I Bificus

by Bif Naked

  This type of dynamic was not unlike that among siblings, and this was both good and bad. It meant we were like a family, with the inevitable occasional emotional outbursts and deeply bonding struggles. We were, as I’ve said, in the trenches together. Except we didn’t face death, as one does in combat—unless, that is, the audience failed to applaud.

  THIRTY

  Sony—Lava Records, Quincy, and Peter

  MY NEW YORK EXPERIENCES CAN BE DIVIDED INTO TWO parts: before Sony 550 and after Sony 550.

  When Peter took me to meet with my new US co-management team, Jon and Marsha Zazula, it was a fun and exciting and life-altering introduction to the local NYC music scene. I knew no one in New York or New Jersey other than the staff at Megaforce Records, Jon and Marsha Zazula, and their children. The offices of the legendary Megaforce Records were in Freehold, New Jersey. Megaforce was the mecca of metal, and I was captivated by it—thrilled at the thought of all the metal royalty who had passed through those doors. Jon and Marsha were warm and enthusiastic, and I felt very lucky having them and Peter on my team.

  One of the first times I was out on the town in New York City was the night the city hosted the Grammy Awards. I had yet to be signed to a US label. As Jonny, Marsha, Peter, and I walked up a flight of steps to an industry party, Peter accidentally knocked Quincy Jones down to the floor, right in the lobby. Quincy had tripped and collided with Peter. Suddenly we were surrounded by security. In a split second, though it seemed like in slow motion, things escalated. Two of the security guards picked up Quincy, while three other large men in black suits moved aggressively toward Peter, who assumed a fighting stance, a martial arts readiness position. Peter has third-degree black belts in aikido and hapkido, and I had seen him train, so I knew it was possible that the security staff could end up on the floor with broken knees and other body parts if Peter chose to make a move.

  “No, no! It’s my fault, I tripped,” Quincy said. Peter and Quincy Jones both started laughing and shook hands, and the situation was quickly deflated.

  Later that night, we saw Ellen DeGeneres and Madonna at another industry party. I told Peter that Madonna was eyeing him and he said, “It’s your imagination.” He was never impressed with celebrities. He saw everyone as equals. If they were respectful of others, he liked them. If they were disrespectful, he did not like them. Simple.

  The original rounds of showcases and shopping Bif Naked to the record labels was met with a high level of excitement. The label that was most excited, and which we were excited about, was the powerful Sony 550 Music, a sub-label of Sony Records America and the music home of Céline Dion. They signed me up. I thought it was perfect: we are both Canadians, she’s from the east, I’m from the west, and we’d make fantastic label-mates.

  Michael Caplan, our A&R man, recognized my potential as a solo artist. He worked with Peter and me and encouraged us as we wrote songs like “Spaceman,” “Moment of Weakness,” and several others for what would become the record I, Bificus. Michael was a lot of fun, and he believed in me and in my team of managers. In New York, Michael introduced us to a record producer named Glenn Rosenstein, who we hit it off with. Caplan started the ball rolling for my record, and in a few weeks, Glenn was on a train to Vancouver. Glenn is deathly afraid of flying, so he get around by trains and automobiles. Glenn brought John Potoker up from Los Angeles to engineer, and the experience was magical. We recorded at Vancouver’s Armoury Studios for ten weeks straight.

  As soon as the album was done, we all felt that we had something special recorded. But we ended up having a difficult time getting the album slotted for release on Sony 550’s schedule. I Bificus was already released in Canada and selling well, and it was also released on Sony Records in Europe, where we were touring and doing summer festivals. We couldn’t figure out why Sony 550, in America, was dragging its feet. So Peter and I flew to New York to meet Jonny, who had set up a meeting with Polly Anthony, the president of the label. It was Polly’s label top to bottom, and everyone knew it. She was a tough, no-nonsense record executive, and as we walked into her office, we were on edge.

  It was the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes I have ever experienced in my adult years. It was clear that Polly Anthony did not seem to like me, although we had never laid eyes on each other before. In fact, I felt as if she hated me and wanted me to disappear from her sight and from her label. Jonny and Marsha, who had already had initial conversations with Polly, were confused as to why Polly was acting so coldly. It was obvious that she could barely wait to get us out of her office. We exchanged small talk but nothing about the album, or promotions or planning—absolutely nothing. It was as if we were there for some reason other than to discuss the release of my album. Jon and Marsha didn’t seem to dare raise the subject, or maybe they just felt too awkward to. I never did ask them why they hadn’t.

  As we left the office, Peter turned to Jonny and Marsha and said, “This deal feels like it’s dead in the water.” Apparently, Jon and Marsha thought the same but were trying to make light of what had just happened because I was standing beside them. But I knew it was dead. I was devastated. This was a disaster: all the work everyone had put into the album had just gone down the American drain during one short meeting with Polly Anthony.

  Jörg Hacker from Sony Records in Germany had been keen about having the album for Europe and was instrumental in setting up the Sony 550 deal in America. “Fucking hell,” Jörg said in his thick German accent when he heard about the meeting. He called the New York office, but again nothing, just silence, no one would even talk about Bif Naked. It was as if I didn’t exist. Finally, after recording and mixing and mastering, after artwork meetings and photo shoots, the works, we received word that Sony 550 would not release the record. Whatever the reason, it was over.

  Peter, Jonny, and Jörg discussed strategy, and Jörg, after many months of struggle and great effort, managed to persuade Sony 550 to let us move to another label if we could find a taker, while Sony in Europe retained the rights for Europe. The next thing I knew we were back in New York City showcasing all over again. And Jonny and Marsha were again lobbying the label heads and A&R guys to come out and see the band.

  Jason Flom, founder of Lava Records, attended a showcase one night. The small club was rammed with industry people and my managers were euphoric. I was nervous. But before I had completed the last song of the set, Jason got up to leave the club.

  “Jason, you’re leaving before the end. Don’t you want to meet Bif?” Jonny said.

  “Call me tomorrow and we’ll talk,” Jason said.

  After the set, the dressing room was packed with guys from labels and publishing houses, acting like it was an auction. “I’ll take the master rights.” “We want the publishing.” It was a bit over the top, and I was stunned by such a positive response.

  The next day, we met with Jason, who wanted to sign me to Lava and buy the album from Sony 550 for the world outside of Canada and Europe, including the United Kingdom. Jason Flom is a god in the industry. No one is as funny and personable as he is. I desperately wanted Lava to be the home for my music.

  Jason asked us which song was the single—we had to kick off the album with the right track. Peter thought we should go with “Spaceman.” Jason knew it was already a number one track in Canada on the radio, with the highest spins for an independent artist in radio history (in the world, Peter would say). But Jason didn’t hear it as a lead-off single. A few weeks later, the decision had been made: “Moment of Weakness.” We were excited to get behind it. Jason introduced me and Peter and the Zazulas to Andy Karp, head of A&R at Lava, and many of the other Lava staff, who became my close friends, my family.

  I was signed to Lava Records in America and released the I, Bificus album on Lava/Atlantic. It was one of the happiest and most exciting times in my career. There was a tremendous push, with everything working together on promotion and touring. There were many great performances and great times, including an appearance on The Tonig
ht Show with Jay Leno. We flew from the East Coast, mid-tour, to Los Angeles and stayed in the Sofitel, right across from the Beverly Center mall, which was a big plus for me—it had a juice bar! Jay Leno was a perfect gentleman, and we performed our American single, “Moment of Weakness.” That I was invited to sit on his couch with Oscar de la Hoya and Gina Gershon impressed my managers. I was just happy to talk to Jay about my lip ring, claiming that my dad loved it because he liked fishing. Jay thought this was very funny.

  After our Tonight Show appearance, we were played on prominent radio stations all over America, and on dozens of other interview and television shows. It started to seem like we were “breaking” in America, and Peter, Jonny, and Marsha were elated. We performed for the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, me singing “Lucky” right when Buffy was losing her virginity, and it became a cult classic. The tours, the videos, the promotions, the magazines—this was all with Lava Records, post–Sony 550.

  During the setup for the album release, in the middle of a hot New York City June, I was put up at New York’s resplendent Plaza Hotel for a week, as a surprise birthday gift from Peter. Unfortunately, at the time, I was suffering from a relentless bladder infection. No matter what course of action I took, I could not get rid of it. Rebound infection after rebound infection, antibiotics after antibiotics, for months on end. But I was working: tours, photo shoots, press trips, flights, bus rides, car trips, trains, you name it, I was doing it. In the music industry, time does not stop for a girl with a health issue. The show must go on. So I said little about it to anyone and just smiled and carried on with my self-imposed positive mental attitude, or PMA, one of the fundamentals of straight-edge philosophy. I knew I was lucky to be at the centre of all this attention, and this was a pivotal moment in my career, so who was I to complain?

  At the same time, I had to admit that deep down I was a bit upset I wasn’t feeling well enough to enjoy the experience fully. Plus, I felt self-conscious. After years of punk tours, I thought that all I really needed was a coffeemaker, a bathtub, and a clean bed. The Plaza was opulent, and I felt like I didn’t belong there. I was just some skate punk with tattoos and a history of stage-diving and hugging people. I felt like an impostor.

  I shared the suite with Peter. It had a ballroom-sized bedroom plus salon, with twenty-foot-long taffeta blackout curtains and luxury sheets on the king-sized bed. Chocolates and wine were part of the turndown service. I didn’t drink wine, didn’t eat chocolates—it was all lost on me. But I was enamoured with my manager.

  We were in the midst of a secret, full-blown personal relationship. The intense relationship grew naturally out of working, travelling, living, trusting, and relying on each other for so many days, months, years. I remember the exact moment when it turned. One day in the midst of all of the craziness of an international recording career, the relationship with my manager became about more than just business management. The evening began with my confiding in Peter. Then, a small touch, a tender brush of the hair off my face, and soon we were melting together into the night. I was sunk. Drowned and lying at the bottom of his sea.

  Peter is intensity personified; he does nothing lightly and everything passionately. He was the perfect fit for me, and he surrounded me with a protective cocoon. For him too, our relationship was the most natural thing in the world. He lives and breathes his personal life and business as one thing undivided.

  Even though Peter had been long separated from his wife, we agreed our relationship should be kept secret. It was important to us that the artist-manager relationship be seen as professional only. It would just be less complicated that way. I relied on Peter artistically, professionally, and emotionally.

  At the hotel, I felt a bit like an eyesore with my Skull Skates hoodie and blunt-cut Cleopatra bangs. Initially, I was followed around the hotel by security—they must have thought I was some homeless kid, junkie, or prostitute. I was a female alternative musician, and this didn’t quite fit with the Plaza’s typical clientele.

  I often saw things through my skewed gender lens and resented any sexualization or objectification, especially if I was not on stage or not purposely being sexual. I wore provocative stage clothes, as did my peers, because those were the times. Sometimes I was drenched in sweat on stage, just like the boys in the bands, only they got to take off their shirts. So it seemed like the pragmatic thing to do: cut off my shirt and shorts. And then, of course, stage dive head first into the crowd. One grope, one grab to the breast or between the legs, and I’d respond by throwing hockey punches. It’s how things were done. You fought. I was like a female gladiator in the fighting pit. It was how I grew up, and it was how I played on stage.

  But with Peter watching over me, that stopped. I was not allowed to stage dive. He was right—it just wasn’t smart anymore. In fact, it was downright dangerous: people don’t just grope your breasts, they try to stick their hand down your pants, or worse, they might punch you, knife you, or bite your crotch, which actually happened once to me. These are the perils of stage-diving if you are a girl.

  Jason Flom and Andy Karp insisted on taking me out for my birthday, which was great because I loved hanging out with them. We went for dinner to a lovely restaurant, where I ordered a small salad.

  I had a problem with just about all food wherever we travelled. London, Frankfurt, Oslo, Paris, Los Angeles, Miami, Minneapolis, New York. . . anywhere we went, vegan food was never on the menu. Not wanting to create any fuss, I usually ended up fasting, then eating popcorn on the bus later. I didn’t want to draw attention to my eating—I worried that people would think I was simply being difficult or judging their eating. I would rather eat nothing than make anyone feel self-conscious about their meal because of what I ordered. I always wanted to put everyone else’s feelings first. Really, it was the usual issue of wanting to be liked and accepted. I was just trying not to make it like everything was about me, Bif Naked the solo artist: I was feeling guilt and therefore overcompensating.

  New York City had an incredible an energy I had never experienced in Canada. Jason often took us for dinner meetings to a restaurant in Little Italy called Vincent’s, where they bring you bowls of a red sauce to dip your bread in. The band loved playing in New York, and loved eating at restaurants like Vincent’s. I loved the people at Lava Records. In fact, I never met anyone I didn’t like at a record company, except maybe Polly Anthony. I love the people in the business more than I ever loved the business itself. I think this is because it was an amazing and interesting group of talented individuals who spent their lives figuring out how to make artists like me a success.

  The band toured and worked non-stop. A decade later, I would spend another birthday in a hotel, this time doing laundry. Not at the Plaza in New York City but in a Travelodge in Port Arthur, Ontario. As I reminisced about and reflected on the past decade, I felt blessed and happy to have experienced it all.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Anarchy, Rebellion, Empowerment, Growing Up

  ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END, INCLUDING love. It was natural for the intense intimate relationship to develop between Peter and me, and it was just as natural for it to fall completely apart.

  Our being together, both on and off the road, ran at full tilt, at 100 percent, for about five years. It was all-consuming for both of us. We shared an apartment and two sweet little dogs; we travelled together, worked together, and created music together. The relationship was rich and mutually fulfilling on every level. Maybe it worked for us because opposites attract. And boy, were we opposites.

  Peter’s a born leader, a commanding general. This felt familiar and normal to me, being the girl in a world of male-dominated bands, male managers, agents, and industry weasels. It was no surprise that I fell into my non-confrontational, submissive role. This dichotomy is what allowed me over the years to rely on him to be my advocate and protector, fighting for my artistic honour, and tackling any problem head-on.

  Right around this time, as the millennium
drew to a close, we began making my third record, Purge. This was the first album to be completely funded and released by Lava Records. After I, Bificus, we had done multiple, back-to-back international tours, hundreds of TV appearances, and thousands of miles on the road, criss-crossing North America and Europe. We were never home, just always touring, and starting to break.

  Even though Peter and I wrote most of Purge together as a couple, lyrically it reflected the ending of the relationship. It was an emotional time for both of us. We had a small digital studio in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, and worked there with the guitarist, Doug Fury, who engineered and co-wrote on some of the tracks. There was a lot of pressure on us, as we had to follow the hugely successful I, Bificus; Jason Flom and Andy Karp at Lava had high expectations.

  They liked the album material but didn’t hear a big single, so they contacted Desmond Child and Eric Bazilian about co-writing and producing a track with me. This was an incredible opportunity and I was freaking, to say the least. Peter and I flew to Miami, and I went into the writing sessions with Desmond and Eric. For me, this was a different approach to songwriting altogether, like a formulaic hit machine. Desmond had three or four studios operating in residences he owned on the same block in South Beach. He’d actually ride a golf cart back and forth between them, and I’d sit in the back of the golf cart, completely blown away by it all.

  Desmond and Eric had worked together on many tracks, and both were hit writers of the highest calibre. Now the pressure was really on: not only did I have to write a song with them in a day, but it had to be a single, a hit.

  Desmond, Eric, and I sat at a table facing one another, notepads and pens in front of us. Desmond was cool and calm. “What’s the title? What is it? The hook, the phrase?” he said. Somewhere in the midst of throwing out lines back and forth, “I love myself today” got onto the notepads. We had the chorus line. It was a fun collaboration, and we recorded the song that day.