by Tina Arena
We followed up ‘I Need Your Body’ with another single written by Ross – ‘The Machine Is Breaking Down’ – which also charted. Finally the album came out in October 1990 and went gold, reaching number 17 on the album charts, which wasn’t a bad effort. I was stunned but grateful – to Mike, Ross, Geoffrey and everyone out there who bought the record and believed in me when I wasn’t sure I even believed in myself. In November of that year we released ‘Strong as Steel’ as the next single.
I was still working on Dynamite but as soon as the season finished we headed off on a promotional tour. Geoffrey had lined up a troupe of dancers called the Ramjets, which included Todd McKenney, who choreographed, Jason Coleman, Kelley Abbey and my old Sydney flatmate, Alyssa. We performed to backing tapes at clubs and venues around the country. My old schoolfriend Clare Heasly was tour manager and did an excellent job. Clare was always by my side, and we had buckets of fun.
Ten months of Dynamite had improved my dancing skills, but I still felt like I had two left feet compared to the pros behind me. They didn’t mind – they were incredibly kind and always patient. On the road we were like one big happy family. We laughed our heads off.
Up in Queensland we caught up with Geoffrey’s mum, Betty, who was soon treating me like her long-lost daughter. Geoffrey was starting to seem like a brother. We had so many good times together.
That tour culminated in an appearance at the Sydney Gay Mardi Gras (as it was then known) in early 1991, and it turned out to be the best wrap-up ever.
The venue was the Hordern Pavilion in what was then the Sydney Showground. The stage was an elevated ‘boxing ring’ right in the middle of the space. As soon as the crowd heard the first few bars of ‘I Need Your Body’, they cheered and began to dance crazily. I appeared, slowly rising from the stage on a hydraulic lift. I was wearing a mesh bodysuit with a black leather corset, a black leather cap on a black bobbed wig, a suspender belt and fishnet stockings. I had a whip in my hand – it was as close as I’ve ever come to being a dominatrix.
When the audience saw me they went absolutely mad. There was so much love in that room. It felt like they were all saying, ‘Yeah! She’s finally grown up and isn’t she gorgeous!’
In a funny way, that night was like my coming out. It was another nail in the coffin for Tiny Tina and it felt great.
Todd, Jason, Kelley and Alyssa – a whole bunch of dancers – performed with me, and the girls were dancing with the girls and the boys with the boys. The music was so loud it blew my ears off. It was an awesome night that I’ll never forget. Ever.
It had been a big year not just for me but for Geoffrey as well. He was also co-managing the US act Nelson, made up of the twin blond rock-god sons of rock ’n’ roll legend Rick Nelson. With their song ‘(Can’t Live Without Your) Love and Affection’ then at the top of the US charts, Gunnar and Matthew Nelson were the third generation of Nelsons to have a number-1 US hit. Geoffrey was jetting back and forth between Australia and the States but he seemed to love every minute of it.
‘Woman’s Work’, the fourth single from my album, was released in early 1991. Around the same time I was asked to sing ‘Strong as Steel’ live at Melbourne’s International Comedy Festival. There was one catch. They wanted me to appear with Gina Riley, she of the ‘I’ve Got This Body’ piss-take.
I wasn’t sure, but Geoffrey gave me the little push I needed. After all, it would be Gina and Tina, together. What could possibly go wrong?
Comedy legend Shane Bourne introduced me. I appeared, dressed in a black velvet outfit reminiscent of the ‘I Need Your Body’ dress.
I began to sing – but it wasn’t me, it was Gina. Then I did appear – the real Tina. Geoffrey literally pushed me onto the stage, hissing in my ear as he did so: ‘Get out there and have a good time.’ After a bit of banter I threw Gina offstage and started the song again, this time in tune! (Gina, who is a fantastic singer in her own right, generously underperformed that night.) It was fun and I was delighted just to be a part of the festival, which is such a Melbourne institution.
That appearance was close to my last in Australia for some time. All the work we’d done on Strong as Steel had paid off and the album had been pretty successful. Now I was looking ahead, thinking about the next album and my next step. I might have been plugging away since I was eight years old, but this woman’s work had only just begun.
From the day we met, Geoffrey had been in my ear, imploring me to think through what it was I really wanted to do. Geoffrey was that kind of manager. He believed his role was to look after an artist’s best interests, whatever that might entail. If it meant I gave it all away, then he’d support me in that, even if it meant he was out of a job. He knew I needed to find myself after more than a decade of fitting in with other people’s agendas. ‘You don’t have to do all this, Tina,’ he’d say. ‘You’ve got to be true to yourself, and if that means going off to live on the top of a mountain, then so be it.’ It was a conversation we continued to have for a long time.
One dream I’d had since I was a young girl was to one day make music in America. So many of my heroes – musicians, singers, songwriters – lived and worked there. When it came to popular music, the States was the place to be.
My other dream was to write. I realised that if I wrote my own songs I could put into words and music all the feelings and ideas I seemed unable to express in any other way. I didn’t want to be forever just an interpreter of other people’s songs.
When I admitted this to Geoffrey he jumped into action. ‘Okay. Let’s go to LA and get you writing songs over there,’ he said. ‘Now’s the time.’ With his US connections, Geoffrey could actually make it happen.
Geoffrey and his business partner, Paul Palmer, would be able to set me up with some songwriters and producers. It would be a six-month songwriting apprenticeship.
I loved the idea, and with the money I’d saved from working on Dynamite, I could actually do it. Mum and Dad gave me their blessing: they knew it was what I wanted and that, now I was twenty-three, it was time to go.
But as with all great opportunities, there would be sacrifices. I’d have to leave behind my family and Fab, who after five years had become an honorary member of the Arena family. Over the previous year, due to my work and his study commitments, Fab and I had spent very little time together. When I did see him, we had as much fun as ever and always picked up where we left off, but I think he began to tire of the media and public attention. He continued to support me, but he didn’t much like the circus that surrounded it all.
He’d always been respectful of my choices and my commitment to the craft but deep down I think he knew it was going to be tough. With my heart set on going to the States we realised we were growing in different directions. We decided it was time to split. Young as we were it was very painful for both of us, but we still managed to laugh through the tears and we parted good friends.
When I arrived in LA, a black stretch limo from Music Express was there to meet me. Music Express is a legendary limousine company that has probably ferried around every famous person ever born. Geoffrey had organised it, of course. The limo took me straight to an apartment in West Hollywood. There I met up with Geoffrey and his friends, including Tim Keehn, who later became one of my good mates. After hugs all round we retired to the rooftop terrace to sip champagne and take in the view of the Hollywood sign and the city. It was a brilliant afternoon – I felt like I was free. It was Geoffrey’s way of saying welcome and it set the tone for my time in that city.
Geoffrey had organised for me to stay in a 1930s Spanish revival-style Californian bungalow in West Hollywood that belonged to Paul, his business partner. It was as cute as a doll’s house and as soon as I clapped eyes on it I knew I’d be happy there.
The next day we met Tim and his friends Victor and Scott, and we all went for a stroll around the neighbourhood. I was looking sparkly that day, in a pair of cherry-red and blue jeans, a tight black top, red lipstick and with a little h
at and handbag. A young gay guy walking past clocked me and called out: ‘My god, girl! Are those tits and lips real?’ It wasn’t the first or last time someone commented on my lips, let alone my boobs (‘I Need Your Body’ was not the end of it, by a long shot).
‘You bet!’ I shouted back, and we all squealed with laughter.
That incident summed up that trip. In LA I could just be myself, because no one there knew me from a bar of soap, let alone who I had been. Perhaps for the first time in my life, since I began working on TV as a kid, I felt free to be me and, more importantly, free to make mistakes. It was a weight lifted from my shoulders that I hadn’t even realised was there.
Geoffrey wasted no time showing me a good time – with him, anything could be cause for celebration. Whatever we were doing, whether it was work or play, he made sure we had fun. But through his partner, Paul, he also introduced me to some interesting songwriters with whom I very quickly got to work, writing songs.
After initial introductions, when Geoffrey and Paul would send some of my recordings to give people an idea of where I was coming from, we’d get started. I’d hired a little car and most days I’d head off across town to spend the day with various songwriters, many of whom had studios in their houses. I drove all over LA, all by myself. It was liberating.
I’d begun jotting down words, feelings, thoughts, and slowly began to shape them into lyrics. It was a learning process, but it was also a process of discovering how to express myself, something I somehow needed to do after more than a decade of singing other people’s songs.
The first song I wrote on that trip was called ‘Message’. I wrote it with songwriters Annie Roboff and April Lang about, of all things, homesickness. Because occasionally I did get homesick while I was in LA. When it happened, I’d call Mum, who would talk me down from wherever I was. ‘Stick it out, Pina,’ she’d say. ‘You’re there to learn and you know it’s what you want.’ By the time I’d hung up the phone I was usually back on track.
Two songwriters that Geoffrey and Paul hooked me up with were Pam Reswick and Steve Werfel, who’d written ‘Turn Up the Beat’, the first single I’d released with Brian Cadd. Back then they’d been just names on a tape, and here I was in their home studio. One song that came out of those sessions was ‘Be a Man’, which eventually turned up on my next album. It was the start of a collaboration that continued for some years.
Work was balanced with play, which Geoffrey and Paul took almost as seriously. They introduced me to so many of their friends and clients, including the Little River Band boys and their families. Paul’s wife Lyn and Glenn Shorrock’s wife, Jo, took me under their wings. Then there were the Nelson twins, whom Geoffrey and Paul were managing. With a number-1 single and album, they were touring the States, playing huge auditoriums.
According to Geoffrey, when Gunnar Nelson saw a photo of me he said he wanted to meet me. He liked my lips, apparently. Geoffrey teed it up, of course, and there I was in New York for the first time in my life, to see Nelson play. But we arrived to discover that Gunnar had lost his voice completely and the show was cancelled.
I felt for Gunnar – I know how scary it is as a singer when your voice gives out – so we went to visit him in his hotel room. To look at, Gunnar was a Viking, out of this world – waist-length blond hair, perfect bone structure, tanned, tall – I won’t go on – and he was just as gorgeous on the inside, as was his brother Matthew. Gunnar and I took a liking to each other immediately, but he wasn’t allowed to speak so we spent the next two days writing notes to each other. It was sweet and romantic – somehow it was easier to write things than to say them.
In September I was packing my bags. Geoffrey had arranged for me to appear in the Pan-Pacific Festival’s ‘Women with Great Voices’ showcase. I would be touring Japan with three other female artists who represented Japan, Indonesia and the US. The woman chosen to represent the US just happened to be one of my favourite singers – Chaka Khan. She’s somebody I still consider to be one of the greatest voices ever, and I would have the privilege of performing on stage with her.
We all performed individually and then came together to sing the finale, ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’. None of us liked that song. During rehearsals we would all moan and groan when we got to that bit. We couldn’t wait for it to be over.
But it was a great experience. The Ramjets came with me, and together we had a ball. I remember singing with Chaka in the dressing-room and pinching myself afterwards. How lucky was I? One evening, we ended up in a nightclub in Hiroshima after a gig. An American band was playing, led by a black American woman. We’d all had few drinks and Chaka decided she needed to show this woman a thing or two. She climbed onto the stage, hair flying. ‘What are you doing? Give me the mike!’ she yelled at the lead singer. After we’d coaxed her offstage, she jumped on me and planted a big kiss on my lips. I looked across at Geoffrey. He was aghast – for once in his life he had no idea what to do.
At the end of the night we fell into the taxi. The cab driver, who was wearing long white gloves, sat motionless, staring straight ahead. I’m guessing he’d seen worse, even in Japan.
That tour of Japan was an education in itself for this good Italian girl. And for the whole time we were there, Geoffrey and I continued our discussions about what I wanted to do, and how.
‘Stop trying to please everyone else,’ he’d scold me. ‘Be true to yourself.’
During my time in LA, I’d been able to do just that. I’d learnt and grown so much. I’d had some great times, met some colourful people and made some good friends. I’d also embarked on the journey of learning the craft of songwriting. Now I just needed to figure out my next step.
Mike Brady had put Geoffrey in touch with the then vice-president of Artists & Repertoire at Sony US, a guy called Randy Jackson. (Also a great bassist, Randy more recently became well-known as a judge on American Idol.) Randy liked Strong as Steel and was keen to hear the new material.
That Randy wanted to hear my new stuff, songs I’d had a hand in, was really exciting. I knew I didn’t want to do another record like Strong as Steel. It had been great, and I would be forever indebted to Mike for setting me on this path, but next time around I intended to have songwriting credits and more control over my image.
Ultimately, though, Sony US decided against releasing Strong as Steel in America. In regard to new material, they suggested we talk to Sony Australia.
It was disappointing. Randy had shown quite a bit of interest, initially. It wouldn’t be the last time I experienced just how difficult it was to crack the US.
There had been more sad news, too. Not long after we returned to LA after the tour of Japan with Chaka Khan, Mum rang to tell me that her dad, Nonno, had died aged ninety-three. She said he’d collapsed in the cellar. He’d been busy fixing something and died with a hammer in his hand.
I may have thought he was a grumpy old man when I was kid, but he’d made an impression on me, nevertheless. Now I was just thankful I’d had the chance to meet him.
Mum couldn’t leave the nursing home to attend the funeral, so Dad went instead. It was a reminder of how hard it can be when your family is spread around the world.
Finally, to top it all off, darling Geoffrey, who had been such a supporter as well as a wonderful friend, had decided it was time to move on. He was looking to new horizons. An avid sports fan, he’d begun to move into sports management and was loving it. Music was doing his head in, he said, and he wanted to move back to Australia permanently.
I’d miss Geoffrey – he felt like family – but we knew we’d always stay friends. I’d be forever grateful for his hard work, tenacity, diplomacy and mentoring at a time in my life when I needed it. Geoffrey had brought me out of myself and helped set me on my journey. With his help, I’d begun to find myself and express myself through song. Plus he happened to be the best person to party with. LA would never feel the same without him.
CHAPTER 8
Any Dream Will Do
Geoffrey returned to Australia, but I stuck it out in LA. The Australian singer-songwriter Rick Price was recording his debut album there and he’d asked me to sing backing vocals. I’d met Rick at my twenty-fourth birthday party, which Geoffrey threw for me at my place in LA.
Singing with Rick gave me the chance to indulge my rock fantasies – somewhere inside me there was still a wannabe Suzi Quatro just waiting to come out. It also gave me the opportunity to see the brilliant engineer and producer Chris Lord-Alge at work. Chris was already a legend in the business, having worked on so many great records – James Brown’s album Gravity, including the song ‘Living in America’, the Rocky IV soundtrack, Prince’s Batman soundtrack, Chaka Khan’s Destiny, the Rolling Stones’ ‘Too Much Blood’ and Springsteen’s ‘Dancing in the Dark’ and ‘Born in the USA’. And that was just in the eighties! Wow. How lucky was I to be in the same room. I just hoped something might rub off.
Spending time with Rick meant spending time with his Australian manager, Ralph Carr, a little guy with energy to burn.
It turned out I’d actually met Ralph a few years earlier at a restaurant he ran in Richmond called Churchers Wine Bar. It was a cool place. Ralph loved music and he’d get interesting people to come down to his bar and jam. I was seventeen when I went there with Nancy to celebrate her birthday and he had come over to say hello.
When we met again in LA, Ralph and I got on well. He was a bit older than me – thirty-two to my twenty-four – but he seemed warm, friendly and hard-working. Ralph, like me, was a Melburnian of Italian descent who’d changed his name (he had originally been Raphael Carnovale) and it felt like we had a lot in common. Like me, music was his passion. One thing led to another, as they do when you’re two expats in a foreign land, and we started dating.
Meanwhile, Rick was due to appear in a six-night showcase of Australian talent called ‘Wizards of Oz’. Scheduled for the second week of May 1992, the showcase also featured artists such as Kate Ceberano, Deborah Conway and the Angels. A few weeks later Rick’s album would hit the shelves in Australia, where it quickly charted.