Stories to Tell

by Richard Marx

  The director smiles as you walk in the door.

  He says “I love your work, babe, but you’re just not what we’re lookin’ for.”

  I knew that verse had to be about the bullshit struggling actors have to endure. In the last verse I chose to focus on the inner workings of the music business. I thought of Kenny Rogers changing a single word on my song “Crazy” and asking for 50 percent, which I gladly gave him to ensure getting him to record it. I remember thinking, Shit, man. One hundred percent of nothing equals nothing.

  Aside from not wanting to attack Kenny in the song directly, I also knew this kind of thing was commonplace in my industry. So I wrote,

  The producer says, “Lemme change a line or two,”

  And a little bit of somethin’ can look awfully good to you.

  In a couple hours, I had finished the lyrics to “Don’t Mean Nothing.” A biting, cynical look at Hollywood written by a twenty-two-year-old kid about to release his first album. Yep.

  Bruce came back the next day, and we recorded a basic demo of the song with drum machine, electric piano, and guitars patched through what was called a Rockman, which was a piece of gear that you could use if you didn’t actually have a guitar amp. I banged down a rough mix onto a cassette tape and drove to my then-manager Allen Kovac’s office.

  * * *

  I had interviewed several managers before deciding on Allen. You see, the normal progression is that you get a manager, and then, hopefully, he or she gets you a record deal. But I already had a deal. I just needed a manager who would work with me to break my career.

  Here’s what I remember about the first couple managers I met with. The first guy had me come to his house in Beverly Hills to meet him. It was on about four acres, and the house was at least 10,000 square feet. The next guy I met at his office in Century City. It was this massive space with gorgeous views from every window, and a shit ton of platinum plaques all over the walls from the different artists he’d represented. They both talked a very big game and how this artist and that artist would be nothing without them. All I kept thinking was, This guy is gonna work his ass off for me? I don’t think so.

  I then met with Kovac. He had been recommended to me by a friend who said, “This business is all about radio and concerts, and Allen used to be in concert and radio promotion.”

  His offices were in a very modest house near the Hollywood Hills. He had no secretary at the time. I sat and played him a few tracks I’d recorded for the album. At the end of “Should’ve Known Better,” he said, “That’s a hit song. No question.” Then I played him the demo of “Don’t Mean Nothing.” I honestly figured it might be a fun rocking album track but certainly not a single.

  Allen flipped out.

  “Richard, this is a hit song! This should be your first single!” We listened again and he said, “It kinda has an Eagles vibe about it, right?”

  I said, “Yeah, I guess so. I’ve always loved them and know every album by heart, so it probably creeped in there.”

  Allen said, “I’ve known Randy Meisner for a few years. We should see if he’d be into singing backup vocals on it.”

  I said, “Wow! That’d be amazing!”

  Sure enough, a few days later Allen called with the great news that Randy loved the song and would be happy to come to the studio and sing on it. And then I remembered that Bruce Gaitsch had recently been working with Timothy B. Schmit. I asked Bruce to reach out to Timothy about joining Randy and me on background vocals, and we got a yes from him, too. I was like a kid. I could barely believe it.

  * * *

  We recorded the basic track to “Don’t Mean Nothing” at Capitol Studios with a great rhythm section of Bruce on guitar, John Keane on drums, Nathan East on bass, and Michael Omartian on piano. Michael was and is not only a brilliant pianist, but he was also a hugely successful writer and producer in the ’80s and ’90s for everyone from Christopher Cross and Donna Summer to Rod Stewart and Jermaine Jackson. I knew Michael a little bit and greatly admired his musicianship, and I was also a bit insecure about my piano playing and felt Michael would be better suited to the track. I was right. His performance is fucking killer.

  I recorded my lead vocal later that evening, and a few days later, Randy Meisner and Timothy Schmit arrived at the studio to do the background vocals. They’d both been members of the Eagles (and the band Poco), but at different times, as they both played bass in the band. They’d met briefly before but had never worked together until my session. The three of us worked out harmonies, deciding that because we all had a similar range, we would get a great take and then switch parts on the second and third passes, resulting in all our voices singing each part. When we listened to the playback I had chills all over my body. That feeling… that sensation: it’s like heroin. I’ve felt it so many times, and I still can’t get enough. It’s really the ultimate motivation for me to create.

  I thanked Randy and Timothy profusely. Neither of them would accept any payment. Here I was, an unknown singer making his first album, and two of the Eagles were onboard for free. As Randy was leaving the studio, he said, “I noticed you haven’t cut a guitar solo on this yet.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We still have some more overdubs to do.”

  Randy said, “I’m still buddies with Joe Walsh. I bet he’d love to play on this.”

  I just stared at Randy.

  “Don’t fuck with me, man.”

  He laughed. “I can’t promise he’ll do it, but I’ll ask him if you want.”

  “Are you kidding? I want!”

  A few days later my manager called me. “Dude. Walsh loves the song and wants to play the solo. We just need to figure out a time in his schedule.”

  The inside of my head spun around. I had had a good feeling that this was going to happen, but the reality of it was pretty mind-blowing.

  It was about a week later that my engineer-coproducer David Cole and I sat anxiously inside Studio C at Capitol and waited for Joe to arrive. I invited Randy Meisner to be there, and when Joe walked in and saw him, his eyes lit up and he threw his arms around Randy. They hadn’t seen each other in quite a while, and Joe’s affection for Randy was obvious. Joe was warm, friendly, and immediately complimentary to me about the song. We fired up the track, and Joe spent a few minutes dialing in his sound before we started recording takes. His second attempt is what’s on the record. It was inspired and perfect. And now, this little song that Bruce and I had made up in my house on Vermont was not only my debut single on EMI Manhattan Records, it was a mini-Eagles reunion. We were all very excited about the song and the launch of my artist career.

  Well, not exactly all.

  * * *

  Several weeks before the release of the single, I flew to New York to meet the team at my record label. I knew that company president Bruce Lundvall was in my corner. He’d signed me and was very vocal about how much he liked the album I’d delivered. But among the executives who my manager, Allen, and I met in their offices that day was the head of pop radio promotion, Jack Satter. In his late thirties and already a radio promotion veteran, Jack was a pretty stone-faced guy. Stocky, clean-shaven, and not very chatty, Jack cut right to the chase. “Richard, there are several songs on your album I think might do well at radio. But ‘Don’t Mean Nothing’ isn’t one of them. It’s just not a hit song.”

  Stunned, I looked at Allen, who said, “Well, Jack… it’s the single we’re going with, and hopefully, you can bring it home for us.”

  Ten steps out of Satter’s office, I turned to Allen. “What the fuck! The head of pop radio at my own label hates my single?”

  “Don’t sweat it, Richard. Lundvall loves it and it’s already becoming a monster smash at rock radio. Jack will come around.”

  And that he did, within a week or so. Jack and I went on to have some very successful singles together over the years, and our initial conversation became a funny anecdote.

  It was the spring of 1987, and there hadn’t been a new Eagles
record since 1980’s The Long Run. Eagles fans had all but given up on the band. All humility aside, I know “Don’t Mean Nothing” is a well-written song and a solidly crafted record. But having three of the Eagles on it certainly gave my single more attention than a typical debut single from an unknown artist would expect. Rock radio immediately embraced it, and in its first week of release, 117 rock stations across the country added it to their playlists. It was (and still is, I believe) the most radio station adds for a debut artist in rock history.

  The video we made to support it was directed by Dominic Sena, who went on to direct several major motion pictures. The video was much more like a short film, featuring actor G. W. Bailey (famous for his roles in the Police Academy movies), Fee Waybill, Playboy Playmate and actress Ava Fabian, and starring my girlfriend Cynthia Rhodes. Radio had plenty to talk about with the Eagles members on the record, and the MTV VJs talked about the cast when playing the video.

  I distinctly remember having been to a grocery store completely and, as usual, unnoticed the day MTV first played the video, and the next day being recognized within five minutes of walking into a mall in Sherman Oaks, California. Everyone and their mothers had MTV on all day and all night. And for the next decade and then some, that cable channel (and its sister channel VH1) kept my face and voice regularly in front of the public.

  Helped by the success of the video and word of mouth, along with me immediately going on a club tour with my band to promote it, “Don’t Mean Nothing” hit number 1 on Billboard’s Rock chart and soon crossed over to the Hot 100 where it reached number 3.

  * * *

  I’ve been asked by so many interviewers over the past thirty years, “What’s your favorite song you’ve written?” It’s a question that’s always irritated me, not solely because I find it so unimaginative, but because it’s pretty impossible to answer. All my songs are different and mean different things to me. I have a unique relationship with each of them. Some I’ve grown fonder of with passing time, and others I’d be happy to never hear again. (Though only a few of the latter!)

  Lately, however, as I have continued to tour throughout the world and enjoy it more than ever, I think I have a “favorite.” And it’s “Don’t Mean Nothing.” Not because I think it’s a better song than many others I’ve written, but because it’s the song that introduced me to the people who have supported my career all these years.

  15 “HOLD ON TO THE NIGHTS”

  “Should’ve Known Better” isn’t the only song from my debut album that caused a disagreement between me and EMI (which I ultimately named “Every Mistake Imaginable”).

  “Hold On to the Nights” was one of those new songs I wrote in that feverish writing stretch in the Los Feliz house. As is usually the case, the music came to me first. I wrote the verse and chorus quickly, followed by the now instantly identifiable piano intro. The bridge that follows the second chorus came a day or so later and employed a tool I started using around that time and continue to rely on today: I let the melody note dominate the process and find a chord underneath it that you wouldn’t expect. It creates great opportunities for key changes and unique chord progressions. I actually use it twice in the bridge, starting with the first chord and at the end underneath the line “right theeeeeeere…” It sets up a great guitar solo and then a modulation, which pushes the song to a huge crescendo.

  My original intent, however, was to produce the song with an ethereal and spacious atmosphere throughout. It was late 1986, and earlier that year I had purchased and subsequently memorized the entire Peter Gabriel album So. It was and is an iconic record featuring classics like “Sledgehammer” and “Big Time.” But it was tracks like “Mercy Street” and “Don’t Give Up” that moved me the most. I was really taken by Peter’s production restraint. Those tracks are so minimally produced, leaving so much space for the vocal and the expression of the lyrics. I believed I could apply this to a more straight-ahead pop love song and create something fresh.

  I recorded the entire song with just me playing piano to a click-tempo track. I then sang a scratch vocal, which I would later replace after the track had been built out. Little by little, my engineer and coproducer David Cole and I would add elements to enhance the song, always mindful to leave space around my voice to tell the story. I brought in Michael Landau, the brilliant session guitarist, who played lines and notes that were thematic and not typical guitar parts. I had envisioned a fretless bass on the song and was lucky enough to have Patrick O’Hearn from the band Missing Persons come in and play after a friend of a friend made our introduction.

  I added a few light synthesizer pads and then brought in drummer Tris Imboden (whom I’d known through Kenny Loggins) to play some very sparse and tasteful percussion parts.

  But as we got toward the end of the drum session, I realized we had an opportunity to create a real “moment” in the record. Not unlike the thrilling drum fill on Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight,” we could make a sudden and powerful transition from the calm, ethereal pace of the song into a big, arena-rock record. It took only two takes for Tris to deliver that “moment” and I knew we’d made a unique, artistic, and yet commercial record.

  Months later, after my entire debut album was delivered to my label, several members of the radio promotion team came to me saying, “You need to go back in the studio and work on ‘Hold On to the Nights.’ Radio loves it and thinks it’s a smash, but the drums take too long to kick in.”

  This was code for “Make your song sound like every other song.” Though I’d not yet sold a single record, I dug in my heels and said no.

  “Look, just because I could easily turn this into a big, arena-rock ballad doesn’t mean I want to. This is a really personal lyric that people can relate to, and I want space around the words I’m singing so the listener can engage with them. Plus, I just don’t want to make a record that sounds like everybody else’s record. The record ends up pretty much where you guys are describing. I just want to take a more elegant journey getting there.”

  My manager warned me that resisting would likely create friction with the label and affect their support, but I knew I would forever feel shitty compromising. I also knew the suits were wrong.

  “Hold On to the Nights” was my fourth single and became my first number 1 single on Billboard’s Hot 100. To this day, I can’t sing the first line of the chorus—“Hold on to the nights”—without the audience in front of me immediately taking over on “Hold on to the memories.” More than a number 1 single, it was also a song that really connected emotionally with millions of people. I have the letters to prove it.

  16 RIDING THE SPEEDWAGON

  About three months into my artist career, as my first single “Don’t Mean Nothing” was nearing the top of the charts, I got an offer to be the opening act for REO Speedwagon on their upcoming summer tour. My band and I were playing clubs and small theaters and selling out, but opening for REO would put us in bigger outdoor venues. Their popularity on the charts was starting to decline a bit, but they were still selling concert tickets, and I wanted to have their audiences hear me.

  Our first show together was in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, on a July night in 1987. When I was in my senior year of high school, REO was the biggest band in America. “Time for Me to Fly” was in constant rotation on the radio and their album Hi-Infidelity was massively popular. I had a copy myself. Now, a mere six years later, here I was, opening on their tour.

  I had been told that being the opening act on a big tour is humbling and a mostly miserable experience. You get no sound checks because the headlining band uses up all the time, you only get to play for your allotted time (mine was forty-five minutes), if you go a second over, you’ll likely have your lights and sound turned off, mid-song, and there’s a good chance you’ll at least start your set to a small number of people because most fans come later to see the main act on the bill.

  On that summer afternoon in Cape G, the guys in REO had been delayed a bit, so
I had been told early on my band and I would not be getting a sound check. Figures, I thought. So imagine my surprise when REO’s lead singer, Kevin Cronin, comes knocking on the door of the shitty, dilapidated trailer my band and I were sharing behind the stage, and says, “Hey, Richard! Welcome to the tour! Listen, man, I’m so sorry you didn’t get a sound check today. It was beyond our control. But please know we’ll do everything we can in the future to avoid this problem.”

  And for the next twenty-five or so shows we did with them, we always got a sound check. We also had the members of the band routinely stand in the wings and not only watch our show but also give us thumbs-ups and high fives. Not only did we never have the lights and sound turned off, about five shows in, I was told to go ahead and play an extra song at the end of my set as an encore because the crowds were getting bigger and getting there earlier. Once, on my way to a radio interview, I heard Kevin on the same station saying, “Hey, if you’re planning to see us tonight, do yourself a favor and get there early to see Richard Marx and his band. They’re great.” His is the kind of generosity that only comes from artists who are either very kind, or very secure, or both. The guys in REO were both.

  At one point, about a month in, REO took a week off. I couldn’t afford not to work, and I was offered the same situation, opening for Night Ranger, who were pretty big at the time. My band and I flew to Oregon for the first of three shows. The Night Ranger guys weren’t late at all, but we still didn’t get a sound check. I closed my forty-five-minute set that night with “Don’t Mean Nothing,” which had a chant/singalong with the audience at the end of it. The crowd was going nuts, so I did one more round of the chant, which would have put the end of my set at forty-five minutes and about thirty-eight seconds. At exactly the forty-five-minute mark, the Night Ranger crew shut off our sound and turned off the lights. The crowd erupted in boos and gave a very chilly reception to the “headlining” band as they took the stage.