Stories to Tell

by Richard Marx

  The next day, she e-mailed me the lyrics.

  Fly me up to where you are beyond a distant star

  I wish upon tonight to see you smile

  If only for a while to know you’re there

  A breath away’s not far to where you are

  The song was called “To Where You Are.” I sang Linda’s beautiful lyrics to my track and sent the completed demo to the record company, who called a day or two later.

  “Richard, Josh loves the song and so do we! We’d love you to come to LA and produce it, if you’re interested.”

  I love producing and was totally up for it. I recorded the track at my studio at home in Chicago. I played piano, synthesized bass, and used computer-generated strings, which can sound great but never really match the real thing. What was I going to do, though? Hire a full orchestra to come to my house and lay down a string section?

  As I developed the track, I had the idea to try modernizing this classical-sounding song with some drum loops, creating a hybrid of classical and modern pop. I thought it sounded amazing and unique.

  About a week later, I flew to LA to cut Josh’s vocal. I remember that the day of the session, LA was in the midst of a brutal heat wave. Temperatures were in the upper nineties, and even higher in the Valley and heading east toward Palm Springs. But when Josh arrived at the studio, he was wearing a turtleneck sweater. And it was black. I couldn’t help but say, “Dude, what the hell are you doing wearing a turtleneck in this heat?”

  “I know, I know,” he said, “but I always have to keep my throat warm when I’m singing.”

  This was a level of dedication that was, frankly, lost on me, but I’m the idiot who never, ever, warms up my voice before singing. So, I guess that’s why I’m not the guy they asked to stand in for Andrea Bocelli when he got sick and couldn’t make it to a Grammy Awards rehearsal.

  Josh had already recorded most of his album, so he was fairly experienced in the studio behind a microphone. We recorded take after take over a couple of hours as I would slowly but surely figure out the missing vocal pieces to the puzzle and Josh would supply them. One thing I’ve often found with great technical singers such as Josh is that the hardest element to achieve is the proper emotion. Someone can sing a line perfectly in tune and yet it leaves the listener cold because their voice is not creating the proper emotional effect. I urged Josh to think less about the notes he was singing and more about the feeling he was trying to convey. Little by little, his performance became both powerful and emotional.

  With Josh’s vocal recorded, I received another call from Warner Bros.

  “Richard, we’ve decided to invest a bit more in Josh’s album and are prepared to use a full orchestra on your song. Let us know when you can come back into the studio with them.”

  This was a way better alternative than my computer-generated strings. Within a week or so, we had our finished recording. I sat back and listened to it with great pride. And then I heard nothing from anyone for about six months.

  I knew they were finishing the rest of Josh’s album, but that’s a little out of the ordinary. Typically, you hear something from someone, even just a “Great job: we will keep you posted” email, but I didn’t hear a peep for half a year. I actually got to the point where I’d forgotten all about the song.

  Then, one afternoon I got a call from a label guy. He wanted me to know that Josh’s record had been complete for a while, and that a decision had been made along the way that my track would not be included. Josh had fallen out of “like” with it, felt it didn’t fit the “legit, classical” nature of the album, and had kicked it to the curb. I was disappointed, but only because I was very proud of it and wanted it to be out in the world somewhere. It was still hip-hop and pop dominating the charts at the time, so I certainly never thought anyone would figure out how to sell Josh’s music at that juncture in the business. So, I felt the news didn’t hurt me financially.

  The label guy said, “Well, wait: there’s more. Josh sang last week at a charity function and in the audience was David E. Kelley, the writer and producer of Ally McBeal. Kelley came to us and said he’s doing an episode of the show and wants to have Josh play a character who sings a song at the end, so he asked that we send him Josh’s album so he could listen through and choose a song. We had a girl at the label dub Kelley a copy of the album, but for some reason, totally by mistake, she put your song at the end of the CD, and he apparently listened all the way through, got to your song, and loved it. I told him, ‘David, there’s been a mistake. That song isn’t going to be on Josh’s album.’ And after a brief pause, David Kelley said, ‘Uhh. I think it is.’ ”

  The rest is history. The song went to number 1 within a couple weeks of the Ally McBeal episode, and though it never won any awards (or was even nominated for any), I’d like to take this time to thank a few people as if it did.

  Thanks to Linda Thompson for writing a beautiful and moving lyrical tribute to your mother. Anyone who’s lost someone they love can totally relate.

  Thanks to my current manager and friend, Diarmuid Quinn, who was then head of marketing at Warner Bros., Josh’s label, and who, once the song was on the Ally show, went to every length to get Josh all over television singing the song, certainly fueling it to number 1.

  To David E. Kelley, for creating and writing one of the best television shows ever, Picket Fences, and for choosing “To Where You Are” for that episode of Ally McBeal and not accepting any other song in its place.

  And most of all to that girl in the office at Warner Bros. who screwed up and accidentally gave Josh Groban his first hit and me another number 1 as a writer.

  37 “DANCE WITH MY FATHER”

  No one tells you this when someone you deeply love dies, but you’re pretty much a wreck for at least a year. And you never stop thinking about them.

  When I lost my father, I “functioned” just fine. I recorded an album, did concerts, and organized benefits. I took care of my family and seemed okay on the outside, but emotionally I was curled up in a fetal position wrestling with a combination of grief and anger. Well-meaning friends and acquaintances sent me books, poems, motivational speeches, you name it. Nothing helped. On top of that, I found that many people who cared about me either didn’t know what to say to me or said things that felt so clichéd and typical that none of it resonated with me.

  Several months after Dad’s death, I was having a particularly rough night. So, I got in my car and took a long drive. No radio, just me and my thoughts. Hours later, as I turned down my street to head home, my phone rang. It was Luther Vandross. He was calling to check in on me. I parked outside my garage, and we ended up talking for over an hour. Somehow, he knew what to say to make me feel better.

  “Richard, I know how much pain you’re in. But you’ve got to also think about what you had with your dad. Most people never experience a relationship like that. He wasn’t just your dad; he was your best friend. And you had the music in common. He was so proud of you and he made sure you knew it! Think about how lucky you both were in that way. Ain’t gonna hurt you any less, but try to balance those thoughts if you can.”

  I liked Luther very much and considered him a friend, but that phone call certainly made our friendship stronger.

  * * *

  Fast-forward six years later, in early 2003, and my phone rings. It’s Luther.

  “Richard, I have an idea for a song, and I need you to write it with me. It’s called ‘Dance with My Father.’ ”

  Luther explained that while he had only faded memories of his father, who died when Luther was just twelve, his most vivid was of his dad coming home after work to their Brooklyn apartment and dancing around the kitchen with Luther, his mother, and sisters.

  “He’d come home, and I’m sure he was tired, but he would put his arms around my mother in a slow dance and just sway with her back and forth. Then my sisters and I would have to get in on it, so he would put our little feet on top of his shoes and shuffle us
around the kitchen, humming songs if the radio wasn’t on. That’s how I remember my father.” He continued, “I know how close you were to your dad, and I wish I’d had the time with mine to have had the relationship you guys had, so we should write this together.”

  I told him I’d start a melody immediately and send it to him. At this point, we’d written songs he’d recorded before, including his Christmas single “Every Year, Every Christmas,” and our method was not to sit in a room together and write, but rather I would write a complete piece of music with melody, send it to him, and then he would write lyrics.

  Within an hour at the piano, I had the music for “Dance with My Father,” including where the title line should be sung at the end of the chorus. I emailed a rough recording from my laptop to Luther, and the next morning he called and said, “I had more words I wanted to say than your melody allowed, so I modified it a bit. Hope it’s okay with you because I fucking love this song!” Of course, I loved it, too. And within a few weeks, Luther recorded it for his forthcoming album, which was being overseen by the veteran industry executive Clive Davis.

  About a month later, I was at my house when a FedEx truck dropped off a package. It was a CD with the final mix of “Dance with My Father.” I took the CD right to my recording studio and cranked it up. The first thing I noticed was that instead of it being a completely new recording, the song started with the demo piano part I had sent him as a guide for a real piano part. But I was thrilled with the song, his amazing vocal, and the emotional power of what he was singing. I called him to tell him how much I loved it.

  “Luther, this is fantastic.”

  “Oh, Richard, I’m glad you like it!”

  “But I can’t believe you took the piano part from that original demo I sent over to you. That was just something I laid down in one take as a guide.”

  “You’re crazy. I loved the feel of that original piece. You could tell it was coming from a pure place.”

  “Well, if I knew you were going to use it, I’d have spent way more time on it!”

  He laughed and before we hung up said, “Richard, I’m so proud of this song. This is my signature song. This is my ‘Piano Man’!”

  And I can’t say that he was wrong.

  * * *

  Three months later, I received a call from Luther’s business manager, Carmen Romano. My initial thought upon hearing his voice was that he wanted to tie down the publishing details of our song before the pending release of Luther’s album, but instead his words were, “Richard, Luther suffered a stroke last night.”

  Shocked but already reliving in my mind conversations I’d had with Luther about his weight and overall health, I listened to as many details as Carmen had at that moment. One thing that was certain was that it was very serious. Luther had come home to his New York apartment and collapsed soon after. He lived alone, and he lay there on the floor until his housekeeper arrived the next morning. Had someone been there with him, the severity of the stroke could have been reduced by getting him promptly to a hospital. But he bled into his brain for many hours, and it was amazing he was even still alive.

  I flew to New York to visit him in the hospital a couple of times. I won’t share those experiences or conversations, as they’re very private, but it was both wonderful and heartbreaking to see him. He was in pretty bad shape, but I felt he had a good team of physicians and therapists working with him, and we were all hopeful for a full recovery eventually.

  On February 8, 2004, I attended the Grammy Awards, where our song was nominated for Song of the Year and Best R&B Song. Given Luther’s condition, there would be no way for him to attend, let alone perform the song that night. A week before, I got a call saying that Céline Dion had heard and loved our song and would very much like to perform it at the ceremony. Céline’s own father had recently passed away, and the song resonated with her deeply. Having immense respect for her talent and having met her a few times and found her lovely and kind, I was beyond psyched that she would be performing, but became even more excited when she asked if I would accompany her on piano. I stopped in Vegas the day before the Grammys, and we ran through the song together a few times on the stage of her residency at Caesar’s Palace. Céline became very emotional when singing it the first time, but her reading of the lyrics (now taking on a personal connection for her) was incredible.

  When the time came for our Grammy broadcast performance of the song, it was following OutKast doing their hit “Hey Ya!” with what seemed like seventy-three people onstage. Immediately after, Céline and I walked onstage to great applause. I began the song, playing the piano intro, and Céline sang the opening line, “Back when I was a child,” when all of a sudden her microphone made a clicking sound and cut out. She looked at the audience, and then at me, with a face full of sheer panic and the knowledge that hundreds of millions of people around the world were watching. I stopped playing and fixed my eyes on hers with a look that said, “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.” As a tech came running out to her with a new microphone, I motioned to the audience with my hand as if to say, “Live TV, folks. Let’s try this again and show Céline some love!” Closing her eyes momentarily and shaking off the technical debacle, Céline delivered a flawless performance and got a standing ovation, as I knew she would. When she exited the stage, I hugged her tightly and said, “You are such a fucking pro, and you killed it!” At that moment, the show’s director, Ken Ehrlich came running up to us, profusely apologizing. I said, “Ken, the truly hilarious thing about this is that you just had OutKast perform the musical equivalent of the War of 1812 without a single glitch, but then you guys fucked up a piano and a vocal mic?”

  Earlier in the evening, before the telecast began, the Grammys handed out a number of awards, including Best R&B Song to Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love.” I had been optimistic Luther and I would win that smaller award, and pretty certain we would not win Song of the Year, the biggest award of the night. So, at the end of the actual ceremony, when presenter Carole King opened the envelope and said, “And the Grammy goes to Richard Marx and Luther Vandross for ‘Dance with My Father!’ ” I was a tornado of emotions.

  I was thrilled that we had won but also tremendously sad that Luther was in a hospital in New York and not sitting next to me at the Grammys. The love and respect for Luther in that room that night was palpable. Carmen and I went up onstage together, and Carmen read a “thank you” statement from Luther, which received a huge round of applause.

  I stepped up to the mic and said, “I couldn’t be more proud to have written this song with Luther. My friend. Who… I wish was here because he’d be whispering to me about what everybody’s wearing.” The audience laughed. “You all know Luther for his amazing talent, but I know that he’s also one of the funniest, kindest people on the face of the earth.” I thanked my family and ended with, “And most of all, to my father, who I know in my heart is up in heaven right now with Luther’s dad, opening a bottle of champagne.”

  A few months later, I was in New York again and went to visit Luther. His progress had been extremely slow, and there had been some scary moments with his breathing and some minor infections, courtesy of a big hospital where infections are rampant. I walked in and hugged him, and we finally got to sit face-to-face and talk about the Grammy win and how thrilled he was about it. The last hour I spent with him was in the rehab facility’s gym, where I watched his trainers still trying to help him regain his balance and mobility. I felt pretty useless, but I pitched in when I could and made him laugh a few times. We went back to his room and I hugged him good-bye.

  * * *

  The following July 1, I woke up and while sipping my morning coffee, clicked onto CNN’s news website and saw the headline: “Luther Vandross Dead at 52.” I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a couple of months but regularly checked in with Carmen Romano, who would basically say, “He’s the same.” I had come to believe it was unlikely he would ever be anything but a shadow of his former self, but
I had no fear of his imminent death.

  I immediately dialed Carmen, who said, “I’m sorry, man. It’s true. He just quietly passed away early this morning.” I hung up and spent the day mourning my friend and cherishing the laughs we’d had and the beautiful songs we’d brought into the world together.

  For many of the years that followed, when I’d be asked to sing “Dance with My Father,” I would decline. It felt wrong to sing it, for some reason. Maybe it was simply that it made me miss Luther, and I didn’t want to feel that sadness. But several years ago, I had the epiphany that I was looking at it all wrong and that the right thing to do would be to sing it as much as possible and tell every audience I could about how cool a guy Luther was and how proud of our song I am.

  So, that’s what I do now at pretty much every show I perform. Like my other hit songs, that one wasn’t just mine and Luther’s. It belongs to everyone.

  38 THE PERFECT MAN’S IMPERFECTION

  In 2004, I got a call from a record executive in New York who ran a jazz and classical music label. I don’t know him well but always liked him, and when we would occasionally bump into each other, he would say, “We need to work on something together.” His call to me went like this:

  “Hey, Richard, how’s it going?