Between a Heart and a Rock Place

by Pat Benatar

  Diane had a solution:

  “There’s a town on Maui, a little tiny place called Hana. You can’t get much more private than that. It’s way off the beaten path. My client Kris Kristofferson owns some property there, and according to him it is one of the most beautiful places on earth.”

  Diane made the arrangements. I flew back to L.A., and Spyder followed me the next day. We’d only been to Hawaii once before, and that was to Oahu to play the Blaisdell Arena. Having no idea how small and remote Hana was, I just assumed I could buy a dress when I got there, but at the last minute, five P.M. the night before we were leaving, it occurred to me to pick up something to wear, just in case. I went to Robinsons-May and bought a little white lace dress off the rack for $82. That’s the OCD in me—just in case.

  I had never been anywhere in Hawaii but Honolulu, so I didn’t know what to expect as far as our travel accommodations were concerned. Not only did we have to charter a small plane to fly us there, but there were only a few hours that it was available. We flew from Honolulu to Kahului on Maui at night, and as we got closer, I could see the water lit by the moon and felt us getting lower and lower, to the point that I thought, Oh my God, we’re gonna crash. Then all of a sudden, just as it felt like the bottom of the plane was going to touch the tips of the trees, the pilot clicked a remote and this little runway lit up, a stunning strip of white light beaming out of the darkness of the jungle.

  There was a warm breeze, and the trees smelled fresh from a rain. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and we could see that the airport was really just a little kiosk in the cane grass. Barreling toward us was a small, old-model red bus that kicked dust into the air as it wound its way down a little road. Clearly this was our transportation to the hotel. We were hooked.

  The Hotel Hana-Maui, originally named the Ka’uiki Inn, was built in 1946 by a cattleman named Paul Fagan. It literally saved the town of Hana. When the last of the sugar plantations closed, the entire area suffered. That’s when Fagan got the idea to build a small but luxurious hotel to try to attract tourists. When he got a baseball team to hold their practices in the area, it created jobs not just at the hotel, but throughout the village. The Hotel Hana-Maui was a luxurious 1950s-style hotel, not Beverly Hills luxury, but better. There was a definite Kon-Tiki Pacific Rim atmosphere, old Hawaii. Spyder and I stayed in the Manager’s House, a small addition that was even more private than the hotel and had a private pool. Our room had this wild and colorful Hawaiian-print wallpaper, woven mats hanging on the wall, and beautiful fresh flowers and linens. Every detail felt like paradise.

  The woman we talked to about wedding arrangements was named Mary Estrella. From the moment we introduced ourselves, we knew this had been the right decision. Our names meant nothing to her. Nothing. After dealing with fame for the last three years, we were only too ready to be anonymous. The best thing of all was that even if the people in Hana had heard of you, they didn’t care about it. All Mary Estrella really knew about us was that we were there to get married. She handed us a huge ring of keys and told us we’d need to look around to find the place where we wanted our ceremony.

  “Why do we need keys?” I asked.

  “’Cause you gotta go through the pastures, and we don’t want to let the cattle out. Just lock the gates as you go around.”

  Oh yeah. We were in the right place.

  “We’ve got three churches,” she continued. “But people like to get married on the land. You can just look around.”

  So the next day we went looking. There are about seven hundred people in Hana, mostly local Hawaiians. For tourists visiting Maui, the road to Hana is a popular trip and people are welcomed to the town Hana-style. But because most people only stay for an hour or so and drive back the same day, it’s still very quiet and peaceful there. Things are done in the old ways. There are no car washes, no dry cleaners, no movie theaters. The people grow their own vegetables and hang their clothes on a line outside. There are no streetlights. Cattle wander around in the streets, and if they are in your way, you just stop the car and let them take their time. People are never late because of traffic (if they are on a time schedule, which they rarely are); if someone is late, it’s because of cattle standing in the road.

  Just being around the town on that first day, we could tell that this was a truly special place. In the last three years, we’d been around the world, stayed in countless hotels, flown on planes, driven around on buses, but we’d never been to a place like this. It was a place without complications, without egos. A sacred place where we could finally catch our breath—even if only for a few days.

  Spyder and I spent the next two days driving around in a little Jeep, looking for a place to get married. We looked everywhere, not because we couldn’t find the perfect place, but because it was so beautiful we wanted to search out every pasture, unlock every gate. We saw several mountains—every cliff, waterfall, stream, pond, and hallowed spot. Finally we decided on a site by the Leho’ula cliffs.

  Next, we needed to meet with Reverend Henry Kahula, the minister of the nondenominational Wainanalua Church. Spyder and I are both Catholic, but since I had gotten a divorce, we knew that no priest would marry us. Henry Kahula had two jobs. He was both a minister and a mechanic at the only gas station in Hana. Mary Estrella told us how to find him.

  “You go on down to the Chevron station and look around. He’ll be there.”

  So we walked in and called his name. He rolled out on a dolly from underneath a truck. Henry Kahula was a big man with huge hands and a big smile. Still stretched out on the dolly, he told us he was only too happy to officiate, just needed a few details, like what time, if we had witnesses, and whether we wanted a Hawaiian ceremony. We explained that we’d already asked a couple of people who worked at the hotel, Louisa Pu and Les Mederios, to be matron of honor and best man, and that yes, we’d love to have a Hawaiian ceremony. The best part was, Reverend Kahula never got off the dolly during the entire conversation.

  There were no stores in Hana to shop at for wedding-appropriate dresses, so I wore the white lace dress I’d brought with me. I married the love of my life wearing an $82 dress, and it couldn’t have been more perfect. Spyder and I both had leis around our necks and po’o garlands of flowers on our heads. We had flower petals from the local gardens strewn around on the cliff. It was a spectacular day for a wedding. The sun was shining over Maui. The birds were flying and waves were crashing against the cliff. It was February 20, 1982, and we both knew that we would forever be tied to that island paradise.

  We stayed at the Hotel Hana-Maui for a couple of days of honeymooning, loving the isolation and each other. It was amazing to realize that we were married at long last and that we’d moved so quickly to put the past year of separation behind us.

  Flying back to Los Angeles for the Grammy awards, a jolt of reality began to set in. Of course it was thrilling to be there, but for the last week we’d been as close to paradise as either of us ever had been—both literally and spiritually. Returning home to an awards show would be a cruel awakening. At least this time, Spyder would be there to kiss me if I won.

  I wish I could say that the Grammys were great that night or that it was fun for Spyder to attend, but we were so distracted by the euphoria of the last six days that the mad dash largely overshadowed the Grammys. It had nothing to do with the awards; with the exception of each other, everything in our lives was trivialized by the fact that we were back together. All we wanted was to insulate ourselves for a few days. Having to participate in an awards show was surreal—a strange juxtaposition of the conflicting agendas of our public responsibilities and our private lives.

  Even though I won that night, I don’t remember much that happened. We were both jet-lagged and dressed up, and Spyder was miserable in his monkey suit. He was still smoking back then and was fidgeting because he couldn’t grab a cigarette. He wasn’t the only fidgety one. Best Rock Performance, Female, still wasn’t televised, and there was somethin
g unsettling to me about receiving an award that seemed tainted by that sexism. I was up against Stevie Nicks for “Edge of Seventeen,” Yoko Ono for “Walking on Thin Ice,” Lulu for “Who’s Foolin’ Who,” and Donna Summer for “Cold Love.” I was up against a bunch of talented, terrific women who knew how to rock. Why wouldn’t they just put us on television? What was the problem? In the end I walked up to the podium, accepted the award with a smile, and thanked everyone I could think of—especially my band and my new wonderful husband.

  John and Yoko won Best Album in the general category, for Double Fantasy, the same album that had kept Crimes of Passion in the number two Billboard spot. I was honored to present the award. We talked with a few people—Quincy Jones, Olivia Newton-John, Sheena Easton, and Billy Idol. We didn’t go to any of the Grammy parties or socialize with any other artists after the ceremony. I know there was a lot of glitz there at the Shrine Auditorium that night, but we had eyes only for each other, and we just wanted to go home.

  DESPITE THE DOM PÉRIGNON served up to celebrate our wedding, the record label’s high-handedness did not change. Thankfully we did. Getting married gave us a renewed sense of power and purpose. By the time we went in to record Get Nervous, we knew exactly where we stood and where we wanted to be.

  As far as Get Nervous was concerned, Chrysalis did one good thing at our request: they brought back Peter Coleman, the guy who’d helped start it all by producing “Heartbreaker.” As a producer, we knew Peter to be a patient and inspiring teacher. On In the Heat of the Night, he’d created an atmosphere of limitless creative freedom and given us confidence in our own abilities. There’d been no worries about looking foolish or making a mistake. Everything was worth trying. Peter had no ego issues, and he was genuinely interested in helping us put on tape what we envisioned. He’d found ways to technically implant what we heard and felt artistically. Spyder, especially, thrived in that element, and this was largely responsible for how he’d been able to step in and save Crimes of Passion. In many ways, Peter was the perfect complement to Spyder. Spyder didn’t have ego problems, either, and for him producing wasn’t about control; it was about making interesting records, going on tour, and having a great time. He never understood the label’s misuse of power, the way they treated their artists like they were second-class citizens.

  Though Chrysalis brought in a producer whom we were excited to work with, they still kept trying to tell us what to do. For one thing, they argued over what songs we would record. Even with three albums to our name they continued to push us to material that had been written by other songwriters. We weren’t opposed to considering outside material, but by this time we were writing a lot of good songs ourselves. Our goal was to keep honing those skills so that we could record songs that had relevance to our situation. We wanted to create art in musical form that belonged to us—not simply embellish someone else’s ideas. As far as we were concerned, it was the next logical step. But as usual commerce took precedence over content for Chrysalis. We would never see eye to eye with them; we were artists, they were car salesmen.

  We started with four of the songs Spyder and Billy Steinberg had written: “Anxiety (Get Nervous),” “Fight It Out,” “The Victim,” and “I Want Out.” Because of the material we were cutting, Spyder decided to change our sound somewhat, following his instincts to wherever they might take him. He was born to produce records—obsessive, but never to a fault, though sometimes producing would take precedence over his playing and I’d have to remind him that he was the guitarist in the band. Still, the breadth of his musicality was staggering. He was like the mad scientist, always looking for new ways to push the envelope, always writing, always arranging. He’d get this look in his eye that asked, Wanna come with me? and I’d know there was something exciting up ahead. He never had to ask me twice.

  He was constantly picking up influences from things that he was listening to, pushing boundaries and blurring lines together. For him, the only constant in our sound was that it was constantly evolving, growing to encompass more parts yet staying true to itself at the same time. He was a forward-thinker, never content to be in the moment and always curious about where we should go next.

  As things progressed on Get Nervous, it became clear that several songs needed keyboards, so we made an addition to the band, Charlie Giordano. The vocals, too, were a big part of Spyder’s vision for what this new sound would be, and he pushed me every step of the way, keeping my voice high and powerful. Too high for the live shows, I kept saying.

  “Come on, this is easy in the studio—but what about when I’m running around onstage?” But he liked to test me vocally. I could be lazy, but Spyder knew what my voice was capable of and would not give in to my hesitation. I was always whining about the keys we recorded in and driving him crazy. Sometimes he wanted vocal performances that were so physically difficult I’d cut a session off abruptly and storm out. We’d duke it out, eventually coming to some kind of compromise, but he was always gentle and subtle. He’d coax rather than demand, ever the consummate coach tasked with convincing me that I had it in me all along. He might not have been as stern as my old German vocal teacher, but he definitely got the job done. I came to trust his judgment and made sure I was always ready for the next endeavor. Truthfully, he was usually right; these challenges to my voice were a big part of what made our records so intense.

  Chrysalis kept at me, and it seemed like they just never stopped—it was one thing after another. I came to call it the gauntlet, because it felt like that was what I was running through. Every single day there was some new land mine I was dodging. One of the best examples of how off track the label was when it came to songs was the biggest hit from Get Nervous, “Shadows of the Night.” This was a song that was written by D. L. Byron and first recorded by Rachel Sweet. But Myron and I rewrote many of the lyrics to make it work for me. We did get paid for our work but got none of the credit for being writers on a monstrous hit. That would not happen today. If an artist changes lyrics or adds musical licks, the artist is credited. People demand that.

  When the record was nearing completion, I started thinking about the album’s cover art. The last three covers had been pictures of me in a sex kitten pose, and Get Nervous seemed the perfect time to change all that. Spyder and I were godparents to Myron Grombacher’s small daughter, Kiley, whom we all adored. When she was out on the road with us, she’d do this thing that we used to call “getting nervous.” She’d clench her fists and strike a little pose. That phrase seemed to work perfectly with one song on the album, “Anxiety.” So we not only titled the album Get Nervous, but we decided to do a radical cover to illustrate the point.

  We scheduled a session, and I was made up to look anything but glamorous. The photo shoot took place in a padded room. My hair was really wild, maniacal. I was wearing bright red eye shadow. I looked seriously insane, and we loved the effect. Then we took band photos, with me in the demented mode.

  When Terry Ellis saw the cover mock-up, it was his turn to go insane. He called me at the studio and immediately launched into it:

  “What are you thinking? There’s no way I’m going to accept this.”

  “Come on. It’s great—not to mention different. Can’t we just let loose for once, have some fun for a change?”

  His response did not surprise me: “No.”

  I tried to explain to this man that I was sick of some people in the industry saying that my so-called “image” was all I cared about. I was sick of it myself, and this was a perfect opportunity to show some cheekiness. Continuing down the path of sex over substance would come back to bite us in the ass. It was more important to me to stay true to how I was feeling. I was done with the whole sex symbol thing. I wanted to go back to the original plan: playing rock and roll. That argument fell on deaf ears.

  After we’d heatedly gone back and forth for a while, he said he was coming over to the studio where we were recording—MCA Whitney on Glenoaks. When he arrived, he didn’t miss a be
at. He started railing at me, reminding me that my contract said we all had to be in agreement about the cover art. If he wasn’t in agreement, then I could not use the photo. And he was not in agreement.

  He couched all his comments in an overly polite and condescending tone of voice, the kind most people reserve for small children. Watching his mouth move, the words seemed to lose all meaning. The only thing I could focus on was the thought that this guy was one of the most passive-aggressive men I’d ever known. Did other major bands have to put up with this? Somehow I couldn’t see Sting or Springsteen having this conversation. What about Stevie Nicks or Ann Wilson? Was it only female artists going through this? I wanted to believe it was happening across the board, but I knew it wasn’t true.

  Our conversation was creating something of a problem in the studio, because people were trying to record. So, finally, in that same patronizing voice, he said, “My de-ahh. Let’s step outside and talk about this.”

  So we moved the discussion out on the street. In no uncertain terms, he said that if I didn’t reshoot the album cover he would shelve the album. And he had the power to do that. He subscribed to the business corollary that it didn’t matter how you got there just as long as you got there. The end justified the means. He’d been incredibly successful—not just with me, but with many artists on Chrysalis, such as Billy Idol, Huey Lewis, and of course Blondie—by conducting business like this. Likewise, he’d recognized my potential to be a major star and had worked hard to get me there. All this gave him a lot of latitude and he was unapologetic about it. Terry simply believed he was right and that I should just shut up and get in line.