by Richard Marx
I told my manager to tell them that I understood and wished them my best for success with the movie. When he called to do that, they said, “We found a song Richard wrote a few years ago that we love and think would be great over the credits. It’s called ‘Surrender to Me.’ ”
I had written that song in 1984 with my dear friend Ross Vannelli. Ross is the brother of the great singer, Gino. In fact, Ross wrote Gino’s big hit of 1978, “I Just Wanna Stop.” Ross and I met in 1983 and hit it off as fast friends, as well as cowriters. We had done a demo of “Surrender to Me,” which we conceived as a duet, with me singing the male lead and a local LA demo singer singing the girl’s part.
The film folks wondered if I’d do the song as a duet with a well-known female artist, but I really did not want another big ballad to be my next song on the radio after “Hold On to the Nights” so I politely passed on singing it. “Surrender to Me” was recorded by Ann Wilson of Heart and Robin Zander of Cheap Trick as the film soundtrack’s single and became a Top Ten single in March of 1989, peaking at number 6 on Billboard’s Hot 100.
I’ve run into Robin Zander a few times over the years, and he’s laughingly thanked me for not singing it so he could have his only Top Ten single under his own name. He and Ann, one of the greatest voices of all time, did a superb job. And I released “Wait for the Sunrise” on my Repeat Offender album.
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Another song I wrote for a film was “Love Is Alive” from the 1985 film The Goonies. My cowriter? Philip Bailey.
When I was in high school, no other band’s music affected me the way Earth, Wind and Fire’s did. I lived and breathed their records “September,” “Fantasy,” “That’s the Way of the World,” and “After the Love Has Gone.” While there are other albums of theirs I loved and wore out, their 1979 release I Am is my favorite album by anyone—ever.
Founder Maurice White was a master producer, arranger, writer and musician. From Chicago himself, he had known and worked a bit with my father back in the days before EWF was formed. He was, in my humble opinion, the most underrated singer ever. In the summer of ’96, I was recording what would be my last album for Capitol, Flesh and Bone, and had written a song for it called, “You Never Take Me Dancing.” I had produced the track as a modern tribute to the R&B records I had loved my whole life, and as we worked on it, my mind envisioned background vocals that could only be sung by Maurice. I threw up a Hail Mary and called him. He liked the song and agreed to do it the following week. When he arrived at the studio, he suggested that he and I sing all the parts together on the same mic, to make it all sound bigger and fatter. Imagine how it felt for me to stand there, next to MAURICE FREAKIN’ WHITE and sing. He even agreed to sing some ad libs at the end of the track, complete with his signature “Yee-owww.” It certainly ranks among my most cherished experiences in the studio.
Philip Bailey, EWF’s other lead singer, got most of the praise for his voice, and understandably so because his vocal acrobatics were mind boggling. At the time of The Goonies song, Philip was on a big chart run with his duet with Phil Collins, “Easy Lover.” I was recommended as a cowriter to Philip by a mutual friend, and we wrote “Love Is Alive” quickly and effortlessly. Philip asked me to sing all the background vocals with him, which was another surreal experience in my young life. After writing with me and hearing my voice, Philip asked me to travel to Paris with him and his band to perform on a big television show there. I sang Phil Collins’s part, as Phil was busy touring with Eric Clapton at that time.
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My other movie songs include “Now and Forever,” a Top Ten single that I recorded as the end-title song to the 1994 Alec Baldwin–Kim Basinger film The Getaway, “One More Time,” recorded by Laura Pausini in the 1999 Kevin Costner, Robin Wright, and Paul Newman film Message in a Bottle, and, in what is quite possibly my most esteemed career credit, I cowrote a song featured in the 1986 critically acclaimed blockbuster Hardbodies 2. The most stunning thing about it was that someone felt the need to actually make a Hardbodies 2.
13 “ENDLESS SUMMER NIGHTS”
Between 1984 and early 1986, I shopped my demo tape of four songs to every label in the music industry. Every label passed. The rejections came mostly in the form of letters (“Your music is not something Warner Bros. is interested in pursuing at this time”) and sometimes phone calls from A&R guys who told me everything from “I don’t hear any hits” to “You don’t have the right look” (I think I was considered both not “pretty” enough to be a pop star and not “tough”-looking enough to be a rock star) to “Have you considered another profession?”
It didn’t take me long to figure out that nearly every single person making the decisions as to who got signed at labels were as musically clueless and inept as they could be. (It’s important to note that of the four songs on my tape at the time, two of them were “Should’ve Known Better” and “Endless Summer Nights,” both destined to hit Top Three on the Billboard Hot 100.) But somehow these folks had a way of staying around despite not making money for their label bosses. It seemed to me that usually, if a guy actually did get fired from Epic Records, for example, he’d get hired by Atlantic within a month. So the swamp would never drain. (Excuse the Trump-ism.) Despite knowing that the opinions of these bozos were consistently void of taste, and that every artist has their own personal history with rejection, it was difficult at times not to question whether or not my dream of being an artist was realistic.
By the dawn of 1986, I was contemplating the idea of simply focusing on trying to write and produce songs for other artists and no longer seeking a deal of my own. I really believed I had the goods, and that I was writing potential hit songs for myself, but no one in a position to help make that happen agreed with me. Then one morning I got a call from my friend Bobby Colomby.
Bobby was the former drummer of Blood, Sweat and Tears and had gone on to a successful career as a record company executive and television contributor for Entertainment Tonight. We’d been friends for a couple years. He had championed my talents as a songwriter and singer but wasn’t working for a label at the time and so not able to just grab a pen and sign me. He had recently, however, agreed to consult his dear friend Bruce Lundvall, who had recently launched a subsidiary of EMI called Manhattan Records.
Bruce Lundvall was a veteran record executive with a stellar history of signing well-known artists, mostly in the jazz world. He was looking for a couple of pop artists to sign to Manhattan and asked Bobby to be on the lookout.
“I’m going to introduce you to Bruce tomorrow night,” said Bobby on the phone. “He’s in town from New York for a few days. We’ll meet at my house and you can play him your demos and we’ll see what happens.”
While I was grateful and excited, I was also nervous as fuck. I realized that this would be the complete antithesis of what I’d experienced trying to get a deal. There would be no dropping off my tape with the security guard. No leaving multiple messages with the secretaries of A&R guys. This was the president of Manhattan Records. I would never again get an opportunity like this to go straight to the man with the power. He would hear my stuff and either sign me or reject me. Period. When I arrived at Bobby’s Westwood, California, house the next evening around nine, I kept driving around the block in circles until my nerves settled slightly.
It was just Bruce, Bobby, and me. Bruce greeted me warmly and said, “Bobby says great things about you. I’m anxious to hear your songs.” Tall, with white hair and beard, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and at that time fifty years of age, Bruce had a booming speaking voice and was easy with a laugh. He made me feel very comfortable. In midsentence his eyebrows raised and he said, “Hang on a second! Marx with an x, right?” I nodded.
“Are you any relation to Dick Marx the jazz pianist?”
“He’s my father.”
“Oh my god! Richard, I saw your dad play at a club in Chicago years ago! He’s incredible!”
I took this as a very encouraging
twist of fate.
Bobby had a room on the upstairs level of his home that he’d designed for listening to music and watching TV. As large a TV screen as anyone made back in the mid-’80s, gigantic speakers, and every piece of gear you could imagine, from reel-to-reel tape machines to laser disc players. It may sound archaic now, but trust me: back then, it was the shit.
We climbed the stairs and settled into this sonic spaceship of a room. I held a copy of my four-song demo in my hand, which was still a little shaky with anticipation. Bruce said, “Okay, Richard. What song do you want to play first?” As I opened the hard plastic cassette case to retrieve the tape, Bobby said, “You know, I was thinking. We can certainly listen to Richard’s demos, but I think an even better idea would be to have him play a couple of songs for you live. Let’s go back downstairs to the piano.”
I stared daggers at Bobby as Bruce headed back to the stairs. I thought, What the FUUUUCK are you thinking???!!! My tape is made up of pop-rock songs with full band production. Have you ever heard a guy play an up-tempo rock song alone at the piano? It’s hideous!!! Even Elton John uses a band!!! Are you trying to fucking SABOTAGE ME???!!!!
Since that diatribe was all internal, Bobby could only go with my facial expression, which he could see was full of alarm. He winked at me and said, “It’s gonna be great.”
I trailed Bruce and Bobby down the stairs and considered tripping Bobby so that he’d tumble headfirst to the bottom. That way we’d have to call for an ambulance and then eventually I could say to Bruce, “So, here’s the tape.” Instead, I took a seat at the bench in front of Bobby’s gorgeous six-foot Bösendorfer. (I ended up writing several songs on that piano over the years, including coming up with the intro to “Hold On to the Nights” one 3:00 a.m.)
Bruce and Bobby sat on the living room sofa next to the piano, and I launched into a solo piano-vocal rendition of “Should’ve Known Better.” I had never played that song on the piano, and my already frayed nerves almost went right to full-puke mode as I made my way through it. Bruce smiled and clapped at the end and said, “Wow! Good song! Love your voice, man! Play another!”
Feeling slightly less nauseous, I gave “Endless Summer Nights” a try. Again, I’d never played it on the piano this way, and though I could see Bruce was enjoying it, I was still trying to concentrate on the chords while thinking of all the ways I wanted to murder Bobby.
“That’s a hit song! Really, really good!” Bruce exclaimed. We talked a few more minutes at the piano about different musicians I would love to get to play on the songs, and finally Bobby said, “Okay, Bruce. I just wanted you to hear that Richard’s the real deal. Let’s go back upstairs and listen to his tape.” When the four songs were over, Bruce looked over at me and said, “Young man, you should be making records. And I’d love you to make them for me at Manhattan.”
For what felt like two hours but was probably five full seconds, I just stared at him. I couldn’t believe my ears. Years of writing, hoping, practicing, wishing, and paying dues had led to this moment. I drove home on a cloud of excitement and anticipation. I remember that a few days later, when a person from Manhattan’s legal department called me, I had the momentary thought that he was about to say, “Sorry, but we’ve changed our minds.” In fact, he was calling to set the terms of my record deal.
14 “DON’T MEAN NOTHING”
Bruce Lundvall not only signed me, but he did so on the basis of the exact same songs every other label had rejected. He also inexplicably offered me the opportunity to produce my own album. “I love your demos and I love your instincts. Why would I want to dilute that?”
I had previously agreed to let Humberto Gatica, the engineer who recorded the demo for “Endless Summer Nights,” produce two songs if I ever got a deal. True to my word, I hired Humberto to produce “Should’ve Known Better” along with “Endless Summer Nights.” We ended up basically using the demo of “Endless” because it was so magical, and even when we tried recutting it with a killer band of players, it just didn’t have the same vibe. We added some live percussion by the great Brazilian Paulinho Da Costa, some live bass by Nathan East in place of the synth bass on the demo, and a sax solo by Dave Boruff.
Humberto mixed both songs and then went off to other projects while I and an engineer-coproducer named David Cole recorded the rest of my album. I loved what Humberto did with “Endless Summer Nights” but had real concerns about his mix on “Should’ve Known Better.” I had even mentioned some things to Hum during the recording. Like, “I’m not sure this vocal of mine is hard enough. Rock enough. This was written as a rock song, but it’s all sounding a bit poppy.” Humberto disagreed and loved what we had, and he was my producer.
Ultimately, my label demanded that “Should’ve” be remixed or not be included on the album. Humberto said he was too busy to remix it, plus he felt strongly it didn’t need to be remixed. So I went in with David Cole, rerecorded my vocal, and remixed it to sound more in keeping with the rest of the album.
Humberto was very angry with me over that. So much so we almost got into a physical altercation one night soon thereafter. I didn’t see him again for many years until running into him at a hotel in Beverly Hills one afternoon. All the animosity was long gone and we greeted each other with a hug, chatted a few minutes, and went on our way. Hum continued to have a very successful Grammy-winning career, working with Céline Dion and Michael Bublé, to name a few.
* * *
The ink still wet on my record contract, I decided to write as many new songs as I could instead of using songs I’d written and stockpiled over the last few years. I was twenty-two and very prolific, and I knew my songwriting was improving constantly. Keeping “Endless Summer Nights” and “Should’ve Known Better” onboard because I still believed them to be hits, I went into full-on writing mode to complete the album, sequestering myself in the very first home I owned, in the Los Feliz neighborhood of LA.
Royalties from the couple of number 1 singles I’d written for Kenny Rogers had paid for the three-bedroom house in the hills beneath the Griffith Park Observatory. It was contemporary, with mostly black and gray moldings and accents, and had a small pool in the backyard. I lived there for about two years, and I loved it. The only real drag about it was that the house was about a quarter of a mile below the entrance to the Greek Theatre, and Vermont Avenue is a divided street, so leaving my driveway, one must turn right and head up the hill for about forty feet until you can turn left in a space in the median, then another left to head down to the main street of Los Feliz Boulevard and go wherever you need to.
This was not at all an inconvenience unless there was a concert at the Greek. When there was, the traffic on Vermont was a virtual parking lot for hours before showtime on my side of the street, and hours again after the gig on the other side of the street. So the usual seventeen seconds it took pulling out of my driveway and turning around to head down the hill could easily turn into forty-five minutes on a show night. More than a few times I’d made dinner plans somewhere not realizing the Greek had a show, and I’d look outside, call whoever I was supposed to be meeting, and say, “Gig up the street. I’m fucked. Not coming.” (It was sweet irony in 1988 when, while still living in that house, I headlined the Greek myself. Lucky I made it to the gig on time.)
I wrote quite a few songs in that house on Vermont. It had an inspiring energy, which is something I look for in a home. One afternoon, while I was writing furiously for that first album, I took a break to run some errands. I was driving home and, as has happened during several thousand car rides, I had a melody start revealing itself to my brain. By the time I pulled into my driveway, the chorus to what would become my breakthrough hit song “Don’t Mean Nothing” was written.
It began as a guitar riff in my head, and then lyrics started to join the melody of the riff. I’ve always been a pretty rudimentary guitar player at best, but I have amassed a stellar collection of acquaintances and friends who are brilliant guitarists, so in their ha
nds, my stupid guitar ideas sound pretty badass.
One such friend is Bruce Gaitsch. I met Bruce in Chicago when I was fourteen. He was in his midtwenties. Bruce played guitar on many of the jingles my father wrote and produced, and I’d see him at my dad’s studio all the time. I had just begun writing songs, and though it was mostly a self-contained activity, I knew I had much to learn from collaborating with other writers. I wasn’t sure if Bruce could write songs, but I knew he was a great guitar player and seemed like a good guy, so one day (as Bruce recalls) he was leaving a session when I stopped him at the elevator. “Hey, would you be interested in writing a song with me sometime?” He looked at me, this ninth-grade student with a Jew-fro and slight acne, and said, “Sure. When?”
A week or so later we got together and wrote two songs. It was easy. And fun. And we liked hanging out together. It began a friendship and professional relationship that endures to this day. Bruce has played on a huge percentage of my records, and we’ve written many songs together over the years. He followed me out to LA about a year after I headed there, and when I pulled into my driveway with the chorus to “Don’t Mean Nothing” blasting in my brain, I called Bruce and said, “I’ve got a cool idea. Come over.”
We finished the music in less than an hour. I started singing a melody that Bruce mimicked on his electric guitar, and we realized it was a really catchy riff, as well as a good chorus melody. The rest of the melody and chords came very easily. We knew it needed to be a loose, swampy groove, and something about the feel and the tone of the music inspired me to sing the words, “Oh, it don’t mean nuthin’.” I wasn’t sure what those words meant in the moment, but when Bruce went home, I sat on my living room couch with a notepad and started writing down scenarios and characters.