Stories to Tell

by Richard Marx

  Those experiences in Malaysia and Indonesia, however, were nothing compared to what happened in Taiwan.

  * * *

  Taipei was the last destination on the Asian tour. The band, crew, and I were on a high from the amazing, huge crowds we’d played to in the days before, so we were excited to both close out the run with two more stadium shows and to head home to our families and take a breath. Cynthia was six months pregnant with our first child, Brandon, and though she was supportive of my international touring, she was also looking forward to me being back home.

  When we arrived the evening before the first show, my tour manager, Bob, mentioned to me that the only concern was that there was a chance of heavy rain and storms the next day. Our shows were obviously outdoors and weather like that threatened the chances of us being able to safely play. I woke up and looked out my hotel room window the next morning to see heavy clouds but no rain. My crew was already at the stadium setting up the stage for the show along with members of a local sound and light company when around noon, it began to rain. And rain hard. Within an hour, there were three inches of rain on the stage, and my guys had to remove all the amps and anything electrical.

  The rain kept up like that for several more hours when Bob called me in my hotel room, minutes before I was to be driven to the venue for a sound check. “Boss, you need to sit tight. The rain is starting to let up a little, but the stage is covered in water. We can’t plug anything in. I’ve told the local crew that they need to figure out how to sweep it off the stage or else we cannot play. So far, they’re just ignoring me and not doing anything.”

  By five o’clock, the situation was the same. Bob called again and said, “We can’t do a show tonight. It’s impossible. Hopefully, it won’t rain again and the stage will be dry enough to do the show tomorrow night, but there’s no way tonight can happen.”

  Disappointed for the fans and for me, I told Bob I understood but that he needed to have the promoters get the word out to the fans on local radio right away. I didn’t want thousands of people showing up for no performance.

  A few minutes later, one of my two band guitarists, Paul Warren, rang my room. “Hey, Richard. I just heard about the gig. That sucks! Hopefully tomorrow will be okay.” Paul asked if I wanted to join him for a bite in the hotel restaurant, and I met him downstairs soon after. We had drinks, ordered some food, and chatted about the tour and my pending fatherhood. At this moment, to our obliviousness, chaos was ensuing all around us.

  Apparently the local promoters tasked with getting the word out to fans that tonight’s show was off went first to the person who’d put up the money for my concerts in Taipei. His name was Mr. Chen, one of the leaders of the Chinese mafia. My agents and manager had only dealt with the concert promoters and had no way of knowing who had actually financed the shows.

  To put it extremely mildly, Mr. Chen was not understanding of our situation.

  * * *

  Our hotel was gigantic with several lobbies and common areas. As Paul and I sat in the restaurant, a group of a dozen armed men with machine guns arrived and approached the clerks at the front desk, demanding to know where I and my entourage were. A moment later, my other guitar player, Don Kirkpatrick, walked past the front desk and was immediately grabbed by two of the armed men and dragged into a hallway off the lobby. Accomplices of those men then spotted two of my crew members, Neil and Mike, and marched them at gunpoint to the spot where Don was being held.

  Under threat of being shot, the front desk clerk gave several other men my room number and the room number of my agent, Randy Garelick, who had accompanied us on the tour. While I was luckily not in my room but with Paul in the restaurant, Randy was relaxing in his room when his door was suddenly kicked in. He was told at gunpoint to sit in a chair and stay silent. All of this was happening as Paul and I were finishing our dinner, completely unaware of what was transpiring.

  As we left the table and started to exit the restaurant, we saw my tour manager, Bob, running toward us.

  “Thank fucking God I found you guys! You’ve gotta come with me now!! No questions. Just move!”

  My heart was pounding with fear that something horrible had happened. Bob ran us down a back corridor and into a service elevator, frantically pushing the Door Close button over and over. As we ascended, he said, “The hotel is under siege. The guy who put up our shows is a mafia guy and he’s after all of us. He not only didn’t let the promoters get the word out, but he also let thousands of fans into the stadium where they stood in mud for almost two hours before somebody with a microphone announced that you just don’t feel like playing. The crowd went nuts and started tearing up the stage and rioting. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

  My head was spinning. I thought this had to be an elaborate practical joke. I’d have been very impressed.

  We ran down the hallway of the seventh floor to Bob’s room, locked the door, and pushed any piece of furniture we could move against it. I grabbed the phone and called an operator.

  “I need you to connect me to the American Consulate right away!”

  In broken English, she responded, “Consulate? No. There no consulate in Taipei.”

  She was right. This was 1990, and the United States did not have diplomatic relations with Taiwan.

  As Bob called my manager back home to ask what the hell we should do, I looked out his window and realized we were too high up to climb out using sheets, and definitely too high up to jump to safety. I had my first flash of a real fear of being shot by these crazy fuckers. Of never seeing my family again and never holding my first child. I knew I needed to stay calm and focus on figuring out a plan.

  Minutes after hanging up with my manager back in LA (who immediately started making calls to our booking agents and some private security firms in Asia to ask for guidance), the phone in Bob’s room rang. It was Randy Garelick calling from his room. Bob answered and Randy, very quietly, said, “Bob, I need you to put Richard on the phone right away.”

  Handing me the phone, Randy spoke these words I still find hard to fathom.

  “Richard, I need you to listen very carefully. I’m in my room, and Mr. Chen and some of his men are with me. They found my room and forced their way in. I’m sitting in a chair and one of his men is holding a gun to my head. I’m now going to hand the phone to Mr. Chen, but he’s made things very clear. Either you agree right now to do two shows tomorrow, no matter what the weather may be, or he will instruct this man to shoot me right now.”

  My brain could barely comprehend the reality of what was happening.

  Mr. Chen’s voice came on the line.

  “Hello?” I began, “Mr. Chen, please… I beg you not to—”

  “YOU NO TALK! YOU NO TALK!” he immediately started screaming at the top of his lungs. “YOU NO PLAY! YOU COST ME! WHY YOU NO PLAY? YOU WANT ME KILL YOUR FRIEND?”

  I tried to stay calm and hoped to somehow calm him.

  “Mr. Chen, I’m very sorry. The stage was flooded. It would have been very dangerous for everyone if we had—”

  “YOU SHUT UP! YOU NO PLAY! YOU COST ME!”

  Slightly reducing his volume if not his intensity, Mr. Chen explained that either the band and I play an afternoon show as well as an evening show the following day, or he would put a bullet into Randy’s head. He would keep Randy with him and his men until our arrival at the venue. Of course, I agreed, telling him I would do whatever he said as long as he didn’t harm Randy.

  I hung up the phone, my face white as a sheet, and told the guys what was happening. We all stared at each other in disbelief for a moment, as if we were in some strange and disturbing dream, waiting and hoping for something to awaken us.

  My manager was able to contact a private security firm in Taipei made up of ex-military guys. They knew very well about Mr. Chen and advised that he was not to be taken lightly; he had a history of violent and deadly actions. They suggested a plan to not only save Randy’s life, but also to get all of us safely ou
t of the country, but it would require us playing the two concerts as ordered.

  After an hour or so, and feeling that the worst of the night was over, the guys walked me back to my hotel room only to find the door kicked in and the room ransacked. Apparently, Mr. Chen’s men made a point to tell a few of the fans who had stood for hours in the mud at the stadium waiting for my show which room was mine. Nothing of real value was taken, but it was just another in a stream of incomprehensible events.

  * * *

  None of us slept a wink all night, and around noon the next day, the head of the security team arrived to go over the details of our plan. We got to the stadium about an hour before the first show, my crew arriving earlier to make sure everything was ready. The weather had cleared, so we could at least cross “death by electrocution while rocking out” off our worry list.

  Shortly before showtime, several cars pulled up, and out came Mr. Chen along with Randy, who had a man standing close on each side of him. Randy’s face was that of a man who didn’t know if this would be his last day alive. They stood on the side of the stage for the entire performance.

  As the show began and I took the stage, I looked out to a much smaller crowd than had been standing in the same spot the previous evening. The fans who’d bought tickets were never informed why I had not appeared and therefore the assumption was that I simply bailed on the gig, so many of them were very angry. Though this afternoon audience numbered in the thousands, a good chunk of the stadium was empty.

  I began the first song, which always prompts a huge wave of screams and cheering, but instead heard nothing. Instead of the smiling faces with which I’m always greeted, this crowd was a collective mob wearing their disappointment in me on their faces. I looked to my right and saw a large, spray-painted sign held above the heads of about twenty “fans.” Instead of the usual, “I love you, Richard!!” or “Taipei Loves Richard Marx,” this sign read, “WE DON’T LOVE YOU ANYMORE.”

  My heart sank. I understood their anger but knew I’d have no opportunity to explain the truth about what happened. Glancing occasionally over at Randy and his “escorts.” in the wings, I just carried on singing for nearly ninety minutes to mostly tepid applause, my usual fun banter with the crowd replaced by simple introductions to the next song or merely “Let’s keep it moving, guys.”

  We finished the show and exited on the opposite side of the stage as Chen and his men with our new security team waiting to walk us to our dressing room. The leader of our team, a Chinese man around thirty who spoke nearly perfect English, explained to us what needed to happen next.

  “We’ve made an agreement that once the next performance begins, your agent will be free to join your crew. However, if you guys walk offstage at the end of the show into the arms of Chen and his men, there’s no telling what he will do. We have cars waiting, and we are as heavily armed as Chen’s men are. You will end the show, run to our side of the stage, and get right into the cars, and we will escort you immediately to the airport. Leave your equipment. We’ll have a few of my guys gather it and bring it to you as soon as they can. We just need to get you out of here.”

  The evening show began with much fuller attendance and a more welcoming audience. I guess since I had played already that day, this crowd decided to forego their anger, trust I was absolutely there to play, and just rock out with us. Though the band and I made no noticeable errors, our minds were really on nothing but our escape.

  As I finished the last song, my adrenaline, fueled by fear and no idea of what would happen, was almost too much. I glanced at one side of the stage to see Mr. Chen, scowling, along with about seven of his men, before yelling, “Thank you, Taipei! Good night!” as I turned and began running to the other side of the stage. Our security team immediately surrounded me and the band as we bolted down the back stairs of the building and into the waiting cars.

  I was in the backseat of one along with my guitarist, Paul. “GO! GO!” I heard someone yell and our heads snapped back as the car peeled out of the parking area onto a highway. Next to our driver was one of “our” guys with a Glock in his hand, ready for whatever might occur. Our caravan of cars headed toward the airport and immediately we saw that Chen’s men were in pursuit. It was only after reaching speeds of about 100 miles per hour and outpacing them that we saw them finally give up and turn around.

  Thirty minutes later, we pulled up to the curb of the Taipei airport and were met by airport security, who ushered us to a lounge to await the next available flight out. There was one in two hours, which would connect in Tokyo before flying right to Los Angeles. True to his word, our security chief arranged to get our gear to us and the band, crew, and I finally settled into our seats in the lounge. For at least five full minutes, no one said a word. We all just looked at each other. The insanity of what we’d just experienced needed a minute to sink in. We boarded the plane and only when I was in my seat and the wheels left the Taiwanese ground did I truly exhale.

  * * *

  We exited the plane in Tokyo and descended the stairs to the tarmac. I stopped at the bottom and immediately kissed the ground. Our connection was mercifully short, and before I knew it, I was headed home.

  I had deliberately not told Cynthia what was happening. When I spoke to her the night before, I said everything was going great and that I was really looking forward to being home. She was six months pregnant, and I feared that if she knew the danger I was in she could freak out and something might happen to the baby. As I curled up in my seat, I thought about how I would tell her this fantastical story.

  Hours passed as we flew through the night sky. Though everyone in the plane looked to be asleep, I was wide awake. My thoughts recalling the past two days would not let me rest. I stared out the window into the night sky, forty thousand feet above the earth, and replayed the insane events in my head as if watching a suspense movie.

  Then, in the silence and tranquility, I saw a light. Not so much a light as a spark. A shooting star? A reflection in my seat’s window? Then, there was another. About seven seconds passed before I realized that a flame had been ignited in one of the engines hanging just below the right wing. Yes, ladies and gentlemen: the plane was on fire.

  As my muscles clenched and I turned to bolt from my seat, I saw several flight attendants literally running past me to the cockpit. Other passengers were awakened by the commotion as the sound of ding echoed through the cabin and the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign illuminated. I turned back to check the wing, and now the engine was engulfed with flames. But as my heart began beating through my chest, in a single second, the fire disappeared. I felt the plane descend slightly before the captain’s voice appeared on the PA system.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. It appears we had a small fire break out in the engine which sits under the nearest section of the right wing. I have shut that engine down and the fire seems to be out. Now, I want you all to stay calm. This aircraft has four engines and, if necessary, I could land with only one. But we want to be as safe as possible so I’ve radioed ahead and we will be making an emergency landing in Honolulu in approximately two hours.”

  I know. This is the part of my story where you finally call “bullshit.” There’s no way this actually happened, right?

  Wrong.

  Everyone on board remained relatively calm and, sure enough, two hours later we safely and uneventfully touched down in Honolulu. A few hours after that, I boarded yet another plane for LA and managed to make it home for dinner. My parents came over, and as I sat at our dining room table and regaled them and Cynthia with the “Tale of Taipei,” I lost count of how many times I saw their mouths drop open in stunned disbelief. I vowed to never return to Taiwan. Ever. No matter what.

  * * *

  I kept that promise until 2010, when my agent called me with a lucrative offer to play an arena show there. I explained why I had decided to never return, and he said, “I totally get it. But that was twenty years ago. Much has changed incl
uding our diplomatic relations with Taiwan. Let me do some investigating and come back to you before you absolutely rule it out.”

  A few days later, he called back and said he’d found out that a few years after my nightmare experience there, Mr. Chen had been killed in a hail of bullets. The victim of a mob hit. The entertainment industry in Taiwan had become legitimate, and many artists were performing there with no issues.

  I reluctantly agreed to the gig and was greeted by one of the most amazing audiences to which I’ve ever played. I’ve since returned two more times and have (almost) permanently erased the horrific memory of that fateful trip in 1990. I’m simply grateful to have lived to tell the story to you now.

  24 IT’S A BOY, IT’S A BOY, IT’S A BOY

  On September 11, 1990, Cynthia gave birth to our first son, Brandon. We were both convinced this baby would be a girl. We just knew it. Her name would be Jesse, with the traditionally male spelling and without the i. I even wrote a piece of music soon after Cynthia got pregnant called, “Jesse’s Song.” Given Cynthia’s age of nearly thirty-four, it was strongly advised she have an amniocentesis to detect any potential issues or concerns (which, thankfully, were absent) and in doing so, the sex of the baby would be known. We were shocked and then immediately thrilled to know our daughter would actually be a son.