Between a Heart and a Rock Place (14 page)

I wish I could say that the Grammys were great that night or that it was fun for Spyder to attend, but we were so distracted by the euphoria of the last six days that the mad dash largely overshadowed the Grammys. It had nothing to do with the awards; with the exception of each other,
everything
in our lives was trivialized by the fact that we
were back together. All we wanted was to insulate ourselves for a few days. Having to participate in an awards show was surreal—a strange juxtaposition of the conflicting agendas of our public responsibilities and our private lives.

Even though I won that night, I don't remember much that happened. We were both jet-lagged and dressed up, and Spyder was miserable in his monkey suit. He was still smoking back then and was fidgeting because he couldn't grab a cigarette. He wasn't the only fidgety one. Best Rock Performance, Female, still wasn't televised, and there was something unsettling to me about receiving an award that seemed tainted by that sexism. I was up against Stevie Nicks for “Edge of Seventeen,” Yoko Ono for “Walking on Thin Ice,” Lulu for “Who's Foolin' Who,” and Donna Summer for “Cold Love.” I was up against a bunch of talented, terrific women who knew how to rock. Why wouldn't they just put us on television? What was the problem? In the end I walked up to the podium, accepted the award with a smile, and thanked everyone I could think of—especially my band and my new wonderful husband.

John and Yoko won Best Album in the general category, for
Double Fantasy,
the same album that had kept
Crimes of Passion
in the number two
Billboard
spot. I was honored to present the award. We talked with a few people—Quincy Jones, Olivia Newton-John, Sheena Easton, and Billy Idol. We didn't go to any of the Grammy parties or socialize with any other artists after the ceremony. I know there was a lot of glitz there at the Shrine Auditorium that night, but we had eyes only for each other, and we just wanted to go home.

 

D
ESPITE THE
D
OM
P
ÉRIGNON
served up to celebrate our wedding, the record label's high-handedness did not change. Thankfully we did. Getting married gave us a renewed sense of power and purpose. By the
time we went in to record
Get Nervous,
we knew exactly where we stood and where we wanted to be.

As far as
Get Nervous
was concerned, Chrysalis did one good thing at our request: they brought back Peter Coleman, the guy who'd helped start it all by producing “Heartbreaker.” As a producer, we knew Peter to be a patient and inspiring teacher. On
In the Heat of the Night,
he'd created an atmosphere of limitless creative freedom and given us confidence in our own abilities. There'd been no worries about looking foolish or making a mistake. Everything was worth trying. Peter had no ego issues, and he was genuinely interested in helping us put on tape what we envisioned. He'd found ways to technically implant what we heard and felt artistically. Spyder, especially, thrived in that element, and this was largely responsible for how he'd been able to step in and save
Crimes of Passion
. In many ways, Peter was the perfect complement to Spyder. Spyder didn't have ego problems, either, and for him producing wasn't about control; it was about making interesting records, going on tour, and having a great time. He never understood the label's misuse of power, the way they treated their artists like they were second-class citizens.

Though Chrysalis brought in a producer whom we were excited to work with, they still kept trying to tell us what to do. For one thing, they argued over what songs we would record. Even with three albums to our name they continued to push us to material that had been written by other songwriters. We weren't opposed to considering outside material, but by this time we were writing a lot of good songs ourselves. Our goal was to keep honing those skills so that we could record songs that had relevance to our situation. We wanted to create art in musical form that belonged to us—not simply embellish someone else's ideas. As far as we were concerned, it was the next logical step. But as usual commerce took precedence over content for Chrysalis. We would never see eye to eye with them; we were artists,
they
were car salesmen.

We started with four of the songs Spyder and Billy Steinberg had
written: “Anxiety (Get Nervous),” “Fight It Out,” “The Victim,” and “I Want Out.” Because of the material we were cutting, Spyder decided to change our sound somewhat, following his instincts to wherever they might take him. He was born to produce records—obsessive, but never to a fault, though sometimes producing would take precedence over his playing and I'd have to remind him that he was the guitarist in the band. Still, the breadth of his musicality was staggering. He was like the mad scientist, always looking for new ways to push the envelope, always writing, always arranging. He'd get this look in his eye that asked,
Wanna come with me?
and I'd know there was something exciting up ahead. He never had to ask me twice.

He was constantly picking up influences from things that he was listening to, pushing boundaries and blurring lines together. For him, the only constant in our sound was that it was constantly evolving, growing to encompass more parts yet staying true to itself at the same time. He was a forward-thinker, never content to be in the moment and always curious about where we should go next.

As things progressed on
Get Nervous,
it became clear that several songs needed keyboards, so we made an addition to the band, Charlie Giordano. The vocals, too, were a big part of Spyder's vision for what this new sound would be, and he pushed me every step of the way, keeping my voice high and powerful.
Too
high for the live shows, I kept saying.

“Come on, this is easy in the studio—but what about when I'm running around onstage?” But he liked to test me vocally. I could be lazy, but Spyder knew what my voice was capable of and would not give in to my hesitation. I was always whining about the keys we recorded in and driving him crazy. Sometimes he wanted vocal performances that were so physically difficult I'd cut a session off abruptly and storm out. We'd duke it out, eventually coming to some kind of compromise, but he was always gentle and subtle. He'd coax rather than demand, ever the consummate coach tasked with convincing me that I had it in me all along. He might not have been as stern as my old German vocal
teacher, but he definitely got the job done. I came to trust his judgment and made sure I was always ready for the next endeavor. Truthfully, he was usually right; these challenges to my voice were a big part of what made our records so intense.

Chrysalis kept at me, and it seemed like they just never stopped—it was one thing after another. I came to call it the gauntlet, because it felt like that was what I was running through. Every single day there was some new land mine I was dodging. One of the best examples of how off track the label was when it came to songs was the biggest hit from
Get Nervous,
“Shadows of the Night.” This was a song that was written by D. L. Byron and first recorded by Rachel Sweet. But Myron and I rewrote many of the lyrics to make it work for me. We did get paid for our work but got none of the credit for being writers on a monstrous hit. That would not happen today. If an artist changes lyrics or adds musical licks, the artist is credited. People demand that.

When the record was nearing completion, I started thinking about the album's cover art. The last three covers had been pictures of me in a sex kitten pose, and
Get Nervous
seemed the perfect time to change all that. Spyder and I were godparents to Myron Grombacher's small daughter, Kiley, whom we all adored. When she was out on the road with us, she'd do this thing that we used to call “getting nervous.” She'd clench her fists and strike a little pose. That phrase seemed to work perfectly with one song on the album, “Anxiety.” So we not only titled the album
Get Nervous,
but we decided to do a radical cover to illustrate the point.

We scheduled a session, and I was made up to look
anything
but glamorous. The photo shoot took place in a padded room. My hair was really wild, maniacal. I was wearing bright red eye shadow. I looked seriously insane, and we loved the effect. Then we took band photos, with me in the demented mode.

When Terry Ellis saw the cover mock-up, it was his turn to go insane. He called me at the studio and immediately launched into it:

“What are you thinking? There's no way I'm going to accept this.”

“Come on. It's great—not to mention different. Can't we just let loose for once, have some fun for a change?”

His response did not surprise me: “No.”

I tried to explain to this man that I was sick of some people in the industry saying that my so-called “image” was all I cared about. I was sick of it myself, and this was a perfect opportunity to show some cheekiness. Continuing down the path of sex over substance would come back to bite us in the ass. It was more important to me to stay true to how I was feeling. I was done with the whole sex symbol thing. I wanted to go back to the original plan: playing rock and roll. That argument fell on deaf ears.

After we'd heatedly gone back and forth for a while, he said he was coming over to the studio where we were recording—MCA Whitney on Glenoaks. When he arrived, he didn't miss a beat. He started railing at me, reminding me that my contract said we all had to be in agreement about the cover art. If he wasn't in agreement, then I could not use the photo. And he was
not
in agreement.

He couched all his comments in an overly polite and condescending tone of voice, the kind most people reserve for small children. Watching his mouth move, the words seemed to lose all meaning. The only thing I could focus on was the thought that this guy was one of the most passive-aggressive men I'd ever known. Did other major bands have to put up with this? Somehow I couldn't see Sting or Springsteen having this conversation. What about Stevie Nicks or Ann Wilson? Was it only female artists going through this? I wanted to believe it was happening across the board, but I knew it wasn't true.

Our conversation was creating something of a problem in the studio, because people were trying to record. So, finally, in that same patronizing voice, he said, “My de-ahh. Let's step outside and talk about this.”

So we moved the discussion out on the street. In no uncertain
terms, he said that if I didn't reshoot the album cover he would shelve the album. And he had the power to do that. He subscribed to the business corollary that it didn't matter how you got there just as long as you got there. The end justified the means. He'd been incredibly successful—not just with me, but with many artists on Chrysalis, such as Billy Idol, Huey Lewis, and of course Blondie—by conducting business like this. Likewise, he'd recognized my potential to be a major star and had worked hard to get me there. All this gave him a lot of latitude and he was unapologetic about it. Terry simply believed he was right and that I should just shut up and get in line.

He let me chew on the thought of shelving the album for a few seconds before looking at me with a haughty expression and beginning a lecture in his severest British accent.

“I don't know what it is with you American women. You're all so beautiful but have such problems using your sexuality to your advantage. It's so provincial. Personally, I think it's a big mistake. And, Pat,” he said, adding a slight orchestrated pause, “I hope you don't think people are actually coming to your concerts to listen to you sing.”

I let him have it, and God bless America, I slapped him. Right there on Glenoaks Boulevard. That was just too much. Not only had he insulted me on a personal level, but he was doing that patronizing European crap about us “Yanks.” He taken this fight to the street, and it had ended up in the gutter. I am not a violent person—that's just how mad I was.

He was stunned. I don't think anyone had ever stood up to him before—let alone slapped him in the face. A look of disbelief hung uneasily across his face like someone had just dropped a bucket of water on his head. Meanwhile all I could do was smile.

He composed himself and continued on as if nothing had happened. And his message remained the same. Either shoot the cover over, or there would be no album. The craziest thing was that Terry Ellis pretended that this incident had never happened. He just contin
ued on with his speech as though nothing had transpired. After it was all over I asked Newman if the man was nuts, or if he thought I was nuts. Did I not just stand out there and slap his face?

“Oh, yes, you slapped his face all right,” Newman said matter-of-factly. But there was nothing matter-of-fact about how Newman felt about it. Outwardly, my manager was not happy with these developments. He saw the label as
the
power brokers, the people he depended upon. He couldn't have me going around and hitting them in the face. However, secretly I knew that Newman was pleased that I'd given Terry something that had been a long time coming. Just as I was tired of being pushed around, Newman was tired of being in the middle. We both got some satisfaction from knowing that for at least an afternoon, Terry had been put in his place.

Sadly all that confrontation did was reinforce where the lines had been drawn in the sand. Contractually, I had to compromise. I went back in and took another photo—still in the padded room with me heavily made up, but with a more glammed-up, “presentable” look. The way I wanted to appear on the cover is only seen in the band photo on the back of the album. The entire experience just served to harden me. I felt like a junkyard dog that had been chained up and hit with a stick—only this time I bit back.

I
LOVE
D
ISNEYLAND AND
happy endings.

I'm all about white hats and hate to see good lose out in the end. I've never enjoyed movies or books where good and evil are ambiguous. And I'm not big on antiheroes, either. I don't mind edgy, but don't think I'm going to be on the side of a bad guy just because he's the protagonist. I like it when the good guys win, and I know who they are. I have a soft spot for quirky weirdos with hearts of gold being oppressed by the hypocrite with perfect teeth.

This is probably why the next video I made involved the band and me fighting Nazis.

MTV was about a year old when
Get Nervous
hit shelves, and despite the channel's game-changing success, shockingly it had not succumbed to the trappings of the music industry (no small feat in a business as cynical as the one we were in). From its inception, MTV had embodied an open-mindedness that had been absent from rock music for too long, allowing bands to rewrite the stale record company formulas. Suddenly there were ways to connect with fans beyond just live and recorded music. Bands that record execs never would have given a chance
suddenly found their place because of videos. With its moon-man icon, gritty logo, and hard guitar theme song, everything about it screamed rock and roll, but it was one thing to appear that way, and it was another thing to act like it.

Miraculously, a year into their experiment, their creative vision had not faded. They had changed the industry without compromising their idea of what the channel should be and what everyone wanted it to be. This independence made them an island of experimentation in an otherwise risk-averse musical landscape. Everyone recognized that the medium was still young and the rules were still being written. The network wanted videos that would expand the vision of what a music video could be, and they encouraged artists to take it as far as their imaginations would allow. When it came to videos, everyone—both the network and the artists—felt comfortable taking risks because the risky videos were some of the most interesting to watch. Of course there were critics who held their noses for one reason or another, but it was their job to be the art police. Music videos weren't for them. They were for the masses.

All of our on-camera interviews with MTV were done in studio, so we spent a good amount of time there. Back then, the studio was constantly filled with all kinds of musicians, both famous and unheard of. People were always coming and going. You'd walk around the halls, and there would be young artists chatting with legendary ones. Every where you looked, there were people wearing all kinds of outrageous clothes and acting like the parents were away for the weekend. But that was the joke; there never
were
any parents. The kids were in charge and running the show. It was just the private, insulated world of MTV.

Everything was pretty basic, more like shooting in your basement than slick television. The set itself was pretty stripped down and bare. You'd show up, and there'd be a couple of director's chairs for the VJs and the guests along with the two cameras that would shoot the inter
view. Because we were recording and releasing new music so frequently, I got to know all the VJs really well—especially the original ones: Nina Blackwood, Mark Goodman, Martha Quinn, and the darling JJ Jackson. They weren't the pretentious music journalists you sometimes see today; they were music fans who happened to be journalists. It was all very good-natured, no probing for deep dark secrets, no exposé about your personal life. It was all about music.

It was such a seminal time for all of us. We were embarking on a new and historic venture, but I don't think any of us grasped the significance of those days at the time. We were just having fun.

As for the music video directors, they were fans as well—not just of us, but of the genre. After all, these were rock and roll songs. The directors back then simply saw the music video as a vehicle to do interpretive work. It was such a creative time, and as people would brainstorm and throw out ideas, nothing really seemed too far-fetched or out-there. Compared to a feature film, making a music video was a bargain. It was possible to tell a fascinating story at a fraction of the cost. Everyone was still in awe of video making, and most people simply saw it as something meant to entertain.

Because of this freedom we approached making videos with a blank slate, working with directors to shape the vision that would translate these songs into images. “Shadows of the Night” was going to be our first single on
Get Nervous,
and therefore we were slated to record a video for it. Going into the planning for the “Shadows” video, I was definitely interested in pushing the video farther than what we'd done in the past. After we'd made the video for “You Better Run,” we'd done a video for “I'm Gonna Follow You” from
Crimes of Passion,
and then three performance videos for “Fire and Ice,” “Promises in the Dark,” and “Precious Time.” “I'm Gonna Follow You” was the first concept video for us. It had a dark and brooding look to it, with me wandering the desolate cobblestone streets of lower Manhattan and singing the song, menace seemingly hunched around every corner. In
that video, the band is nowhere to be seen and there isn't a shot that I'm not in.

I never really liked this style because it seemed like overkill, but for our first foray into the world of concept videos it came out well. When we shot the video for “You Better Run,” I'd been angry and self-conscious, but the second time, I knew what to expect. I was much more relaxed and able to enjoy myself, and it showed in the performance. The video itself was beautifully shot, and the locations perfectly suited the tone. There's an element of foreboding that haunts the song, and the video completely captured that feeling of broken glass on the pavement. Ultimately it was a good video, but it was too focused on me—especially considering that it showcased that sultry look Chrysalis continued to emphasize. While I liked the idea of taking a bigger step away from the straight performance video, I didn't want the next video to center on me in the same way. I wanted to be in it, but I didn't want to dominate the action.

When we met with the director for the “Shadows” video, he had the idea of doing a World War II minidrama that involved flying behind enemy lines to sabotage Nazi headquarters. The concept wasn't tied to the song or the message of the song, but that didn't matter. The story was pretty simple, though admittedly unexpected: a factory girl helping the World War II effort on the home front slips into a daydream about flying into Germany to kill a bunch of Nazis. An homage to Rosie the Riveter, there would be airplanes and a chase sequence, and some bad guys would die. It would be a four-minute action flick and I'd get to be the heroine.

As we sat there talking over the director's World War II vision, I loved the idea. It was elaborate, and it definitely didn't scream rock and roll—but that was why I liked it. It was something different. There were a lot of rock fans out there beyond the people wearing black leather jackets and torn jeans. I wanted to make a video that told a univer
sal story. The idea of playing a woman who manned the factories and built munitions for America changing into an undercover agent blowing up Nazis and good triumphing over evil. That's just what I had in mind.

To me it was theater, but it was also rock and roll; it spoke to the blurring of lines that had drawn me to rock music in the first place. In the beginning, I'd idealized rock music and its significance. I was a disciple who believed rock was the place where truth and freedom flourished. Artists were the progressives. Coming from my classical music background, the thought of being able to make music in any form I chose was irresistible.

I soon learned that in rock circles someone with my musical background and more middle-of-the-road outlook was sometimes suspect. There were unspoken rules of behavior, dress, and association. To be considered rock and roll you had to appear like you were always a part of the fringe. Ambition had strict rules as well, and success was to be limited and veiled. No deviation or you'd be seen as a sellout. And women? They weren't equals, they weren't rock stars, they weren't players. Women were girlfriends or groupies.

Early on, I saw a lot of these rules for what they were: bullshit. The clothes were a costume just like on any other stage; the lifestyle was an act that didn't end when people got offstage. Quirkiness was far more interesting to me than being pretentious. What part of constantly being scrutinized and judged was supposed to be attractive? Who were these people who did the judging, and who gave a fuck? These rules were just as confining as those used by the establishment they had so much contempt for. To me, being put into a box meant being put into a box. It didn't matter who stuck you in there.

Not subscribing to these rules gave me the freedom to try things that other people might have thumbed their noses at—especially when it came to videos. I never forgot where I came from or what I was
drawn to, and I relished having another arena to create in. I looked at making videos as another way to explore art and express the stories that we were telling with our music.

But this occasionally put me at odds with the band, and this was the case with the “Shadows of the Night” video. On the day we heard the pitch, I was the only one who thought that this World War II idea was the way to go. Everyone else thought the concept was just stupid. These guys were rock and roll musicians. Dressing up in vintage World War II costumes and pretending to fly airplanes was not exactly their thing. The band wanted performance videos. I liked a little theater.

And in this case, Spyder was decidedly with the band. Despite the fact that he knew as well as anyone how vital videos had become, he still didn't approve of them (and doesn't to this day). He understood that they were a crucial marketing tool, but he always felt they corrupted the pure intent of the music. On this issue, our backgrounds were the difference. I had been singing Puccini, Handel, and songs about unrequited love while tap-dancing in a tiara. He had been hanging out with Andy Warhol and Truman Capote. We were the musical odd couple. (To this day we'll be riding together in the car and I'll be singing a show tune, and he'll just shake his head incredulously, saying, “I still can't believe I'm married to a woman who knows all the songs in
South Pacific
by heart.”) But somehow it worked; the contrast was the point.

The difference didn't cause friction between us, but it did complicate the discussion of the video for “Shadows.” In the end, I was able to get the band on board, but no one was all that happy about it. I had a good feeling that it would work, that people would embrace it, but the guys couldn't get past the costumes. They hated those costumes more than they hated dressing up for the “Crimes of Fashion” album photo. They finally agreed but told me if I ever wanted to do anything like this again, I was on my own. It became an inside joke and they gave me crap about it all the time. Historical costumes were banned forever.

Compared to the other videos on the air at the time, the production was pretty impressive. The scenes with the Nazis were shot at a mansion the production team found, while the daytime material was filmed at Van Nuys airport, which interestingly enough was a historic place—the spot where Amelia Earhart set a world speed record in 1929 and where parts of
Casablanca
were filmed. The band was spread out throughout the video, and Myron and Zel ended up playing Nazis, which they weren't thrilled about. The funny thing about that video is that Judge Reinhold and Bill Paxton, actors who would later go on to movie careers, were both in it. They were young Screen Actors Guild guys who were brought in for the day, just getting started in the business and taking what jobs they could find. But being there on the video set with them was enlightening. You can tell that the band and I were musicians trying to be actors. Even my background in the theater didn't cover that. Judge and Bill were actors. Maybe they were young and inexperienced, but they were actors. We were just rockers dressed up in funny costumes.

All in all it came together pretty much as we'd envisioned it, and in the end, the director's instincts about the story and the song together were right. The video was a huge MTV success. Moreover, it pointed to the way many would make minimovie-style videos in MTV's future. The network needed a variety of approaches to become the trend-setter that it did. This video had more serious production value to it—a look that made it stand out without overpowering the song. It's such a good example of the genre. Even now, I look back on it and think that it was totally worth it to make the guys dress up.

 

S
PYDER HAD BEEN RIGHT
to push me on the vocals while we were recording
Get Nervous,
because they were constantly pointed out by critics when the album was released. One comment by the
Los Angeles Times
's
Terry Atkinson was particularly perceptive, given my last battle with my label: “Since she's become entrenched in rock, fighting for ground with the opposite sex, [Pat Benatar] has reinforced her position. Her singing has never been more forceful.”

That same review also pointed to Spyder's contribution: “The consistent power of
Get Nervous
owes much to the increased role—and increased inventiveness—of her husband, guitarist Neil Giraldo. He has written some strong, if not extraordinary, material…. Giraldo's guitar playing has reached a new dimension here, too.”

The live show also received kudos for the interplay between guitar, keyboards, and vocals. When we played the Cow Palace in San Francisco,
Billboard
suggested that our tour might well be titled “The Pat and Neil Show.” And that's exactly how we saw it.

By the time we went on tour for
Get Nervous,
our tour staff had expanded, but the personal staff was still minimal. The organization started, in addition to lawyers and accountants, with the management company, headed by Rick Newman. We had a tour manager who worked for management, and a booking agency, Premiere Talent, where we were represented by Barbara Skydell and Frank Barcelona. We had a publicist who didn't usually travel with us but with whom we were in constant contact. We had sound and light people and the roadies and drivers—there were three or four buses and some eighteen-wheelers carrying equipment.