her indiscretion.
"In the end, it was God or boyfriend," she recalls. "I chose boyfriend--what 17-year-old girl wouldn't?--and the church kicked me out. I could've told the bishop that everyone was having sex, but I just said, 'Okay, fine,' and left." Kane longed to be a singer like Cline or Kay Starr. She tried briefly to earn her meat and potatoes through punk rock. And motherhood was to defer her pursuit of country-music stardom for several years.
"I was desperate for money--a young mom and all," she says, "so I answered an ad for phone-sex workers. The ad said you had to be attractive--which I didn't quite understand, because who'd see you on the phone?--but what they'd do is take Polaroids to send to customers who called--you know, to put a face--and whatever--with the voice. It was good money. I got calls from Canada, England, all over." The professional exposure helped her harness her next job. Kane is up-front about what it was exactly that made her a star of cult status in some circles.
"I was born with my big boobs," she says, matter-of-factly. "They're size 44 double-H, so you don't have to ask." The popularity she gained from the Polaroids led her to "print work--i.e., nude modeling.
"I'd met some porn stars when I was working phone sex--including Candy Samples, who's in her 60s and still modeling--and they tried to talk me out of it, but I knew there was excellent money there."
Indeed, Candye Kane parlayed her natural assets into a minicareer that not only brought significant money into the young family's coffers, but also allowed her to see herself in a positive new light.
"It helped make me feel attractive," she explains. "I have a Dolly Partonlike body--at least before Dolly lost all that weight, and did she have a breast reduction, too? Anyway, I was self-conscious about it. But I was absolutely thrilled the first time I made the cover of JUGS magazine. I couldn't wait to take it home and show it to my mom. I don't understand why she didn't like it," Kane adds, slyly.
But Kane soon discovered that this version of "show" business proved as competitive as any other type.
"There was always a girl who was more shapely, was prettier, had bigger boobs," Kane notes. Though lucrative, the work was not always steady. It was the occasional need to supplement her income, she says, that caused her to perform in a brief series of videos--solo, R-rated types."
"That was the downside," she admits, but she immediately discounts any reason to feel shame. "I could make $2,500 a day," she says. "I needed the money." That expeditious experience ended forever, however, when she embarked on the final--and most successful--phase of her clothes-optional career.
"I wouldn't be singing today if it wasn't for becoming a stripper," she announces flatly. "It brought out those old performing juices in me, and I suddenly found myself traveling all over the world. Then I was doing this show at the Market Street Cinema in San Francisco with six-shooters and a cowboy hat, and I got this sudden urge to sing. I ran off the stage and got my guitar. I started singing some country song, and they were like, 'Aw, shut up and take it off.' But I was hooked on singing again."
Kane began performing in L.A. clubs, singing straight country classics and her own chicken-fried originals while wearing heavy-on-the-outrageous outfits that featured bangles, black lace and vintage clothes. Although her fame as a stripper opened the doors to gigs, her true talent allowed her to stay, as the crowds loved her saucy way with done-me-wrong songs. In fact, "Please Tell Me a Lie," one of her own tunes, made it aboard Enigma Records' A Town South of Bakersfield, Part II, a compilation tape featuring L.A.'s up-and-coming twangsters. Kane's pal Dwight Yoakam appeared on the first edition.