by Richard Marx
“Good, man. You?”
“All good. Are you insanely busy the next few days?”
“Yeah, but what’s up?”
“Well, I have a project I need to discuss with you, and I want to fly you here to talk it over. I don’t mean to be cryptic, but can you pick a day and just come here?”
“Oooookay. Sounds weird. I’m in.”
A few days later I flew into JFK, and a car picked me up and drove me right to the Imperial Theatre on Broadway. I got out and saw an enormous photo of Hugh Jackman in a sequined, gold lamé shirt as Peter Allen in The Boy from Oz. The record exec walked up to greet me, and I said, “I’m really confused.”
He said, “Just come inside and watch the show and then we’ll talk.”
Two hours later, the house lights went up, and he said, “What’d you think?”
I said, “Look, I’m not really a Broadway show guy, so I can’t really speak to the show itself. But that guy, Hugh Jackman is amazing. What a showman.”
He said, “Perfect. Come with me.”
We headed backstage and were put in this tiny room off the dressing room area and about five minutes later, in walks Hugh. I had seen the first two X-Men films and loved them, and I had recently seen Hugh’s romantic comedy Kate and Leopold and exclaimed to my wife, “That dude is our generation’s Cary Grant.” So, I was already impressed with him.
Hugh Jackman is one of those guys who so effortlessly puts everyone around him at ease, he could easily have had a career sitting on the UN. There’s nothing phony about him. He’s just genuinely kind and thoughtful. I’d love to say it’s annoying, but it’s not. It’s admirable. So Hugh greets me like an old friend, telling me he’d been a fan of my work, and making sure I knew my songs had been big in his homeland of Australia. You see, with Hugh it’s never about him. It’s only about you, whoever you are.
He and the record exec explained that they had made an album with a renowned producer and not only had it turned out musically disappointing, Hugh had not enjoyed the process at all. But they felt strongly that the timing for an album was now and wondered if I’d be interested in taking on the producer job. I was flattered and, frankly, much more interested after meeting Hugh than I would have been if the exec had simply pitched it to me on the phone, so he’s a smart guy.
We agreed to have me record some tracks in LA and then bring them to New York to record Hugh’s vocals over a period of weeks while he was there on Broadway. The album would be all covers of standards, but I wanted the album to sound like it was done in a jazz club. Nothing too “produced.”
I spent an afternoon with Hugh to choose songs and then flew to LA. The rhythm section I hired for the sessions was a stellar cast. Christian McBride on bass, Dean Parks on guitar, Peter Erskine on drums, and Billy Childs on piano. These are some of the greatest and most respected musicians in the world. As I drove to the studio for the first session, I was as nervous as I’ve ever been. Here I was, about to make a jazz record with amazing jazz musicians and I knew about half a percent above jack-shit about jazz. But I’d done my homework on these songs and was excited to hear some of my arrangement ideas fleshed out. The sessions went smoothly, with all those amazing players not only playing great, but also being fun to work with.
Over the following six weeks or so, I would fly to New York every Sunday, wait for Hugh to finish his evening show and come to the studio, and we would record his vocals until about midnight. He had Mondays off, so we would reconvene after lunch, sing until he was tired, and then I’d fly back to Chicago only to return for the same drill six days later.
Some days Hugh would do two shows in a day, and the schedule, along with the vocal workout he got in the show itself, made cutting vocals on these songs in the studio a dicey task. The poor guy was exhausted, and while the show was making it hard to get great vocals in the studio, all the studio singing was making it hard for him to sing onstage the following night. So, one day I said, “Dude, this is no way to make a record. Unless you strongly feel otherwise, I think we put this off until well after Boy from Oz is over.” Hugh reluctantly agreed.
Though we stopped recording, the friendship we had developed only flourished as time went on, and I count Hugh as one of my closest friends. I don’t know a classier, more soulful person. I tell people all the time, “How great is it that there’s a real superstar we can all root for?”
In the last decade, Hugh’s acting career has reached new heights. His role in the film version of Les Misérables earned him an Oscar nomination and a Golden Globe win. He also performed a one-man musical variety show on Broadway that earned him his second Tony Award.
When he decided to tackle that show, he rang me and asked if he could come to my house in Chicago and have me help him choose the right songs and do some arrangements on them, along with his musical director, Patrick Vaccariello. Patrick ended up doing the hard work, but I was thrilled to be a part of the origin of what became a three-month sold-out engagement on Broadway and then eventually a show that filled arenas around the world.
Hugh Jackman is one of those freaks of nature who can act, sing, and dance, all brilliantly. He’s a learned fitness and diet expert who can transform his body into Muscle and Fitness cover model shape in a matter of weeks. His memory for people’s names and details about their lives and families is unparalleled. He’s also sensational at very tricky things like hosting the Oscars and the Tonys.
But luckily for all of us mere mortals, I’m happy to report there’s one thing Hugh Jackman is not good at, and that’s telling jokes.
Years ago, Hugh and I were sitting around on a break from recording, and I told him the following joke:
“What did the rapper say when two houses fell on him? Get off me, Homes.”
Hugh cracked up. He loved that joke.
About three weeks later he called me. “Ricardo, I’m embarrassed to tell you this, but I was at a big star-studded cocktail party last night. It was a who’s-who of entertainment, politics, and business. I ended up in a circle of about ten people, conversing, when I thought, I’m going to tell Richard’s joke and these people are going to laugh their asses off. So, I say, ‘I have a joke. What did the rapper say when two houses fell on him?’ And the entire group stared at me awaiting the punch line, which came out of my mouth as, ‘Get these homes off me!’ After seconds of awkward silence, I finally said, ‘Wait, no, that’s not right, umm. Never mind.’ ”
So the good news, my friends, is that even Hugh Jackman has a flaw.
39 “GONE COUNTRY”
Thanks to my two uncles, by age eleven or twelve, I had become a such a fan of the day’s modern country music that I barely listened to pop or rock music for about two years straight. I was all about Merle Haggard, Jerry Reed, the Gatlin Brothers, Waylon Jennings, and Lynn Anderson. It wasn’t until early 1976 when my father sat me down and played me Paul Simon’s Still Crazy After All These Years (the album that really made me want to be a songwriter) that I dove back into pop music.
Although my first hits as a songwriter were with Kenny Rogers, they were not really what I considered “country” songs, since Kenny was such a massive global artist who dominated the pop genre as well. Over the years I had not kept up too much with country music, so it wasn’t until Shania Twain burst onto the scene in the late ’90s that I started to listen to what else country radio was playing.
Shania was both massively successful and polarizing at once. She was gorgeous, and her songs had huge, catchy hooks that infused rock and pop elements into an otherwise country sound. Her producer (and then-husband) Mutt Lange had been the man behind such iconic albums as AC/DC’s Back in Black and Def Leppard’s Hysteria. As her songs became more played and popular, the old guard of Nashville started to get nervous. Mutt and Shania were “outsiders” having huge success in a genre that always did things “the Nashville way.” Country purists took issue with the pop and rock influences in Shania’s recordings, and soon enough a controversy was created over
whether she deserved to be played on country radio.
It was around this time that I started traveling to Nashville to write songs. My first collaborator was Gary Harrison. Gary was a lifelong friend of my then-wife, Cynthia, and I knew him socially. He’d already had a very successful career, having written hits for Trisha Yearwood and Martina McBride, and had then recently written the Country Song of the Year for Deanna Carter called “Strawberry Wine.”
Gary had mentioned to me at a social dinner that he’d be open to writing with me anytime I wanted. It was 1998 and my career was in a bit of disarray. I’d mutually parted ways with Capitol Records, and the writing was on the wall: white, male, solo pop singers were essentially persona non grata at radio. It wasn’t just me. Bryan Adams, Billy Joel, Elton John, and Rod Stewart weren’t having pop hits either. After a period of panic and self-pity, I decided I would take some time to just write songs and try to have hits via other artists. I loved what was happening in country radio, so I started going to Nashville to try to become part of that music community.
The first song Gary Harrison and I wrote, “Easy to Believe,” was promptly recorded by a new artist on MCA named Shane Minor. Shane didn’t ever become a hit artist, but he’s had a nice career as a songwriter for others. Although our song didn’t make much noise, it was gratifying to have had it accepted by a country label so easily.
On one of my early writing trips I was asked to meet with a young trio of sisters from Utah who were making their debut country album. They were called the Violets when I met them, but soon switched to the name SHeDAISY. They sang beautiful three-part harmony, and one sister, Kristyn, cowrote all their songs. Tall, blond, and very beautiful, Kristyn was and is an exceptional lyricist influenced strongly by everyone from Joni Mitchell to the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. Kristyn and I got together and wrote “Still Holding Out for You,” which was not only recorded for their debut album but was their fourth single from it, following three big country radio hits, including the number 1 “Little Good-byes.”
* * *
So by this time, I’m going to Nashville frequently, writing with an array of new and established artists and writers and continuing to ingratiate myself within the Nashville community. My kids were quite young at that time and ensconced in school outside of Chicago, or else I’d probably have moved there at least for a while to see if it felt like a place I could call home.
On one particular writing trip, I was asked to attend an event that was part of Country Radio Seminar, or CRS. It’s an annual convention in Nashville where the radio community mingles with artists and executives from Music Row to survey the state of the country format. That year, there was a panel discussion called “Pop Versus Country,” which was to take on the controversy of whether records like Shania Twain’s were making country radio sound too “pop.”
I thought it was a fairly ridiculous topic, as Shania’s incredible success was proving that not only did country fans enjoy hearing her on country radio, but also that she was selling more records than any other country artist in ages. I went to the panel discussion and sat in a small audience of about a hundred people. On the panel were a label executive, a program director for a big country station, and a young country artist who had just enjoyed his first hit single. His name was Brad Paisley.
I don’t recall much of the panel discussion, as it all seemed like banal noise to me. “What will happen to traditional country music if the Shania Twains of the world take over the format?” That kind of silly rhetoric, all steeped in fear of something new. But when the question of “What is the real difference between pop and country?” was posed, it was Brad Paisley’s answer that got my undivided attention.
Brad leaned into the microphone and said, “Well, country music is really about the song and the craft of writing. And pop music is really all about the production.”
I could feel my ears turning red and the blood in my veins begin to boil. In one ignorant sentence, this kid was insulting an enormous group of songwriters. I thought, What the fuck did he just say? Would he like to tell that to Paul McCartney? Or James Taylor? Or Michael Jackson? Or Smokey Fucking Robinson? I stood up and left the seminar, shaking my head.
The next morning I was interviewed over breakfast by a writer from The Tennessean. The interview had been scheduled for a while and was to cover my country writing over the past year or so, and my then new album Days in Avalon, which I’d recorded mostly in Nashville.
As the interview was wrapping up, the writer asked, “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
My inside voice told me to just say, “Nope, all good.” But instead I said, “Actually, yeah. I was at CRS yesterday and heard something that kinda pissed me off.” I went on to say that not only was Brad’s comment incredibly disrespectful to non-country songwriters, but that it also implied that we don’t take the craft of writing as seriously as he does. I closed by saying, “And, sorry, but it’s also tough to swallow coming from a guy who’s been famous for nine minutes.”
Of course, the next day the article was printed with the headline “Richard Marx Slams Brad Paisley.” After saying good-bye to me, the writer had immediately called Brad for a comment. Instead of saying something along the lines of “Yeah, that didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean any disrespect to other songwriters,” Brad said, “I didn’t mean to make Richard mad. I like his music. In fact, I’m the one who bought his last album.”
True enough, Days in Avalon, my first attempt at releasing an album on my own label, had also been my first commercial flop. But his quip of a retort dodged the issue of what I perceived as his disrespect to a legion of songwriters, and it was lame as fuck. Obviously, Brad went on to have great success to this day. But I remember him, in the days of “pop versus country,” making statements like, “I only want my records played on COUNTRY radio.” And I would always think, “Yeah, dude, don’t fucking WORRY!” With respect to his success, I’ve always considered Brad Paisley the poster boy for pandering.
* * *
A few years later I became friendly with a radio promotion guy at the DreamWorks label named Jimmy Harnen. Jimmy had had a hit in the ’80s called “Where Are You Now” but had abandoned his performing career and was rising up in the promo ranks.
Jimmy called me one day and said, “DreamWorks is finishing the debut album by a Canadian band called Emerson Drive and we need a single. I found a song I like a lot, and the band is going to be in your town in a few days. I was hoping you’d meet with them and see if there’s a way you guys could work together.”
The band, along with Jimmy and his promo boss Scott Borchetta, arrived at my house a few days later. (A few years later, Scott launched his own label with a young fourteen-year-old singer-songwriter named Taylor Swift. Not sure whatever happened to her.) We wandered down to my recording studio and chatted awhile before Jimmy said, “Can I play you this song I found? It’s called ‘Fall into Me.’ ”
We blasted the demo on my studio speakers, and I instantly liked it, but I felt the end of the chorus melody was a letdown. I suggested a slightly different melody, which everyone in the room agreed made the chorus pay off more strongly. The band’s guitarist, a very talented young lad named Danick Dupelle, then picked up one of my guitars laying against the studio wall and said, “What if there was an arpeggiated part over the chorus like this?” And within minutes, Danick and I were arranging the song.
Two days later, I flew to Nashville and we recorded “Fall into Me” in its entirety (all parts and vocals) and mixed it the next day. The track became a number 5 hit on the Country charts a few months later, giving me my first big country hit as a producer.
The rest of their debut album was produced by veteran country producer James Stroud, who also happened to be the head of the DreamWorks label. I met with James as “Fall into Me” was climbing the charts and recall him offering an offhanded comment about my work on the song being “not bad for a pop guy.”
Emerson Drive went out on
the road and worked hard, performing many concerts in bars and clubs, and set themselves up for a second album that would push them to the next level. Much to my delight, the band went to James Stroud and asked if the label would hire me to produce their entire next album. Stroud probably felt a bit slighted, but the band was adamant, so he agreed.
For the next six months, the band basically lived in my house. We wrote songs together. I brought in collaborators. I sent various band members off to write songs with great writers, and we finally chose twelve songs to record. I believed in this band and was completely committed to them. I ate, slept, and breathed focused on nothing but Emerson Drive.
As we headed into the homestretch of making the album, we got the incredible news that Shania Twain had chosen the band as her opening act on her upcoming tour. This would mean they’d be in front of massive audiences. We just needed to have the album ready and out within three months for the start of the tour. No problem! We were almost done, and I felt we had multiple radio hits on it.
We delivered the album six weeks later, and DreamWorks released “Last One Standing,” a song I’d written with Fee Waybill, as the album’s first single. As the song began to climb the charts, I noticed that there was still no release date for the album. Despite my concerned calls to the label, it became clear that DreamWorks was going to delay the release. I couldn’t believe it. Neither could the band or their manager, all of us powerless to do anything.
DreamWorks waited until the Shania tour was over before releasing the album What If. They also rather half-heartedly promoted the single, which barely made it into the Top Twenty. And despite the album reaching number 12 on the country chart, sales were pretty bad and DreamWorks dropped the band.
I was absolutely crushed. Instead of nurturing and getting behind this young band of talented guys who had already dipped their collective toe in radio and sales success, Dreamworks just dumped them like last weekend’s trash. I even flew to Nashville and met with other labels on behalf of the band, asking for them to be signed elsewhere, but to no avail. The whole thing turned to shit. And I got my first real taste of being collaterally fucked over by Music Row.