Stories to Tell

by Richard Marx

  “Good melody,” he said. “But do you want to fuck with it?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, I mean if you love it as it is, that’s cool. But if you’re interested in picking it apart, I have some suggestions.”

  I was immediately aware of the opportunity being presented to me. One of my heroes was offering his expertise.

  I said, “Of course! I’m up for trying whatever you want to.”

  Kenny listened to the chorus over and over, at least ten times before saying, “I think it’s really just an edit. There’s this eight-bar section I don’t think you need. Without it, the chorus is stronger and more memorable.”

  He then, using what was the most barbaric but efficient means under the circumstances, cut out the eight-bar section in question. Hard to explain here in writing but basically it went like this: I played the original demo on my own portable cassette machine, which we hardwired into the cassette deck in Kenny’s studio. Then on the new, duplicate recording, Kenny lined up the spot where the edit would start, and when the end of the “about to be deleted” eight bars arrived on my cassette, Kenny pressed “Record” on the studio deck. Instant homemade edit.

  He was right. The chorus was stronger without those eight bars. While nothing ever became of “Yours Tonight,” it was like getting a free songwriting master class. I drove home to my apartment in LA that night and listened to the new edited version of my demo nonstop the whole way for ninety minutes.

  * * *

  Kenny and I continued hanging out pretty frequently, but I never again asked him for musical help. I felt to do so would be intruding on our burgeoning friendship. One afternoon in late 1983, we met for another racquetball match. I picked him up at his Encino house where he lived part-time, and as he climbed into the passenger’s seat, he said, “Hey, before we go, would you like to hear a couple new tracks I just cut? They’re for a movie coming out next year called Footloose.”

  He slid the cassette into my car deck and pressed Play. The bending, rockabilly guitar riff blasted from the speakers, and we cranked the title song loud enough that the car windows were slightly shaking. When the song was over, I said, “Dude, this is a really fun song.” As a longtime fan, “Footloose” wasn’t one of my favorite songs of his, but it was masterfully written by Kenny and my pal Dean Pitchford (who also wrote the screenplay to the film and all the songs in it). “I don’t know about this one,” he said. “I mean, it could be a hit, but I’m just not that crazy about it.”

  I turned on the car engine and Kenny said, “Wait, there’s another one. Check this out.” And on came another song from the upcoming Footloose soundtrack, “I’m Free.”

  From the first notes of the intro, I was totally into the song. It was darker and edgier than “Footloose,” and Kenny’s vocal performance was, and still is, astounding in its range and power. Also cowritten with Dean, I felt this would be the biggest hit from the film’s soundtrack.

  “I fucking love this!” I exclaimed as the song faded.

  Kenny smiled and said, “Yeah, I really dig this one, too.”

  This was one of the defining moments that proved I’d have made a really shitty A&R person. “Footloose” was released as the first single behind the opening of the film in 1984 and became Kenny’s first number 1 single and one of the biggest songs of the decade. “I’m Free” was released as the follow-up single and peaked at number 22. So, yeah. When it comes to picking hits, don’t ask me. I also didn’t even want to record what became my biggest hit, “Right Here Waiting.”

  Shortly before the film Footloose was released, I found myself walking with Kenny down Michigan Avenue in Chicago. I was visiting my parents, who still lived there, and Kenny happened to be doing a concert at that time. We went to a local racquetball club and played for an hour before heading for a bite. As we walked among the lunchtime crowds along the busiest street in the third largest city in America, I saw Kenny’s face grimace and his demeanor darken.

  I said, “You all right?” (It didn’t occur to me at the time that if he’d responded with “I’m alright” that it would’ve been fucking hilarious.) He was silent a moment before saying, “Look at this, man. I’ve been making music successfully for over ten years. I’ve toured nonstop and done a bunch of TV. And no one fucking recognizes me.”

  I realized he was at least mostly right. If he was spotted, no one stopped him or made it obvious they recognized him. It felt so strange to me because Kenny was such a big star in my mind. I felt bad that this was bugging him and tried to appease his mood.

  “Dude, no one expects you to be walking down the street like this. It’s just not on their radar. That’s all it is.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  He was still unconvinced.

  * * *

  Within six months of that walk down the street, Footloose was the biggest movie of the year and Kenny’s title song was number 1 and nominated for an Oscar. I called him a couple times just to congratulate him and found it odd that he didn’t respond. I figured he was just crazy busy. He launched a big tour behind this newfound success and did a dress rehearsal in LA before leaving for the first gig. I still hadn’t heard from him but his bass player, Nathan East, was a dear friend of mine and invited me to the LA show.

  There were only a couple hundred people in attendance, and afterward I saw Kenny come down from the stage and start talking to some friends. I went over and waited to say hello. When he saw me, he went, “Oh, hey, man.” It was a bit cold considering all the times we’d hung out, but I patted him on the back and said, “Congrats on everything, buddy. You really deserve all this.”

  With only a hint of a smile, he muttered “Thanks” and turned and started talking to someone else. I drove home wondering if I could have done anything at any point to offend him and came up with nothing. So, I was left to conclude that now that he was the biggest star he’d yet been, I just wasn’t cool enough to associate with anymore. The more I ruminated on this conclusion, the angrier I became. And so I now very actively disliked my former vocal hero.

  * * *

  Three and a half years passed, and I was out on tour supporting my debut album. It was early 1988, and my career was hot. One day in some hotel I got a call from my manager. “Hey, Kenny Loggins’s agent just called me. They want to know if you’ll open for him a week from Friday in Milwaukee. You actually have that night off, so you could do it.”

  I immediately responded, “Kenny Loggins can go fuck himself.”

  Without going into detail, I told my manager there was bad blood between me and Loggins, and I wasn’t interested. Then my manager said, “Well, do whatever you want. But apparently the promoter wants you on this bill very badly and is willing to make it worth your while.”

  So, the businessman in me agreed. Sure enough, after advertising me on the bill the next day, the gig had a great turnout, with many in the audience my own fans. My band and I arrived in the afternoon and did a sound check before I had to leave the venue to do an interview at a local radio station. I didn’t see Kenny then, nor did I see him when I returned to do my opening set. Midway through my show, the crowd up and dancing and fist-pumping, I looked over at the side of the stage and saw Kenny standing there in the wings. He was smiling big and bopping his head to the beat of whatever we were playing.

  At the end of my set, with the crowd going crazy, I ran off the opposite side of the stage and into my dressing room. A few minutes later, my tour manager came in and said, “Kenny’s outside and wants to say hi.”

  I said, “Bring him in.”

  Kenny walked in and high-fived a couple of my band members before walking over to me as I sat on a couch, guzzling Gatorade. As he approached, I didn’t get up. And I didn’t smile.

  He said, “Hey, man! Long time! You were great out there!”

  Quickly accepting his handshake, I looked at him with a blank stare and said, “Thanks.”

  The room got quiet and the vibe in the room got extre
mely uncomfortable. Kenny stood there, and after a minute or two of brutally awkward silence, looked at me and said, “Well, congrats on everything.”

  Again, all I returned was, “Thanks.”

  He left the room and my saxophone player Dave Koz came up to me and, breaking the silence, said, “So… you guys are buddies?”

  * * *

  About a year and a half later I heard from a mutual friend that Kenny was going through a pretty tough time, both professionally and personally. For some reason I still don’t quite understand, considering the circumstances, I picked up the phone in a hotel room somewhere on tour and called Kenny.

  We spoke for about an hour, and after making it clear that I was calling out of concern, and hearing that yes, he was having a tough time but was essentially okay, we started to hash through what had caused the rift between us. I spared no language and told him everything I’d felt, and he listened without defensiveness or excuses.

  He said, “It’s all true, Richard. I wronged you. Whatever the stuff was that led to that, you never did anything to me that warranted me cutting you off that way. I apologize. I hope we can move past it.”

  I accepted his apology and we hung up, agreeing to try to stay in touch. A few weeks later, Kenny rang asking if I’d consider singing a few songs at a benefit he was hosting in Santa Barbara, and I gladly agreed. We didn’t have time to hang out, but it was nice to see him.

  A few years passed and, after accidentally running into each other a couple times at industry events, an opportunity came up where I decided to reach out to Kenny and ask for a return favor. It was 1999 and my father had passed away two years before. I had created a scholarship fund in my father’s name at his music school alma mater, the DePaul School of Music in Chicago. The fund would provide a great education to exceptional music students who couldn’t otherwise afford it.

  To finance the fund, I put together a series of benefit concerts. The first one, held in 1998, featured myself along with my talented friends Michael Bolton, Kenny G, Fee Waybill, Kevin Cronin, and the great Luther Vandross. It was a huge success, and the following year I wanted at least one amazing musical guest. I asked Kenny, who immediately agreed to come.

  We performed a few songs together with my band, and Kenny was amazing as usual. After the show I asked him if he’d like to hang out a bit the next day before he headed back to Santa Barbara. I was then living just outside the city of Chicago where the concerts were held. Kenny came to my house for an early lunch and stayed until leaving for his evening flight. After some food, we ended up sitting in my recording studio, talking about a million things. It wasn’t like the old times when I was a teenage fan of his. It was two men who had quite a few things in common.

  He mentioned that day that he was actually considering retiring.

  I said, “What? You can’t. Singing is a huge part of who you are.”

  He stared at me and said, “Wow. That’s so weird. I mentioned my retiring to my six-year-old son Luke the other day, and he said, ‘But Daddy, if you stop singing, you’ll die.’ ”

  Kenny got emotional retelling me this conversation with his little boy, and I put my arm around him and said, “From the mouths of babes, right?”

  * * *

  Performing together at the benefit concert and the hang at my house the next day jump-started a new friendship between me and Kenny. Soon thereafter, he called me and said he was writing songs for a new album and wondered if I’d be interested in collaborating with him. I gladly accepted, and a few weeks later he came to stay at my house for a few days.

  Arriving in the early evening, we had dinner and delved into a deep conversation about life, fatherhood, relationships, and more. This would become a pretty regular happening between us and still stands these days. I asked about his sons from his first marriage, Crosby and Cody. I’d met both of them when they were little boys and now they were in their early twenties.

  Kenny told me that he’d been estranged from Cody for well over a year, barely seeing or speaking to him. He explained that he felt Cody was the “casualty” of Kenny’s divorce from his first wife, Eva, and that Cody had blamed Kenny for the bitterness that defined the aftermath. I could tell that Kenny was really heartbroken about the silence between him and his second child. We called it a night and agreed to try to do some writing the following day.

  I woke up early, made my way downstairs to the kitchen, and sat alone accompanied only by a leftover iced coffee from the fridge. I normally prepare for writing sessions well in advance and had already compiled a few melodic ideas to bounce off Kenny. But then all of a sudden (as has happened innumerable times before and since), I heard this melody in my head. I walked down the long hallway to my studio, sat at the beautiful Yamaha grand piano that lived in the corner of the big tracking room, and began translating what was in my head to my fingers on the keys. I played it over and over and grabbed a handheld digital recorder (I had them stashed everywhere throughout my house and in my car) and recorded the idea.

  Kenny came downstairs from the guest room above the studio about an hour later, and I poured him some coffee.

  I said, “I just came up with a melody I want to show you.”

  We went to the piano, and I played and sang it using dummy “la-la” lyrics.

  Kenny stared at me for a second and said, “Dude. That is so fucking… beautiful.” He asked to hear it again, and this time, as I stopped playing, his face turned serious. “If it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to write this about Cody.”

  I immediately knew two things. One: this would be a very difficult experience for Kenny, emotionally. And two: the melody I’d written begged for a topic like this.

  Over the next several hours, we finished the melody together. My original melody was clearly the chorus, and we quickly wrote the verse, pre-chorus, and bridge melodies, finishing each other’s musical thoughts effortlessly. But then we began the task of telling the story through rhyming lyrics. This had no choice but to be completely authentic. Kenny wanted to address his estrangement from his son, whom he desperately loved and missed terribly.

  I said, “Maybe we should just talk about it. Tell me the whole story, and the lyrics will come from that.”

  As he spoke, fleshing out incidents and conversations over a period of many years, Kenny would regularly get to a part of a story and break down crying. Apologizing at first, then regaining his composure, he’d go on.

  At this point in my life, I had three young sons myself. The very thought of this kind of thing happening between me and any of them was excruciating. As the afternoon and conversation wore on, as many tears as lyrics came. From both of us.

  As we worked on one particular line, we wrote “And in this world of separate houses, someone’s always missing someone, day after day, and year after year.” We both took a minute to cry like little babies; then we’d look at each other and burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of two grown men in a room sobbing, before carrying on trying to finish the song.

  The chorus of the song goes:

  Though you and I are distant

  Don’t ever think I didn’t want you

  Or miss you every day

  No matter where life takes you,

  Know that I’ll still be waiting patiently

  For the day that you’ve forgiven me, my son,

  The one that got away

  That last line seemed like the perfect title.

  We finally finished the lyrics, and as we both wiped tears from our cheeks I said, “Well, all you have to do now is sing it. Good luck with that.”

  We both laughed hard at that moment, but half an hour later, as Kenny stood at the microphone inside the vocal booth, we soon realized it wasn’t that funny. I had recorded a track of me playing piano and added some synthesized strings that sounded pretty close to a real symphony, adding a movie score–like emotion to an already heart-wrenching song. When Kenny was ready, I pressed Record and the track began. The opening line was:
<
br />   You were the quiet one

  Afraid to sleep alone

  Heaven knows I was lonely, too

  On the first take, Kenny barely got out the words “quiet one” before he began crying, his voice choking with emotion. And I would stop recording until he could compose himself. It was the oddest vocal session I’ve ever experienced. Devastatingly sad and awkwardly hilarious at the same time. It was also, as you can imagine, a very long afternoon.

  Finally, Kenny’s vocal was done and we had a really beautiful demo of our song. As he left to fly back home, Kenny expressed his gratitude to me for burrowing through the emotional sludge needed to finish our song. I knew that no matter what happened with it commercially, it was meaningful. And important. I just had no idea how important at the time.

  * * *

  About two weeks later, Kenny called me to tell me that he’d just seen Cody for the first time in many months. Kenny had called him and said, “I need to see you right away,” and Cody agreed. They ended up sitting in Kenny’s car, where Kenny played him “The One That Got Away.” They both cried very hard and hugged each other a good long time. It prompted a conversation that turned into understanding, forgiveness, and healing. It mended their relationship, which they enjoy closely to this day.

  Songs are written by a multitude of people for a multitude of reasons. I’ve found in my experience that the best motivation for writing a song is to communicate something I couldn’t otherwise or more effectively say to someone. So, when I’m asked to name a song I’d put in a time capsule, I’m hard-pressed not to choose this one. It might not be personal to me, but I couldn’t be prouder to have cowritten it with a friend whose life was changed by its creation.