Street Player

by Danny Seraphine

  All of the other issues aside, the real question was: after falling short with Chicago 18, did our band have what it took to climb to the summit one last time? Our recent lack of success didn’t give us the motivation to continue working with David Foster. I was grateful to him for giving us back our self-respect, but it was time for both sides to move on.

  One night, I was talking to my buddy Hawk on the phone when he mentioned that Peter and his producer Pat Leonard had decided to take a few months off from recording the much-anticipated follow-up to Solitude/Solitaire. A lightbulb went off in my head and I called a band meeting to plot our next move. I thought we should write, record, and release a new album before Peter was able to put his together. We had six weeks to get into the studio and get it done. I didn’t want to let Peter beat us to the punch again. I saw it as a golden opportunity, but the rest of the band weren’t as eager to spring into action and took some convincing from Howard and me.

  Howard suggested we bring in outside talent to help with the band’s songwriting. He recommended Diane Warren, who was one of the hottest writers on the scene, and producer Ron Nevison, who had a great deal of success working with the band Heart. Diane wrote the first two singles, “I Don’t Want to Live Without Your Love” and “Look Away,” and Ron ended up coproducing the album with Chas Sanford.

  Ron was a hard-ass in the studio, but an effective hard-ass. He understood what needed to be done and pushed the band to deliver. Chas, on the other hand, was more of a feel-good, positivevibe type of producer. He let me reestablish my confidence in my abilities in the studio and I played drums on the entire album.

  Walt, Jimmy, Robert, and Lee weren’t as thrilled with the recording process. Toward the end of our studio sessions, they called a band meeting to vent their frustrations with Chicago 19’s final song list. The guys actually wanted to take the songs Diane Warren had contributed off the record. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea, and Bill didn’t like it either. He had sung lead vocals on both tracks and considered them his first real moments to shine in the band. Ron and I had fought for him to sing on those tracks. The songs were definite hit singles and there was no way we could let them be pulled. Bill’s voice gave us a departure away from the Peter Cetera sound. It was going to be the new direction for our band. Walt, Robert, Jimmy, and Lee’s real beef had to do with the fact that there weren’t any horns on either of the songs. I understood how they felt, but those songs were essential to having a commercially successful album. Though the guys eventually gave in, I could sense a deep resentment developing. Maybe I had pushed it too far, but we needed hits to get Chicago’s career back where it should be.

  As a whole, the record showcased Bill’s vocal talents. He sang lead on three of Chicago 19’s singles. “Look Away” went on to become a number one hit, while “I Don’t Want to Live Without Your Love” and “You’re Not Alone” broke into the Top 10. The album went platinum and had five Top 10 singles.

  Once again, we had fought our way back tooth and nail. Who would have believed a group would be able to recover from the loss of talents like Terry Kath and Peter Cetera and come out on top? The record proved once again that the band was the true star—not one particular member, not one manager, and not one individual producer. Despite the infighting and lineup changes, we always found a way to make it work. And in my mind, that is what great bands are able to do.

  21

  Bad Moves

  Gradually, Pete Schivarelli worked his way into a business relationship with the band. When Howard got busy with other projects, he needed someone to help him with the day-to-day operations of Chicago. Although Pete had gained a good deal of music industry experience managing B.Ginnings for me, his solid personal relationship with the guys in the band, especially me, was what made him Howard’s first choice. So Pete was offered a partnership to help manage us.

  I had mixed emotions about the decision to bring Pete in. We had been close friends since back in the early days, but I never envisioned him as Chicago’s manager. As much as I loved Pete and trusted him (after all, I named him godfather to my son J.D.), I wasn’t sure what effect it would have on our relationship.

  At the time, I was going through a personal awakening of sorts. As the 1980s came to a close, I reached a point where I was consumed by guilt and anxiety as a result of my running around with groupies on the road. I had stayed faithful to Teddy for the first two years of our relationship, but eventually old habits crept back in. They had exerted a strong hold on me for years and I was finally sick of the charade. It was another situation between Teddy and me where if we didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t happening.

  It was time to get out of Los Angeles and rededicate myself to my marriage and my children. I needed to grow up and concentrate on my role as a father and a husband. Besides, life in Los Angeles was getting strange and unsettling. There were nightly news reports of stabbings, shootings, and gang violence everywhere. It was too similar to the life I had left behind on the streets of Chicago, and I had no intention of allowing my young ones to grow up in such a dangerous environment. My plan was to do another five years with Chicago and then retire. It was time to set that idea into motion.

  Over the years, I had enjoyed the time spent up at Caribou Ranch in Colorado experiencing the peacefulness of nature and the overwhelming beauty of the Rocky Mountains. I’d also taken up skiing and fallen in love with the lifestyle, so I couldn’t think of a better place to relocate. Teddy wasn’t as interested in the idea, and I had to work hard to convince her it was the right choice for our relationship and our family. After we considered locations like Telluride, Aspen, and Steamboat, a few friends recommended the town of Evergreen. It was a stone’s throw from Denver, so I had access to a major airport to fly out of whenever I needed to. It seemed like the perfect fit.

  When I approached the band, they gave me their blessings and supported me completely. But Howard had a different perspective on the situation.

  “I’m not sure why you’re doing this, Danny,” Howard told me. “It’s going to be the three-million-dollar move.”

  My guess is there were already rumblings from within the band and this was his way of warning me. Maybe I should have listened more closely to what he was saying, but I forged ahead anyway.

  In the late summer of 1989, Teddy, the kids, and I packed everything up and moved to the beautiful town of Evergreen, Colorado. We spent the fall enjoying the outdoors—hiking, mountain biking—and I took up the beautiful sport of fly-fishing. Being out in nature with my kids was a welcome change of pace from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

  After some quality time off to adjust to my new life, the band and I began putting together a plan to record our next album. To warm up, we scheduled a batch of upcoming tour dates, booking gigs at the world’s largest rodeo in the Houston Astrodome and also a show at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. We were set to be the co-grand marshals that year with actor John Goodman.

  I needed a few weeks to shake off the rust, so I called in to our management’s office in Los Angeles to schedule rehearsal time with the band. After the long layoff, it was going to be hard work on my part in order to be ready for our gigs. A few days later, I got a strange phone call back from Bill, who said the band had decided they wanted to go ahead and rehearse without drums.

  “Without drums?” I repeated.

  “We just want to go over vocals and horns for a while and drums will get in the way,” he told me.

  The whole thing sounded odd, but I tried to put my suspicions aside. I figured I could woodshed the material on my own and play along to the live tapes of our music. I continued with my practicing, but something about what Bill said didn’t sit right. I had never gotten ready independently from the band before an upcoming tour, so why would I now? It was like a football player practicing without full contact before the season started. What was going to happen when I got out onstage and was face-to-face with a live audience?

  There was an uneasy feeling the mom
ent I met up with the rest of the guys at our hotel in Houston a few weeks later. It was the first time I ever felt like a complete outsider in my own band. The guys were distant when I joined them for breakfast on the first morning. Before long, they each got up one by one and excused themselves from the table. I suddenly glanced up and found myself eating alone.

  The trip didn’t get any better as the day wore on. I was in trouble the second we hit the enormous stage at the Houston Astrodome in Texas. For starters, the sound was awful and I had trouble hearing in my monitors what the guys were playing. And just like I feared, my chops weren’t in game shape. The hours spent practicing on my own for the show didn’t do a thing. The band was out of step and the responsibility rested on my shoulders.

  After the inconsistent performance, we went back to the hotel to listen to the playback of our show in one of the rooms. Once again, the rest of the guys eventually excused themselves and I was left sitting alone. I couldn’t tell if they were pissed or just not interested in hearing the tapes. None of them gave me any indication.

  Even though we played better at our next show at Mardi Gras in New Orleans, there wasn’t much time to talk it over. Teddy flew out from Los Angeles to meet me and we jumped on the Concorde to travel to our next gig in England. When Chicago performed at the Hammersmith Odeon in London, I was unbelievably jet-lagged. My drumming chops were even worse than at the Astrodome. On the whole, our band was downright awful.

  After the show, Teddy had an interesting take on the weak performance. She knew things weren’t right. “I don’t know, Danny,” she said. “It’s like when you stay at a party too long. All the ashtrays are full, the drinks are empty, and the smart people are long gone.”

  Teddy always told it straight, and in many ways she was right. Terry had left us way too early. We had parted ways with Jimmy Guercio. Peter had set off on a solo career.

  “I watched the entire show tonight,” Teddy continued. “It was like eight individuals onstage playing the same song, but there was no band in sight.” It wasn’t only because of my playing. All of us were on a different page. A distance was setting in that never used to be there.

  Later that night, Teddy pulled me aside and told me the other wives were beginning to whisper about my playing. They were asking what was wrong with my tempos and alluding to how I was “all over the place.” Being in a band, you know that if the wives are discussing something, the husbands are definitely talking about it. My playing was made the main topic of conversations. The guys wouldn’t let it go. It allowed them to lay the responsibility on me and take the focus off of them. Not that they weren’t partly right. My playing was truly out of synch.

  I should have made an effort to stay in and rest at the hotel each night to get my strength back, but I felt obligated to spend time with Teddy and accompany her sightseeing in between shows. I was constantly on the go and never regained enough focus on my playing. My performance was slightly better at our gig in Ireland, but I was never able to get back on track.

  As soon as we returned to the States, I put a call in to Howard. There was no overlooking that something was wrong. I desperately wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on behind my back. When Howard finally got around to returning my call, he had some disturbing news that only validated my fears.

  “Listen, the band feels you take too long to record and decided they want to use a studio drummer on the next album,” Howard said.

  A studio drummer? Who did they think they were dealing with? I played on every track of our last record, which had gone on to sell over a million and a half copies!

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked him. “They’re trying to push me out of the band, aren’t they, Howard?”

  “No, Danny. Don’t overreact,” he told me. His tone made it seem like I was the one being unreasonable. “I promise you. That’s not going to happen. Your royalties will remain the same and you’ll still be listed as the drummer in the credits.”

  “This is complete bullshit. There’s something more to all of this,” I hissed into the phone before hanging up.

  Deep down, I figured they knew what I meant to the band. They understood what went on behind the scenes day to day. Sure, I could be difficult to deal with, but I was also a major driving force in Chicago and an original member. Who had the foresight to recognize Bill’s talents and bring him into the band? Who had supported Jason and pushed everyone to give him a second chance at taking Peter’s place? Who had brought in Howard and Irving Azoff to manage us? For perhaps the first time, I understood why Peter had left the band.

  That’s not to say I wasn’t suffering from major burnout. I occupied myself with the business side of being in Chicago twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The band came before everything else that was precious and dear to me in my life. Everything I did, I did for the group. I had carried the load for long enough and it finally caught up with me. Maybe my playing wasn’t up to par for the European tour, but was I performing any worse than Robert when he had reached his lowest point years earlier? Or Jimmy when he had gone off the rails and hit rock bottom with his drinking? The same thing went for Walt. All of us had struggled at one time or another. Now that it was my turn, they were casting me aside.

  I jumped on a flight to Los Angeles and went down to the recording studio where the band had already begun rehearsing with a new drummer named John Keane. I was done getting my information secondhand through Howard. We sat down in the control room and the band let me have a few minutes to speak my mind.

  “I don’t understand,” I told the guys around the table. “We just notched five top-selling singles. I played on every one of them.”

  Jason cleared his throat. “Yeah, we talked about that, Danny. But we think the success was in spite of your playing,” he told me.

  I shot him an incredulous look. I wanted to slap him. His words tore at my insides, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his statement. I stared down at the floor and shook my head in disgust.

  “We just want the old Danny back, man,” Jimmy sincerely said after the silence. “You’ve gotten too deep into the business side of things and your mind isn’t on the music anymore.”

  I took his words to heart and mulled them over. Maybe I had overstepped some of my bounds and gotten too involved in the business issues. In all honesty, it was only because I was looking out for our best interests and trying to protect us from ever falling into a poor business agreement again. Nobody wanted history to repeat itself.

  No matter what I said, the band was going to do the album without me. The guys wanted me to rededicate myself to my playing and come back with a new outlook. Walt went a step further and called me on the phone a few weeks later.

  “Look man,” he said. “I want to put your mind at ease. Do you remember that oath we took at my house back in 1967?”

  His question brought back some good memories. I thought of the six of us sitting around that kitchen table in his mother’s house talking about the vision we had of the band and the things we wanted to accomplish. I remembered Terry sitting next to me at the table. God, I missed him so much. I also thought back to Peter and me driving through the Mayfair parking lot stealing those Christmas trees. What a scene. Who would have ever thought in their wildest dreams that we would have made it this far?

  A smile found its way on to my face. “Yeah,” I answered.“I remember that oath, Walt.”

  “Well, it still stands true for me,” he said. “We’re not trying to fire you or push you out.”

  I appreciated Walt’s honesty. The band’s feedback was a wake-up call to straighten out my priorities, and I was man enough to take my medicine. It was time to get my playing back in shape and come back as strong as ever.

  I returned to Evergreen and started practicing with a well-known local jazz drummer named Bart Mann. During the next six weeks, Bart and I put in long hours out in my garage. By the middle of the following month, my chops were at an all-tim
e high. My technique might have been different, but I looked at myself as similar to an aging pitcher who’d lost his fastball, but replaced it with a wicked slider. I even called Howard one afternoon to tell him how great my playing was sounding.

  It was decided I would rejoin the band for a corporate gig for Shearson Lehman Hutton at the Phoenician Hotel in Phoenix. Unfortunately, my return was not as celebratory as I had imagined. Again, the guys didn’t seem happy to see me. But I was determined to let my playing speak for itself. I had worked too hard woodshedding in Colorado to let anything get me down. At the soundcheck, my drum tech Mike Murphy was impressed with how much I had improved since he last heard me.

  “You sound better than ever, man!” Mike told me between songs. “Your timing is great and your chops are blazing!”

  The vibe backstage before the show was bizarre and awkward. There was the feeling that everyone was whispering behind my back. The guys passed a headset back and forth as they listened to the new tracks the band was working on in the recording studio. Not one of them offered me the headphones. They gave them to Pete before me!

  This is my band? I asked myself. Where did it go wrong?

  Despite the band’s treatment of me before the show, I played my ass off that night. All of the guys commented that I sounded great and how good it was to have me back, even Jason. But after returning home to Colorado, I was still overcome with anxiety. I had an awful feeling about my status in Chicago. Everything felt like it was slipping away and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My fears were further fueled by a late-night call from Pete a few days later.

  “Something’s going on,” he explained. “The other guys, Jason and Bill, were talking on the plane back to Los Angeles. I didn’t hear what was being said, but they’re up to something.”