Now I Can Dance

by Tina Arena

  Sony were out in full force – Peter Asher, who was by then Sony’s vice-president in the US, even flew out for the occasion. I think I performed ‘Heaven Help My Heart’. I don’t remember relaxing, even for a moment.

  It was a huge night. By the end of it, four of the five awards for which I’d been nominated were under my chair: Song of the Year, Best Female Artist, Best Pop Release and Album of the Year. When I climbed the stage to collect Album of the Year, Janet Jackson was waiting by the podium in black leather to hand over the gorgeous silver gong. As I approached, she quickly stepped back in what looked like mortal fear – I think she thought I was going to jump her. Whatever it was, we shook fingertips from a safe distance before I made my little speech. It was a funny moment and at the media gathering afterwards they all grilled me about it.

  What was also ‘funny’ was the fact that I was the first solo female artist to win Album of the Year. I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised – the music business was still a bit of a man’s world back then. Yes, there were female artists, and quite a few women working behind the scenes, but the big guns, especially in Australia, were mostly men. It could be intimidating when you were constantly working with blokes – musos, managers, promoters, record execs, you name it. Occasionally I was intimidated – even though I love men and get on well with them, straight and gay. You’d have to be Joan of Arc not to be intimidated.

  Which was where Ralph came in. He was my champion – but not my ‘creator’. A few members of the media didn’t see it that way, though. If some of their articles were to be believed, Ralph – or some record exec – had virtually created me from some old bits lying about. It was almost as if, after twenty years in the business, I wouldn’t have had any ideas of my own or known what music I liked, how to make a record or how to carry myself without some bloke there to tell me.

  It was probably just laziness on the media’s part, and thanks be to god the world has moved on a bit since then. But the fact was, they had things completely backwards. I’d never felt comfortable with the way I’d been ‘packaged’ in the ‘I Need Your Body’ video, for which I’d got a fair bit of stick at the time. When it came to Don’t Ask, I ‘packaged’ myself as myself. Like it or lump it. Turns out they liked it. But can I say here, no man did it for me.

  Whatever the media made of it, winning four ARIAs that year knocked me for six. I felt a mix of pleasure and pain (as Chrissy Amphlett said, it’s a fine line). I was thrilled and I was grateful, especially to the fans who’d liked my music enough to fork out their hard-earned cash to buy the records. But back then I found it difficult to understand how or why the industry could do such an about-turn after those years when no one would take a punt on me. It was something to keep in the back of my mind, for down the track …

  Four days after the ARIAs, the ‘You Asked for It’ tour kicked off with two shows at the State Theatre in Sydney followed by shows in Melbourne, Canberra, and Sydney again.

  It was a terrific tour. All the concerts sold out, except in Geelong – I like to think they still hadn’t forgiven me for supporting Carlton in the grand final. The audiences everywhere seemed to enjoy themselves, and there were some hilarious moments. In Melbourne, some joker threw a pair of red undies onstage. ‘Who do you think I am?’ I deadpanned. ‘ Tom Jones?’

  More dates were added, with the second round called the ‘You Asked for More’ tour. Then, in late November, Don’t Ask went to number 1 on the charts and hit seven times platinum – almost half a million records sold in Australia. What’s more, I had become the highest-selling female artist of all time in my country. Worldwide, we’d hit at least a million records. Things were definitely looking up.

  To top it all off, my wedding day was almost upon us. Due to the extended tour, we’d had to cancel our planned honeymoon. There was just no time. That would have to come later, once all this was done.

  But already I was wondering when ‘later’ might be.

  CHAPTER 11

  Show Me Heaven

  Ralph and I were married at St Marys in West Melbourne, where my sisters and I had been baptised as babies. I wore a cream gown with a long train; there were Rolls-Royces, bridesmaids and matching groomsmen, a flower girl, a matron of honour.

  A little more out of the ordinary were the security guards, hired to keep the ceremony private. My decision to turn down a hefty sum on offer from a magazine for exclusive photos had caused a huge barney between Ralph and me. Ralph couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to do it.

  But I held my ground. I couldn’t put a price on our private life. It was a personal choice – I know some people are happy to have photos published and that’s their decision. It was one of the few times I said no to one of Ralph’s publicity ideas. Nevertheless, the wedding wasn’t quite what I’d envisaged.

  After the marriage ceremony the wedding party adjourned to Michael and Sue Gudinski’s gorgeous home in Toorak, where photos were taken and we celebrated with champagne. The reception was at 9 Darling Street, South Yarra. It wasn’t a huge affair – maybe 100 people or so.

  It was the kind of white wedding that girls dream of. But it felt surreal to me – Ralph and I were just two good mates getting hitched. It seemed that what romance there had been between us had fizzled – there was never time. The media reported that I was crying in the car as I arrived at the church. I wasn’t, but I did feel overcome. In hindsight, I can honestly say it wasn’t with happiness. In fact, my overwhelming memory of that day was of feeling disconnected from my husband-to-be.

  My family knew. The mood at Keilor East the night before had been sombre. I think Mum, Dad and my sisters realised I had a hard road ahead of me. So when I nearly fainted in the church vestibule just as I was about to walk down the aisle, Silvana put her arm around me. ‘You don’t have to go through with it, Peen,’ she said. ‘We can turn around now – do a Runaway Bride.’

  Of course, I did go through with it. It was almost as if I treated it like a work commitment – I just got on with it. After all, how could I not, I reasoned. Even though we’d tried to keep it low-key, I could imagine the uproar if I changed my mind and went home. Every day, people get cold feet when they front up to the altar. In most cases things turn out all right. No doubt I was run-down, exhausted. I’d shrunk to forty-five kilos by then, after months – even years – on the merry-go-round. But I think I knew in my heart that wasn’t all of it, and that things wouldn’t be all right. I also knew that Ralph and I were friends and colleagues but no longer much more. Missing from our lives together was balance – of work and life, work and play, work and love. Instead, we just had work, work, work.

  Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely adored my job, and after all the effort and heartache, I felt I’d finally achieved something I could be proud of. But love was also important to me. Even back then I realised I needed that balance between work and my personal life, and that I could only spend a certain time on that merry-go-round. The day would come when I would stop, get off and start a family. I was only twenty-eight but I knew what was important: family, friends and good memories, not money or material things. For me, happiness would be a relationship that balanced business with the personal. So far, however, it hadn’t turned out that way.

  Would things change once we’d tied the knot? No, if the weeks that followed were anything to go by. In fact, with no honeymoon planned, three days later I was back on tour, giving a concert in Townsville. More shows followed, in Brisbane and Melbourne. I enjoyed every minute of performing – I love singing live to a concert hall full of people – but I had hoped we could squeeze in some private moments together. Unfortunately, they didn’t eventuate. Ralph and I were back on the merry-go-round, and our personal relationship was again on hold.

  The US release of ‘Chains’ and Don’t Ask was imminent. Back in LA, we shot the US video for ‘Chains’, which was to be the second single in the States. The director was Randee St Nicholas, a photographer and video director who has snapped every
one from Barbra Streisand and Whitney Houston to Bob Dylan, and made clips for the Bee Gees, Prince and so many more. It was a huge production by Australian standards: trailers, caterers, crew, including best boys and assistant everythings. Wardrobe and makeup worked miracles and Randee was a darling, but, just quietly, I always preferred the Australian video for ‘Chains’. It seemed more authentic.

  After the clip was in the can we headed off on a ten-city promotional tour in the lead-up to the release of ‘Chains’ by Epic, the Sony US label. The tour took in Chicago, San Francisco and New York. So the merry-go-round continued.

  Of course, there was plenty of fun to be had, which helped take my mind off my private heartache. In New York I performed at an exclusive showcase for the media, radio programmers and music retailers. Then I sang at the opening night of the new Virgin Megastore in Times Square. It was a huge event, with free booze and paparazzi everywhere. It doesn’t matter how many times I perform, I still get butterflies, and I sure had them that night in the heart of the Big Apple.

  Many in the crowd knew who I was, but some didn’t. Still, they seemed to enjoy the show, and when I’d finished my four songs Richard Branson jumped on stage, shouting, ‘More! More!’ So I sang another one.

  One of my heroes was there: Liza Minnelli. I had invited her myself that afternoon, when I’d paid her a quick visit at her Manhattan apartment. She’d shown me through her walk-in closets, which were full of stunning Halston gowns, all hanging in neat rows.

  I’d met Liza through a mate, Sarita, who worked in the food industry and seemed to know everyone in music. Having looked up to Liza since I was a kid, it had been gratifying to actually get to know her. But I hadn’t expected her to turn up for my show.

  Liza made her entrance that evening just after I finished singing. She was swathed in Halston, looking very much the legend she is, smiling and nodding to everyone who turned to see, her big eyes shining. What a beautiful spirit she is!

  ‘Chains’ was released in the US in early March 1996, around the same time that the sixth single off the album, ‘That’s the Way a Woman Feels’, was released in Australia. For whatever reason – lack of airplay or promotion, who knows? – ‘Chains’ reached a respectable but hardly earth-shattering number 38 on the American charts. I was pinching myself anyway: even making the top forty over there felt good. Everyone says it and it’s so true: cracking the US market, especially when you’re a foreigner, is tough.

  In May a second single, ‘Show Me Heaven’, was released in the US to coincide with the album’s release there, almost two years after it came out in Australia. ‘Show Me Heaven’ was a cover. The original version had been part of the soundtrack to the Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman movie Days of Thunder. It had been a huge hit in the UK and elsewhere, although not in the US. My friend and mentor Peter Asher had produced the original version, which was sung and co-written by Maria McKee, and he produced my version, too. I think Peter hoped I might crack the US market this time. It didn’t happen. That’s life. Still, an appearance on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno gave Don’t Ask a kick along, pushing it to number 1 on the Billboard Top Heatseekers chart.

  It was a little disappointing for everyone, but when it came to the US, I was determined to keep my expectations low. The guys at Epic gave it their best shot and I appreciated it.

  Meanwhile, the merry-go-round was showing no signs of stopping, and when we headed to Monte Carlo for the World Music Awards I felt like we’d spun off into the stratosphere.

  The awards show, which celebrates recording artists from around the world, is televised to a billion or so people and raises money for charity. I was there to accept an award for the World’s Best Selling Australian Artist – Don’t Ask had sold a couple of million copies around the world by that time – and I would be performing ‘Chains’ live.

  I’d been around the block a bit by then, and had my share of rubbing shoulders with celebs, stars and even some of my heroes. But nothing prepared me for the James Bond-style glamour of the event. There was no shortage of potential Bond girls – Laetitia Casta, Naomi Campbell, Claudia Schiffer, Carla Bruni … It seemed like every major pop artist or model had turned up for the show and was staying at the Hermitage, the historic luxury hotel in Monte Carlo.

  Each time Ralph and I walked through reception we saw familiar faces everywhere, in that way where you think you’ve spotted an old friend or acquaintance until you realise you don’t know them at all except from TV or a magazine.

  We’d arrived a day or two early to attend rehearsals. After my second rehearsal I could see that ‘Chains’ connected with people – whoever was around would stop what they were doing or would pop their heads in to see who was singing. One person who did, and came over to say hello, was Ricky Martin. He might have been one of the biggest stars in the world, but he was an absolute gentleman. So now there was a James Bond to complete the picture.

  When we fronted up at the venue on the evening of the event I realised I’d be a bit out of place in my silver-grey suit – everyone else seemed to be draped in Versace. I was ushered to hair and makeup and the Italian makeup artist, who clearly was used to painting the faces of models at the Milan fashion shows, got started. But I could see she was becoming increasingly nervous.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked her in Italian. ‘Why are you suddenly so nervous?’

  ‘I think Naomi’s coming this way,’ she hissed. ‘She’ll be expecting me to do her makeup NOW!’

  ‘I’m not moving,’ I said bravely – or possibly stupidly. ‘I’ve got to perform shortly, so I can’t wait.’ Which was true.

  It was left to the poor makeup artist to explain to Naomi Campbell that I was a priority. Naomi was not impressed and didn’t even glance at me once. Fair enough.

  Diana Ross introduced me to the audience. Michael Jackson was in the front row. Celine Dion was a few rows back. So no pressure! But the song carried me through as it has done so many times before and since.

  The official dinner was in the ballroom of the Hôtel Hermitage. An hour or two into the dinner, which was silver (or probably platinum!) service, I was still shovelling caviar and foie gras into my mouth when two magnificent women approached me like a pair of schoolgirls. It was ‘10’ and Honey Ryder – aka Bo Derek and Ursula Andress, the first Bond girl of them all.

  ‘Wow, you brought the house down!’ Bo said, directing air kisses my way. Ursula did the same.

  I don’t think I managed much in the way of conversation – I had grown up adoring these two beauties and here they were generously congratulating me!

  A little later I was personally introduced to Miss Diana Ross, another one of my heroes growing up. Now I was the bashful schoolgirl, but Miss Ross was utterly charming, and said she knew who I was. ‘You’re the girl who sings “Chains”! What a fine voice you have!’ Coming as it did from Miss Ross, it was the greatest compliment I have ever received.

  The whole experience was utterly surreal. I was getting better at all this stuff, but somewhere inside I would always be the girl from Moonee Ponds, wondering how the hell I’d ended up there. Sometimes I felt like I was up in the clouds, walking on air. There was no doubt that the merry-go-round was sometimes worth the price of a ticket. It just depended on what that price was, something I was still finding out.

  CHAPTER 12

  If I Didn’t Love You

  ‘You’ve got five minutes to come up with your second album.’ Back in LA and fronting up for a songwriting session with my old mate Dave Tyson, who’d produced Don’t Ask, I couldn’t help but recall those wise words, which I’d heard when I was making that record. I’d barely had time to blink since Don’t Ask had been released in Australia almost two years earlier. Now I needed to write and record a whole lot of new material. I could feel the pressure mounting. Don’t Ask had sold so well, the expectation was that the new record should match or improve on that success.

  I didn’t have a clear idea of what this record would be – how it would sound
, or what direction it might take. But I figured out that the best thing to do was start with the songs, and take it from there. The record would reveal itself and take its own shape.

  You have to be in a certain frame of mind to write and it took me a while to get there. Two years of touring and promotion, of hardly ever being home, had left me exhausted. But at least I’d be staying put in LA now for a while. I’d rented an apartment from Australian film director Russell Mulcahy in the Park Wellington building in West Hollywood. Ralph set up an office in the front room and came and went.

  Back in Dave’s studio with its spectacular views of LA, I knew that this was about as good as it gets. Writing and recording is one of the best things you can do when you’re vertical (especially after a glass or two of Dave’s red wine). You can let loose, you can cry and, even better, you can laugh.

  And once my creative juices were flowing, I did. We had some good times writing ‘In Command’ and ‘Sixteen Years’. After a few sessions together we’d recorded a demo of ‘Now I Can Dance’. The song was like a sequel to ‘Chains’, about the freedom of travelling to new places where no one knows who you are. I’d felt it in LA, and again when I travelled to other parts of the States and to Europe. It’s something I had never experienced since I was a little kid, and it did feel good, but I also knew it was a feeling anyone can relate to. That song had a similar kind of free-spirited optimism to ‘Sorrento Moon’ and was probably also inspired by those glistening LA views from Dave’s studio.

  Dave’s old pal Dean McTaggart was often around, and the two of them would joke continually, trying to make each other laugh. With Dave and Dean I wrote ‘Unsung Hero’.

  We’d also lined up Pam Reswick and Steve Werfel to help. Pam, Steve and I had written some good songs together in the past, including ‘Chains’, and I hoped we could recreate the magic.