Stories to Tell

by Richard Marx

  It’s a very simple rockabilly vibe, and the melody came to me entirely within about twenty minutes. As the lyrics began to reveal themselves during the car ride (which was fortunately on a Friday afternoon and took two hours instead of the average fifty minutes, giving me more time to write), I decided I would teach the song to my band at sound check, and we would perform it that night.

  I arrived with about 75 percent of the lyrics done, taught the song to the band during sound check, and finished the lyrics backstage about an hour before showtime. I knew I couldn’t memorize all the words that quickly, so I placed the handwritten lyrics on a large sheet of paper taped to the stage floor, next to my microphone stand, and we debuted “Real World” at that Riverside show. The fans were up dancing to it immediately, and I remember by the last chorus seeing some of the faces in the crowd actually singing the words “real world” along with me. It was surreal.

  (Quick side note: during that car ride I wrote the lines, “I’m gonna live with a lady on a quiet beach / I’m gonna have me three kids, maybe one of each.” At the time, I was dating Cynthia, who would two years later become my first wife. We would end up spending most of our marriage in a house on Lake Michigan, on a property with our own private beach. We would also eventually have three sons, with three entirely different personalities. So I kind of consider myself quite the prophet.)

  * * *

  The melody for “Angelia” arrived in my brain during a lunch with executives from the Australian branch of my label. We were at a popular restaurant in Sydney called Doyles, which offers beautiful views of the harbor. I knew it was special and that I needed to record it so I wouldn’t forget it. I didn’t have my trusty handheld recorder with me, so I decided to find a payphone, call my answering machine at home, and sing the melody onto the voicemail. I’d done this successfully many times on tour in the States when I was out and about and without a means of recording, and people always got a kick out the fact that I’d figured out a unique and crafty way of keeping good ideas from disappearing into the mental ether.

  I stopped a busboy and asked where I might find a phone, and he said, “In the men’s room.” So, there I was, singing the melody to what would become a Top Five Billboard pop single into the receiver while several men relieved themselves a mere few feet away. I should also mention that the ninety-second phone call from Sydney to Los Angeles in 1988 cost me about twenty-five bucks.

  Though I knew it was wise to have a recording of the melody, I never actually needed it. It was etched in my brain in the hours and days that followed the lunch at Doyles, and all I needed to do was write lyrics to it. The music felt a bit sorrowful to me, and I began to assemble a lyrical story of lost love. My long-distance voice message even contained vowel sounds which appeared to say, “Where you runnin’ to now?” I decided the song title would be a girl’s name, and my melody required it to be a name with four syllables. But I wanted it to be an uncommon and beautiful name, and I was having trouble finding one I loved.

  A few weeks later, back on tour and flying with my band from Houston to Dallas, I was settled groggily in my seat when the flight attendant started rolling a beverage cart down the aisle. I was in an aisle seat and as she got to my row, I noticed two things. First, that she was extremely beautiful, and second, that her name tag read “Angelia.” She offered me a drink and I said, “I’ll have a tomato juice, thanks. By the way, that’s a beautiful name. Angelia.” I pronounced it as I assumed it should be, with the first A sounding like “and” or “bad.” She smiled and said, “Oh, thank you. Actually, I pronounce it ‘Angelia.’ ” (With the A sounding like the letter A.) My eyes flew open wide and I said, “Holy shit! That’s it! THAT’S IT!!!” Before she could call for an Air Marshall, I explained about needing a name for my song. She said she was extremely flattered and that she hoped it would be a hit.

  It never fails to truly amaze me how songs are sometimes so randomly and inexplicably created.

  21 THE ELVIS INCIDENT

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve been an Elvis fan. I can’t recall the first time I became aware of him, but I must have been about two or three, and that was that. I became one of “those” Elvis fans, the ones who collected his records and memorabilia (minus the hair strands or toenail clippings) and tragically knew more about Elvis’s life and career than anything I ever studied in school. I’ve seen every one of his movies at least eight or nine times. I have every original record and movie poster. For years, I even used Elvis movie character names as aliases on tour in hotels. I can’t belabor the point enough that I was “Elvis-ed” out of my mind.

  My adoration for the King became something my own fans were aware of, and very sweetly they started bringing Elvis-themed gifts to me at concerts. I’d go backstage and there would be Elvis posters, Elvis books, Elvis wallets, Elvis-shaped cookies—you name it. The one thing I made a point to keep were Elvis tee-shirts, because starting near the end of my first long tour, I got in the habit of changing into an Elvis tee for the encore sections of the show, and I liked to have a variety to choose from.

  By the second tour, for Repeat Offender, I had amassed quite a collection, which I kept in the bottom drawer of a road case. The road case was always put in my dressing room each night, and I would lay out whichever Elvis shirt I wanted to wear that night, and my then wardrobe assistant, Rosie, would bring it to the wings on the side of the stage for me to change into for the encore.

  In the later months of that fifteen-month tour, we played the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, and had several celebs attend the two-night run: Rick Springfield was there, David Coverdale from Whitesnake, Kelsey Grammer. And the first night, I got word that Priscilla Presley wanted to see the show. I was so excited. The King’s wife! (Okay, ex-wife, but still!)

  Priscilla was accompanied by our mutual friend and ex-Memphis Mafia member, Jerry Schilling, and I arranged to put them in the front row. I played to her several times throughout the show, all the while anxious to meet her afterward backstage. She looked beautiful and was smiling all night.

  Because it was LA and I had not only VIPs to see but lots of label execs and radio people, I had forgotten to pick out an Elvis shirt from the now huge pile in the bottom of my road case and lay it out for Rosie. As we hit the last notes of the main set, I ran into the wings and said, “Rosie! I forgot to lay out a shirt. Just grab one from the drawer right now. Hurry!”

  Within seconds, Rosie had the shirt and in the darkness of the wings I changed into it and walked back onto the stage for “Hold On to the Nights,” the first of three songs in the encore. I sat at the piano in the dark and began playing the song’s intro as the lights dramatically came up. As I began the song I started thinking: Here I am, playing two sold-out nights at the Greek Theatre, a venue where I have seen so many of my favorite artists play. And the audience has been amazing! And holy SHIT! Priscilla Presley is front row! This is like a dream. I can’t even wrap my brain arou—

  And then it hit me. And the facts before me were these:

  I was playing my number 1 single in front of thousands of people, Priscilla Presley is front row watching my every move, I’m wearing a shirt with a photo of her ex-husband, the King of Rock and Roll on it. And just below his photo are the words: “ELVIS HAD A STINKY BUTT.”

  It was a shirt a fan had given me that I thought was funny. And of the forty or fifty shirts in that road case drawer, Rosie had somehow randomly chosen that one.

  My heart sank and my mouth went dry. I don’t know how I even kept singing. I immediately looked down to see how much of the phrase (mercifully written at the bottom of the shirt) was visible, and I chose to sabotage my piano playing in order to try to somehow tuck that fucking shirt in. I used my left hand, abandoning any bass notes for a bar or two, and tucked it in enough that it would be hard to read.

  But then I remembered that I always dramatically leave the piano and walk to the front of the stage for the last chorus. I did that, but I must have looked like Quasimodo,
all hunched over to ensure I wouldn’t pull the offensive phrase into view right in front of Priscilla. I finished the set and took the fastest bow in history and ran off the stage.

  Priscilla came back afterward, raved about the show, and was as sweet as I could have imagined. She either didn’t see what the shirt said or saw it and ignored it. Either way, I dodged a bullet.

  22 “YOU’RE THE VOICE”

  Very soon after my first taste of mainstream success in 1987, as my second single, “Should’ve Known Better” was climbing into the Top Five and my debut album was nearing the Top Ten, I made it known to my manager and my record company that I wanted more. Yes, I wanted more success and hits overall, but this was a specific “more.” I wanted my music known all over the world.

  You must remember that in 1987 there was no internet. Moreover, most countries didn’t even have access to MTV or American radio stations. Whereas now the second an artist releases a new song, it’s available literally everywhere in the world, back then it was necessary to show up in these countries, or at least have a division of a label release and promote your record for anyone in that territory to be aware of it. I made it clear that it was of vital importance to me to have hits in as many parts of the globe as possible, and I was ready to get on a plane to make it happen.

  The process started slowly, mainly due to the enormous success I was having at home in America, which meant an almost nonstop touring schedule across the US. There just wasn’t much time to go to other countries, and we also didn’t want to lose the momentum we were experiencing. Still, I persisted, and a few months later I had an opportunity to go to the UK, Germany, and Japan.

  I was unknown in these territories, so bringing my band and doing gigs wasn’t an option. Instead, the divisions of my label arranged radio and press interviews, as well as a TV show in Tokyo where I would sing live to the track of “Don’t Mean Nothing” backed by four Japanese musicians pretending to play the parts on the record. I hated every second of it because despite my singing live, it all looked ridiculous and fake. The TV show had a large audience, however, and within a week or so, I and my debut album started to get some attention. Same thing happened in the UK and Germany, even without any TV appearances. I wasn’t exactly an overnight hit singer like I’d been in the US, but it was a beginning.

  While my focus was to break my career internationally, I also selfishly just wanted to travel. I’d been to London briefly when I was twenty-one, and to Australia with my parents when I was thirteen, but I wanted to see it all. That wanderlust, or curiosity, or whatever it was that existed in me is still in my soul today. I’ve been all over the world, but there are still many places I haven’t seen, and I want to cross every one of them off my list.

  Thanks to that brief promotional trip to just three countries, word started to spread and the following year, by the end of the fifteen-month tour supporting my debut album, I had done a club tour of about twelve cities throughout Europe and played in theaters in several cities in Japan.

  In 1989, Repeat Offender was an instant smash and became the album that broke me internationally in a big way. “Right Here Waiting” became a worldwide hit and reached number 1 in dozens of countries. I was thrilled to be able to say I was headed back out on my first world tour. While the bulk of concerts on that 1989–1990 tour were in the States, I also played all throughout Canada and Europe, including a few shows opening for Stevie Nicks and a tour of massive stadiums in Germany with the amazing Tina Turner. I remember standing on the side of the stage every night watching Tina. She was like a panther on that stage. She worked her audiences (crowds of thirty or so thousand) into a frenzy. Her energy was inexhaustible. She was and is an absolutely gorgeous woman and my favorite female rock singer ever.

  I also made it back to Australia, where I met one of my heroes.

  While dial switching the TV in my early twenties, I randomly stumbled upon a video by an Australian artist named John Farnham. The song was “You’re the Voice,” and aside from the song itself grabbing my attention, it was John’s voice that amazed me. His tone and phrasing were matched only by his power and range. I thought, Jesus Christ! This is my favorite singer of all time!

  John’s albums weren’t carried in any US record stores, so I had to have them specially ordered and shipped from Australia, where John was a megastar unparalleled. During his heyday in the late ’80s and early ’90s, literally one out of three Aussies owned a John Farnham album. As I’d done with several other artists before, I dove into John’s recorded catalog and had every note, nuance, and vocal lick memorized in no time. I told anyone and everyone who would listen about him, though no one I knew had ever heard of him.

  On that first tour of Australia, the gigs were all sold out and the last show was in Melbourne, where John and his family lived. Finishing my encore, I retreated to my dressing room to towel off when my tour manager knocked, poked his head in, and said, “There’s a guy named John Farnham outside. He’d like to meet you.”

  John and I would become friends, perform onstage together, and cowrite several songs he recorded in the early ’90s.

  23 THE TALE OF TAIPEI

  Near the end of the Repeat Offender tour, I did a run of shows in Southeast Asia. My success in Japan had opened the door to other Asian territories, and “Right Here Waiting” quickly became a song known by nearly everyone in that part of the world. In just about every country in Asia, my albums were selling like hotcakes. (Is that still a thing? Probably not, but I still say it because I’m old.) The tour there took place in July and began in Japan. From there we played in Hong Kong, Malaysia, Bangkok, Singapore, Indonesia, and Taiwan.

  The venues were all huge outdoor stadiums with the biggest crowds I’d ever played as a headliner. The fans were incredible. Many times I looked out and saw faces with tears streaming down their faces. At that time, American artists performing in Asian countries was not so common, and the fans really seemed caught up in how special these shows were. I was having a blast and though the tour schedule—which always also included full days of television and radio interviews and press conferences—wasn’t allowing me to actually see much of where I was, I was grateful to know my music had become international.

  There were, however, a few things that happened on that tour that were anything but fun.

  * * *

  Upon arriving in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, I knew I would be going right from the airport to a press conference at the hotel. There was a crowd of about a hundred fans at the arrival gates as we deplaned, and airport security was pretty flustered about how to deal with them. As we made our way through the terminal, I waved to everyone as flashbulbs went off like lightning. I was worried about people tripping and falling over each other, but nothing got out of hand. I was whisked into a waiting limo outside and driven to our hotel. I remember thinking, Here I am in MALAYSIA! And there are fans going crazy at the AIRPORT! This gig is going to be a blast.

  We arrived at the hotel, where the press conference was set up in a section of the big main lobby. It was a long table with several Malaysian dignitaries sitting next to each other, and behind them on the wall was a sign that read “Salem.” A few weeks earlier, I had spotted that name on a faxed memo of various details about the upcoming tour and called my manager.

  “Why am I just now seeing that Salem is sponsoring my show in Kuala Lumpur? Everyone who knows me knows how against smoking I am. I just did a PSA for the American Cancer Society, for fuck’s sake.”

  He assured me that he’d already looked into it and that the company sponsoring the show was Salem Tourism. Not the cigarette company.

  Now, as I approached the long table to take my middle seat and begin the press conference, I saw packages of Salem cigarettes placed in front of each microphone, including mine. My blood started boiling. There were about twenty-five members of the press waiting to ask questions about the tour. As I took my seat, I leaned into my microphone and said, “Thank you all for coming today. I’m thrilled t
o be here in Malaysia for the first time. But before we talk about anything else, I need to express my displeasure at being lied to about the company sponsoring the show. I could not be more against the tobacco industry, and I would never have agreed to this sponsorship had I known the truth. Before we go any further, I need all these cigarette packages removed and preferably tossed in the trash where they belong.”

  Several of the press folks gasped and started whispering to each other as my tour manager ran up and got rid of the cigarettes. As the press conference began, questions about my album, my show, and me were quickly replaced with questions about why I felt so strongly about this subject. I explained that the science was irrefutable and that smoking was a horrific habit that not only stupidly risked the health of those who smoke but also selfishly risks the health of those around them.

  We did our show the next evening, and the crowd that packed the stadium was incredible, all up and dancing and singing along. About six songs into the set, during a guitar solo, I ran offstage and returned a minute later holding a huge banner above my head which read, in very bold letters, “SALEM SUCKS!” The audience went wild and I made my point. Win-win.

  The promoters weren’t happy with my stunt because Salem executives who’d come to the gig got in their faces and demanded I apologize before the end of the show. That was never going to happen, and it didn’t.

  Our next stop was Jakarta, Indonesia. We played two nights at this gigantic stadium. It was a sea of people both nights and again a lively and loving crowd. But for the first time in my life, I witnessed something at a concert I never had before. Large venues almost always have a barrier between the stage and where the audience begins. It’s where security stays during the show to prevent fans from jumping up onstage. (One thing I love about playing theaters is that there is no barrier and fans can come right up close. Makes for a much more exciting experience for me.) As I paced the edge of the Jakarta stage, singing and waving to the audience, I looked down into the barrier and saw something that really took me aback. Every member of security was pointing a rifle at the crowd. It would’ve been unnerving enough had they simply been carrying rifles. But they were pointing them at the fans. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I don’t think anyone noticed, but I performed those shows pretty distracted by what I felt was a sad function of a fascist culture I simply couldn’t comprehend. Nothing says, “Let’s party!” like an assault rifle pointed at your face.