by Richard Marx
All I could do was walk to the stage, mouth closed, and strategize on the way. I decided I could get away with this. “Hazard” is a song about a murder in a small town. Not something I’d be smiling while singing anyway, thank god. And though I usually kidded around with studio audiences and posed for photos, this time I’d play it completely “serious musician.” This was the only option. If I smiled at all, I looked like someone named Gomer.
Somehow I got through the performance without opening my mouth any wider than to let the lyrics sink into the microphone, and I waved to the crowd without a smile and left the stage. When we got backstage, my band, noticing my unusually stern demeanor, asked if everything was okay. I looked up from my chair and cracked open a big smile, and you’d have thought these guys were seeing the last scene in a snuff film. “Oh, god!” “Dude!” “What the fuck?” “Holy shit!”
Needless to say, it didn’t help make me feel any better about my appearance. But the show was over, and, mercifully, I was headed home to LA the next morning, so I could get immediate dental reconstruction. The only problem now was I hadn’t said good-bye to Elton John.
It would have seemed really odd, after hanging out all day, for me to leave without at least saying good-bye. He was packing up his bag as I walked into his dressing room and gave him a quick hug and said, lips covering my front teeth so that I now sounded like I had taken a crash course in mumbling that very afternoon, “Really great meeting you. Travel safely.” And before he could say anything but “Bye,” I was down the hall, into a car, and gone.
To this day, I can’t help but wonder if he thought, Wow, is that guy moody.
29 “I’LL NEVER FALL IN LOVE AGAIN”
When I was about seven years old, the only singer who came close to Elvis in my hero worship was Tom Jones. He was a huge star and had a television variety series that was on every Friday night. On every episode, Tom would have celebrity guests, do comedy routines, and then close the show with a two-song live concert. He always came out for those two songs in a tuxedo with a bow tie, and between the first and second song, he would untie the tie and throw it to a woman in the audience.
Thanks to being the ring boy, at age six, in my uncle’s wedding, I had a tux that still fit me, and every Friday night my mom and grandmother (and usually a visiting aunt or two) would join me in front of the TV for Tom’s show. I would dress in the tux and wait for the concert segment, and knowing all of Tom’s songs, I would get up and sing along with him. And when he threw his tie to the adoring lady in the TV studio audience, I took my tie off and threw it to my aunt. Looking back now, this was easily one of the geekiest things I ever did, but hey, I was seven.
Flash forward twenty-three years. I’m in my house in LA and I get a call from a guy named Mark Woodward, who is not only Tom Jones’s manager, but also his son. Mark tells me he’s trying to get his old man into the studio to record some new material, and they’re both fans of my writing and would like to see if I have any songs for Tom. I say I’m honored and interested in seeing if I can help, and the next day I’m invited over to Tom’s house for a meeting.
As I pull into the gates of Tom’s mansion (previously owned by Dean Martin), I’m filled with memories of my childhood admiration of him. Not so much the tie throwing, but the countless hours in my basement listening over and over to “Delilah” and “Daughter of Darkness” and my absolute favorite, “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.” I hoped he’d be a cool guy, and I was far from disappointed.
Warm and friendly, Tom greeted me out by his pool looking about twenty years younger than his actual fifty-three. He showed me around his home, which included a room full of photos of Tom with a dizzying array of superstars, and then we sat at a piano and talked before I played him an idea or two. He loved one song of mine I’d just written, and we went into my demo studio in the San Fernando Valley the following week to record it.
We spent most of our time in the studio laughing. I’m a huge fan of the old comedy routines of Derek and Clive, the fictional team of Dudley Moore and Peter Cook. Their recordings were as foulmouthed and inappropriate as it gets, and possibly the funniest material I’ve ever heard. I knew much of it by heart and, it turned out, so did Tom Jones. We laughed ourselves stupid doing Derek and Clive routines for each other, finishing each other’s sentences and punch lines.
Tom was due to play a concert a few nights later at the Universal Amphitheatre and invited me. I went backstage to say hello before the show, and after we caught up and talked about the music we’d been working on together, I said, “You’re going to sing ‘I’ll Never Fall in Love,’ right?” (Actually, the official title is “Looks Like I’ll Never Fall in Love Again,” but nobody’s going to say that title in a casual conversation.) He said, “No, we haven’t done that one in a long time.” I was mortified. I said, “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? How can you not do that song? It’s my favorite song you’ve ever done!”
Just then, his musical director walked by and Tom said, “Hey, do you guys even have a chart for ‘Never Gonna Fall’?” (See? Even Tom wouldn’t waste all that oxygen on the whole title.)
The MD said, “Yeah, we have a chart. But we’ve never rehearsed it. We could probably just wing it, though.”
So Tom, being the über-cool dude he is, grabs a set list and decides to slot the song in as the second song of Act Two after intermission, just as a favor to me.
The show starts and by thirty minutes in, two things are evident. One, Tom Jones is singing his ass off and has never sounded better. He’s singing “Hard to Handle,” the old Otis Redding song, but with the newer Black Crowes arrangement. And he’s blowing me completely away. But two, it seems I might be the only one he’s blowing away.
The audience of middle-aged and up women are just sitting there, and aside from the few who are at least bouncing up and down in their seats, the crowd is pretty dead. By intermission it’s the same, and as the house lights go up I’m thinking to myself, What the hell? He’s killing it up there, and these people are lame. I don’t get it.
Twenty minutes later, Act Two begins with “Thunderball,” the old James Bond theme Tom sang in the film of the same name, and though he thoroughly slays the song, it does little to rile up this apathetic audience. Tom then says, “This next song is one we haven’t done in a long time, but a friend of mine in the audience asked me to sing it, so here goes.”
The band kicks in, and Tom sings, “I’ve been in loooove so many tiiiiimes…” and proceeds to use the song as if it’s a master class in singing and performance, nailing that brutally high last “in looooooove” better than ever. The song ends and the audience goes mental. Everybody’s out of their seat for an extended standing ovation and remain up and dancing and screaming (and yeah, throwing their underwear, although at that point it was more like a bunch of flying pairs of Depends).
After the show, we went backstage and Tom looked at me and before he could say anything, I said, “Dude, fire that manager son of yours and hire ME!!!”
30 “THE WAY SHE LOVES ME”
My tour supporting the Rush Street album was an eighteen-month journey around the world, and I knew that soon after the last show, I’d have to start recording another album to feed the beast that was my record label. In order to do this, writing songs on the road became a natural routine. I was never much of a partier and was always concerned about preserving my voice for shows. Instead of staying out with the band and crew, I was usually in my hotel suite within an hour of that night’s last song, trying to decompress. The adrenaline rush of a show stays with you for a while, so sleep never came very quickly. I often used that alone time to write songs, using the buzz I was feeling from the show as inspiration to make the next album, and therefore the next tour, better.
On that particular tour we ended the European leg in London with two shows at the Hammersmith Odeon. Although my first ever show in London, in 1987 at a famous club called Ronnie Scott’s, had been a pretty lame experience (the mostly jour
nalist audience was not the most adoring crowd), I had developed a great fan base in the UK, and the Hammersmith shows were always a blast.
I wolfed down a quick sandwich in the dressing room after the last show and headed to my hotel in Kensington. Pacing around my large suite, I started absentmindedly singing a melody and lyrics. “Lemme tell ya ’bout the way she loves me… oooh, na-na-na-ne-na… I’m crazy ’bout the way she loves me… oooh, la-da-da-de-da…”
It sounded like it could’ve been some old Everly Brothers song, but I knew it wasn’t anything previously written. By the time I fell asleep, I had written most of the song, which came to be titled “The Way She Loves Me,” singing the bits and pieces into one of several handheld cassette recorders I carried with me everywhere. It was catchy and retro. But I knew I could cut a great pop-rock record of it and that it would be a fun song to play live. I also knew immediately that the chorus melody was ripe for a great three-part harmony. I could hear it all in my head.
I had already procured some great singers to grace my previous albums with their voices. Timothy B. Schmit and Randy Meisner from the Eagles, Bill Champlin from Chicago, Bobby Kimball from Toto, and the aforementioned Luther Vandross, whose vocals on my Rush Street album still wow me to this day. For the vocals on this new song, I felt confident I could not only come up with perfect vocalist choices but also probably get them on the phone as well.
I started cutting the album that would become Paid Vacation in the summer of 1993, and “The Way She Loves Me” was one of the first tracks recorded. The rhythm section was made up of three guys I had recorded with many times: Madonna’s drummer Jonathan “Sugarfoot” Moffett, Leland Sklar on bass, and my old friend Bruce Gaitsch on guitar. A few weeks later I had Bill Champlin in to play Hammond B-3 organ on several songs, including “The Way She Loves Me,” and the track was then ready for my lead vocal and the backgrounds.
I had decided to ask Luther to again honor me with his talent, and once he agreed, I thought about who might be the ultimate “get” to sing with him. The answer was Lionel Richie. The question was, however, would he do it?
As I wrote earlier, it was my work as a background singer that put me in a room with Kenny Rogers (on Lionel’s recommendation for Kenny to hire me), which resulted in Kenny recording three of my songs and jumpstarting my successful songwriting career. So, my session that day with Lionel singing “You Are” was an enormous catalyst in my life. I often think about all the circumstances of timing and destiny that could’ve prevented it and altered my professional life completely. I’m just grateful as fuck it happened as it did.
So yes, Lionel and I go way back. But by 1993, given how hectic touring and recording can be, I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in about five years. It was nothing personal, just our two lives moving in different directions.
I still had his number and finally reached him one night around midnight.
“Lonnie B!” I said. This was Lionel’s longtime nickname.
“My brother, how the hell are you? It’s been too long. I see you out there on TV and tearing up the charts. I’m so proud of you.”
“Well, thanks to you for getting the ball rolling and believing in me. Listen, I’ve written a song for my new album, and I have Luther Vandross coming in to sing background vocals on it, and I would be so honored if you’d come sing with us.”
“Doctor [Lionel calls people “Doctor” a lot], you got a deal! I love Luther and I’d do anything for you, you know that. When and where?”
We made arrangements to meet up the following week.
On the day of the recording session, I arrived at the studio around ten minutes prior to our agreed start time of 3:00 p.m. Luther was already there, sitting in the control room and wearing a colorful, checked sweater. He gave me a big hug and we sat down to chat while the engineer began setting up the microphones.
“I really like this song,” he said, “but I’m also really looking forward to singing with Lionel.”
Three o’clock came and went. We crept past 3:30, with no sign of Lionel. Cell phones were uncommon at this point, so aside from calling his assistant, there was really no way of checking on Lionel’s arrival or safety. By 3:45, Luther was starting to get a little edgy. Deep sighs. Pacing.
Finally, a little after four o’clock, with still no Lionel, Luther said, “You know what? This is bullshit. I’m not going to sit around and wait for anyone, including Lionel Richie.”
I started to say something to ease the situation when I heard a sound around the corner. I got up and as I stood in the studio lounge doorway, I saw Lionel headed toward me.
Despite the tension with Luther, I was happy to see my old friend and reached out to hug him. He literally pushed me aside without a word and walked directly to Luther and said, “Hey, man, I’m Lionel. It’s so great to meet you, and I’m so sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”
Without missing a beat, Luther said, with a completely smile-free face, “Yes, I have.”
I thought, Fuck. Me. This whole session just went to shit. And then, as I had seen it several times before, I witnessed the magical charm of Lionel Richie. I don’t even remember what he said to Luther, only the way he said it. Within five minutes, he had Luther laughing and practically ready to make Lionel the beneficiary of his will.
We went to the studio piano, where I sat and played the chorus of the song over and over until we worked out who would sing which harmony notes. I had already sung the melody of the chorus, so I asked Luther to double those notes, and Lionel sounded great singing the lower third harmony. I spent my early years as a background singer honing my high falsetto so that I could even occasionally double as a female voice, so singing the high harmony on this was a no-brainer.
We ran through the chorus a few times, finding the right blend, and had it done in half an hour. For the last chorus, Lionel came up with an extra part, reminiscent of a street corner doo-wop group, and sang “baby, um-um, baby” on top of what we’d already recorded, and the session was over.
The song became another Top Twenty single for me in 1994. It was an even bigger hit on the AC chart, peaking at number 5, and MTV and VH1 gave the music video a lot of plays.
31 OPRAH, O.J., AND ME
In 1994, the opening of the World Cup was held at Soldier Field in Chicago. It was a really big deal, or at least the media and, more so, the folks at Major League Soccer wanted America to think it was. This was before we had Beckham or any celebrity players to pull our attention away from the “real” American spectator sports. Soccer was the sport we played in eighth grade, not the one we lined up outside a stadium for and paid $50 to watch. But in 1994, there was a movement to try to get Americans into it, and though it ultimately failed, there was a brief period of huge buzz.
The Soldier Field opening spectacle was to be hosted by Oprah Winfrey, and featured a performance by Diana Ross and an appearance by President Clinton. I was asked sing the National Anthem, and everyone in my camp was thrilled because I had a new album out, and the media were expecting a television viewing audience of 30 million. Massive exposure.
I was asked, encouraged even, to lip sync the anthem, as other big-name singers had recently done at the Super Bowl to avoid audio mishaps. But that’s cheating, so I said, “No way. I’m singing it live.” I decided to do an a cappella arrangement featuring four background singers (including my mom!) that I prerecorded and sang live to.
On June 17, we all arrived and ran through the song without any issues and waited for the live broadcast to begin. Soldier Field was packed to the rafters. The president was seated in a front-row box. Cameras and news and sports crews were everywhere. Oprah welcomed the huge crowd in the stadium and the massive television audience.
After she introduced a dance company, she walked back toward the tent, where they had chairs and air conditioning for her, but she ended up walking exactly where the production staff had explicitly warned her not to walk, and she went crashing through the floor of the stage l
ike it was made of papier-mâché. I was standing about thirty feet away and saw this happen. There was no way I could have predicted this mishap, nor could I have reached her in time. In fact, I never even met her the entire day. (Not that I made an effort to do so.) And I’m only marginally ashamed to tell you now that as soon as I realized she wasn’t hurt, I laughed my ass off.
About ten minutes later, the singers and I took our places, and Oprah, shaken from her trip into the bowels of the stage, introduced me. I remember looking around at the thousands of people packed into my hometown football stadium, on a gorgeous June afternoon, and really, really taking it all in. I felt so lucky to be there. I knew this was a big deal, and I was thrilled to be part of it, entrusted with our National Anthem no less.
I sang proudly, with less nervousness than I’d predicted, and felt like I pretty much nailed it. As I hit that high note on “freeeeeeeeeeee,” the crowd erupted, and when I hit the last note—“braaaaave”—four fighter jets soared overhead at the precisely perfect moment. The ovation was big and sincere and brought a huge smile to my face. Having my mom up there with me provided an extra source of gratitude.
My father was in Los Angeles and had been working there, so he couldn’t be with us. He would watch the live telecast and had made me promise to call him as soon as I finished, so he could give me props for what he was confident would be a solid performance. As soon as I was offstage (walking only where the stagehands had instructed) I dialed his number.
“Hello?”
“Dad, what’d you think? Was it great?”
“Uh, pal, I didn’t see you.”
“What? What do you mean? How come you didn’t see me?”
“Richard, nobody saw you.”
“What are you talking about? I just did it!”