Siren Song_My Life in Music

by Gareth Murphy

  At the time, there was a bitter cold war raging between Mo and Nesuhi as a result of so much product from all the WEA labels fighting for attention from our overseas labels. Mo wasn’t at all happy with the quality of export service he was getting and kept threatening to team up with European companies like Island, Chrysalis, Virgin, and Ariola to release WBR artists internationally. To me, Nesuhi was the most distinguished boss among us all. I didn’t know the ins and outs of their ongoing wrangles, but Mo seemed awfully tough on him. All these European markets had their own tastes and regional peculiarities, there was nothing unusual about any of our records being turned down for being too American or too whatever else. It takes something truly special to sell all over the world.

  Anyway, you can imagine how it looked to WBR staffers that Madonna’s first contract was actually with Sire and Warner Music International, and that it had Nesuhi’s signature along with my own. Initially, this arrangement suited me fine, because apart from Mo not wanting her, I felt the clubby sound that Madonna and Mark Kamins had created was tailor-made for Europe. So, far from Madonna getting any free passes, her billion-dollar career at Warner began as a gate-crashing outsider. With her little three-singles deal, she had to prove to every one of Mo’s obedient managers all the way down the chain of command just how irresistibly good she was.

  As for the men in her life, she did have something going with Mark Kamins when “Everybody” was made. However, both Mark and her next boyfriend, Jellybean Benitez, were just club deejays. She may have had other flings around that time, but trust me, no big shot picked her up and sprinkled her with stardust. Not Mark, not me, not Svengali, not the Wizard of Oz. She was just a very passionate young lady, living it, and who knows, maybe she thrived on falling in love. But hey, she was just twenty-four. It’s funny how we don’t cry foul when a twenty-four-year-old male rocker turns a trail of pretty women into a storyboard of high-voltage songs. Okay, now a girl was chasing her mojo through all these handsome, talented guys. Do you have any idea how much I would have loved to do that at her age?

  The only guy she relied on in the early years and who never gets a mention was Martin Burgoyne, her roommate. Martin was gay and used to be a bartender in Studio 54. He knew everyone in New York and showed her around all the clubs, introduced her to Andy Warhol, whisked her through the side doors into all the right places. They were a real pair, pointing at men in the crowd, plotting, misbehaving, having fun. Martin was artistic; he danced in her first live performances and did some of her early sleeve designs. She worked out all her early songs, outfits, and moves with Martin giving her his honest feedback, but even he was just a friend, confidant, and cheerleader; he had no power over her strong personality.

  Madonna outgrew Martin’s talents pretty fast, as she did everyone else’s. At one point, she had to discreetly ask Michael Rosenblatt to refuse Martin’s sleeve design for her debut album because it just wasn’t iconic enough. They would always be inseparable friends, and Martin continued following her everywhere, whether it was on her club tours or to her many record company meetings—as did some of her other friends. At Sire, we used to joke that before Madonna even had a manager, she had a court of valets and minstrels following her everywhere; that’s what a natural princess she already was. Sadly, Martin was among the first to die of complications from AIDS and never got to see the full extent of Madonna’s success. I’m sure that hurts her to this day. Martin died in Madonna’s arms.

  The thing to remember about Madonna’s early days is that she was stone broke in New York City without any safety nets. Just look at her early photos; it’s all dime-store junk, wristbands, hairspray, heavy makeup. She was certainly a looker, but I was not interested in her appearance, no more than I signed the Ramones because I liked their ripped jeans and All Star sneakers. The only reason so many young punks ran out and dressed up like the Ramones was because of the music, and it was the exact same for Madonna. Her first believers were music geeks like Steve Bray, Mark Kamins, me, Michael Rosenblatt, Jellybean Benitez, and a few others. What we all heard was something in her voice.

  It was more her personality that drew in disciples and over time gathered an army. Seriously, try hustling a six-minute video in 1982 with virtually no money. She got use of the Paradise Garage, rounded up some dancers, and found a camera crew who’d work for almost nothing, and by motivating and directing a large group of people, she got what she wanted. Mark Kamins produced a clubby nine-minute remix of “Everybody” for the B side and remained invested in the project, but by then, Madonna had taken full charge of the show and was looking for new material with her new beau, Jellybean Benitez. Pop songs like “Holiday” and “Lucky Star” came next, which she also managed to put together with hardly any money.

  Of the Warner staffers, Madonna’s earliest supporter was Bobby Shaw, who worked out of the New York office and did a great job of breaking her in the clubs. Out in Burbank, the New York–based publicist Liz Rosenberg was probably the earliest believer, but others quickly followed, such as Craig Kostich, who ran the dance promotion department, and Carl Scott in artist development. Madonna was basically a force of nature who knew she had a giant destiny. There was no stopping her. Each studio collaboration bore at least one great tune, every photo shoot produced at least one knockout image, every company meeting converted new believers. Everyone probably did want to fuck her, but isn’t that the whole point of show business? It’s not supposed to run on money. Whether we’re fans, back-line handlers, session musicians, or photographers, we’re all secretly dreaming of fucking the singer, right? Just like it was with Frank Sinatra or Lena Horne.

  With her three-singles deal, Madonna just kept raising the stakes until a growing number of voices up and down the hierarchy started agreeing that, hell yeah, this hot chick should maybe be given a bigger break. We had the option for an album, and we didn’t even have to spend that much money on its recording. All we had to do was keep going and put the singles together into a pop album with her face on the cover. Admittedly, the material she’d made thus far was a bit uneven because she kept changing all these deejay producers who relied too heavily on their sound engineers and session musicians. But it didn’t matter so much, because the songs were all infectious. All Madonna needed was more runway, and sure enough, as soon as she moved on to her fourth producer, Reggie Lucas, who was the first real musician to collaborate with her, things started to take off.

  I saw Madonna struggling to find a producer, but I knew not to interfere. There would have been no point trying, anyway. The way I’ve always viewed this game is that once you sign artists, you give them their shot. My job was to support them among the Warner brass, get them money, videos, good sleeves, proper service. If an artist asked for help, whether it was finding a manager, lawyer, producer, dentist, rehab clinic, or whatever else, I was Mr. Address Book. If the artists wanted total control over their music, then fine, but you always let them work their way. The only things I ever did for Madonna was stuff like inviting her out to an English Beat gig, thinking she’d connect with their grooves and songwriting. Sure enough, her eyes and ears were glued to the stage all evening, and after the show, I took her backstage to meet Dave Wakeling, Ranking Roger, and the other members of the band. I could tell she went home all fired up, realizing that dance music didn’t have to be electronic and linear.

  I also asked Marc Almond to put her up in London, which he very kindly did. It was her first reconnaissance mission to scope out the British market and meet up with the local Warner office, where she knew she’d soon need allies to start conquering the world. The one and only thing I insisted she do was get a good manager, which she knew she needed anyway. To break out of the club scene and make it as a pop star, Madonna was going to need huge marketing funds from Burbank, which meant having a major-league manager, preferably Los Angeles based. I called up Freddy DeMann, because his partner managed Michael Jackson. I knew Freddy from way back when he worked for Larry Uttal’s Bell Records and even
before that when he was at Jubilee. He’d shot up in the business since those days, but I asked him if he was interested in meeting our new act, Madonna. “Okay,” he replied, “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

  “Hang on, Freddy. Madonna is a solo artist. She’s a her.”

  “Oh, shit, sorry! I thought Madonna was the name of a group!”

  “No, expect a pretty young lady. And by the way, Madonna is her real name.”

  Freddy took her on quite reluctantly, and when he asked us for details and saw her modest record sales, he almost pulled out. “I’m not managing an artist who’s only sold three hundred thousand,” he scoffed. “I’m Michael Jackson’s manager!” His cocky attitude quickly changed when the Jackson father started pushing Michael away from them. Freddy called me up all flustered, suddenly wondering if Madonna would still want him.

  “Relax,” I assured him. “She’s smarter than you think. Having you guys all her to herself will actually improve both your chances of things working out.” In fact, Madonna was way smarter than Freddy, and all of us in fact. God bless her for that. In later years, the best thing that happened for her as a manager was when young Guy Oseary, a schoolmate of one of Freddy’s daughters, came along to assist Freddy. Guy has been Madonna’s sole manager for many years and recently took on the task of managing U2 after Paul McGuinness retired.

  The only thing that bothered me about Madonna’s story was Mark Kamins, who’d gotten dumped professionally, musically, and romantically. In musical terms, I understood why she’d moved on, but I still felt sorry for Mark, who’d brought her to me. I stayed out of their personal affairs, but I made sure he got looked after financially with a 1 percent override—a symbolic gesture that Warner agreed was appropriate.

  Needless to say, none of us could have guessed how big Madonna would explode. She was just a debutante who, in the end, took almost a year to feel her way through that first record while I juggled plenty of other things going on in my life. Throughout late 1982 and early 1983, my father was dying. He’d had cancer for four years, but he’d always put on a brave face. He used to drop into the office to get piles of records that he’d donate to orphanages and youth centers around his neighborhood. Never once did he barge in like the boss’s father and order people around. He’d always ask politely, treat everyone with respect, and, if possible, crack a joke before leaving the building. My staff loved him. “I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” my secretary once told him when I was stuck on a long phone call. “I waited forty-one years for Seymour,” my father said, smiling. “Twenty minutes isn’t going to kill me.”

  Alas, by June 1983, his cancer had spread to untreatable levels. He was hospitalized and began sliding downhill fast. When his doctor informed us the end was imminent, my sister, Ann, and her husband, Marty, were away on vacation, but Dad held on until they were at his side. I think he wanted us all to be together when he closed his eyes for the last time. He was eighty-two, exactly twice my age.

  I’ll always associate Dad’s last months with the Pretenders’ hit “Back on the Chain Gang,” which hung in the charts all through early 1983. Now there’s a song of pure sincerity sung straight from the heart. Chrissie Hynde wrote it about the death of her beloved guitarist, James Honeyman-Scott, who had been so instrumental in her success. “I found a picture of you”—that line always melts my heart. Isn’t that how bereavement feels? Someone you love becomes an old photograph in the bottom of a drawer.

  That song would be the Pretenders’ biggest ever hit, peaking at number five on the Hot 100 and staying in the charts for a year—the true sign of resonance. As Madonna worked on her debut, the Pretenders’ lucky run was quickly eclipsed by Talking Heads, who finally broke into the mainstream in the summer of 1983. Talking Heads had been working their asses off over the previous year to get back on track. To keep fans excited and get some dough into their pockets, we’d released a double album of old live recordings in 1982, while they played a total of seventy shows around the world. The double album’s title The Name of This Band Is Talking Heads was a deliberate reminder to radio deejays, who kept calling them the Talking Heads, that that there was no definite article. It was a subtle relaunch, emphasizing the brand name and repertoire as loudly as possible.

  So much touring got the band tighter and more focused than ever before. All the new sounds they’d been developing as producers, all the turmoil they’d put themselves through as a team of strong personalities, all those years of trial and error had reached a collective realization. It was time to whack the ball right out of the park. And by early 1983, as Michael Jackson’s Thriller exploded and MTV helped pull the record business out of a slump, the world was fast catching up with whatever arty, African-flavored pop Talking Heads had started in the late seventies. Their hour had finally come.

  Self-produced over several months in different locations, Speaking in Tongues was the name of Talking Heads’ fifth studio album, released in June 1983, just before my father died. Jam-packed with funky hooks, its opening number, “Burning Down the House,” lived up to its promise and broke into Billboard’s top ten. For all of us who’d believed in Talking Heads since the CBGB days, it was such a triumph to witness. With the new record selling better than all their previous ones put together, the band went back out on the road and put on a show like never before.

  It began with just David Byrne and a boom box. Then, like a theater production, the show kept evolving through various scenes with different lighting, props, and stage formations. David’s suit even got bigger, but the best part was the sheer relentlessness of it all. After five albums, Talking Heads had so many great songs, so much substance, the show just kept punching hard from different angles. As a stage production, it was too impressive not to immortalize for movie theaters and VHS release, so they self-financed the filming of two shows with director Jonathan Demme, the plan being to retain ownership of the movie and make loads of money. They needed a third night’s footage, and because the costs of movie-standard filming were so astronomical, Gary Kurfirst talked Warner into contributing some money toward what would become Stop Making Sense, their masterpiece film that was eventually released in movie theaters that November.

  Talking Heads had become an independent touring machine, possibly the best live band in the world. I had very little to do with them on any operational level, but they were the Sire act I’d most seen since the old days. Not only did I truly love their music as a hard-core fan, Chris and Tina always made a point of inviting me to their shows anytime they knew I was nearby. You could say I became their equivalent of the two old guys in the Muppets, Statler and Waldorf, looking down from my royal box.

  After all the years watching them grow, I really did have a commanding view. Obviously, David Byrne was a complete original who became every song, like he was in a trance. People always wondered if he was pretending to be so eccentric, if he was an art school fake, but I swear to God, the man is exactly the volcano you see. Like so many greats in the history of rock and roll, I think he invested so much into his music, he may have suffered in personal ways. He was a solitary figure who put his life’s work before his private life, but hey, who am I to judge? I’ll always feel an empathy toward David Byrne. Some people are just born black sheep, and it’s really not their choice. Don’t expect them to turn white with age; they’ll only hurt themselves trying.

  The relationship between David Byrne and Tina Weymouth wasn’t an easy one to fathom, and I was never sure why. Was there some old unrequited love from way back? Or was it just a classic case of a girl getting between two close buddies? I never wanted to ask or know. There’s no doubt that Chris Frantz was probably the best friend David Byrne ever had, and I’m sure their brotherly connection must have got trickier when Chris and Tina got married and became a family unit. Onstage, David often turned his back on Tina and in little ways seemed to want to exclude her from the party.

  It’s true that fans loved Tina, especially all the producers and musicians, w
ho were the toughest customers of all. She always looked gorgeous stepping around with that huge bass over her shoulder. There’d been a few girl bass players in the punk scene, but none capable of nailing down rhythms like Tina. Beside the sweating, rattling spectacle of David Byrne, Tina’s feminine presence added both softness and danger, because she was stretching herself in a boy’s world. Very often, Talking Heads looked like a string that was about to snap. Backstage, you could feel the tension David and Tina were both under, but they’d pull it off every night.

  The magic glue was Chris Frantz, who loved them both and always seemed so relaxed. He sang his heart out as he played some of the tightest, funkiest drumming you’ll ever hear in rock and roll. He wasn’t singing into a mic; he was just singing along to himself as he played, feeling every inch of those songs, which I think helped him cut his grooves to perfection. He let the song find the groove, and maybe there’s some undiscovered law about singing drummers. At home, he lived those rhythms with Tina, whom he loved like I’ve never seen a man devoted to his wife. The bond was mutual; Tina loved him back with her own lifelong devotion, even though they were different as people. Tina had grown up in a family of ten. She had five sisters and two brothers. The Weymouth clan even traveled a lot, so touring the world with a busload of musicians and roadies was second nature to Tina. David was always the main feature, but on the road, Chris was the de facto team captain who kept everyone from stabbing each other in the chest. Chris Frantz was born with a big Kentucky heart and two armfuls of love that just wrapped the whole stage tight.