![]() “I kept trying to figure out why people in the press thought I was so stupid,” she says. Maybe it was to prove that she isn’t a vegetarian hippie, as might be assumed from the Jewel myth - raised in a log cabin in Homer, Alaska, by a family of artists and musicians who would later urge her to live out of her van in San Diego while she chased her muse. I had suggested a health-food restaurant downtown, but she was adamant about having her steak. Second, she orders sweetbreads just to try them, which means that she is more adventurous and experimental than her music and poetry would lead one to believe. First of all, she has a sense of humor - which only those who have seen her concerts when she is in a chatty mood know. Jewel - wearing blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt unzipped one-quarter of the way to reveal a white T-shirt that may or may not have been slept in - is quick to display the depth and self-awareness that others have accused her of lacking. It’s very self-absorbed: ‘What is love? What isn’t love?’ I’m noticing that poetry doesn’t seem to interest me anymore.” “All that poetry was written from fifteen to twenty-two or something. “I’m starting to get over myself,” she says now, at twenty-four. Then there’s her best-selling book of poetry, full of adolescent confusion about sprouting breasts and first love. As beautiful and uplifting as Jewel’s new record, Spirit, is, lyrics like “What’s simple is true,” “Set down your chains until only faith remains” and “If I could tell the world just one thing, it would be, ‘We’re all OK'” have too much of the air of chicken soup for the soul or Christian proselytizing. ![]() The reality of Jewel is putting the stereotype of Jewel to shame. We’re at the restaurant at the Four Seasons hotel in Manhattan, and already I am relieved. ![]() Then she orders the sweetbreads and steak. The first thing Jewel and I talk about is cannibalism.
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