Between a Heart and a Rock Place (27 page)

Finally, in 1998 we found a piece of property that was just what we wanted. It was on a street in Hana that had houses, but they were not so close to each other that anyone felt they lived “in town.” It was also right on the ocean, up on a bluff where you could look out over the water. The place we found was connected to the family of Paul Fagan, the man who saved Hana by building the original Ka'uiki Inn and opening up tourist trade.

The first Paul Fagan had purchased five parcels of land that were now owned by his grandchildren. Spyder fell in love with a parcel on a little strip of the family's land. He wanted to build there
so
badly! But there had seemed to be no way to do it. “No, no, no! That's Fagan land. You'll never be able to buy that.”

One day, after we'd been looking for about twenty years, we said, “Enough is enough.” This time when we went for our vacation, we decided that it would be a vacation, not a site search. We told our real estate representatives, Carl and Rae Lindquist, who were also our good friends, that maybe we should just look elsewhere.

“Wait!” Carl said. “You won't believe this—I think I may have something you'll want to see.”

He took us for a short ride, and there it was—the very place Spyder had loved since we'd first started coming to Hana! As fate would have
it, one of the grandchildren needed to sell his land. I guess he hadn't wanted to let his family know he needed to sell, because as I understood it, none of his brothers and sisters knew that it was on the market. He'd approached Carl privately.

We bought it that very day.

It took several years before we started, but we did build a home in Hana. It's not a big house, but it is beautiful—a lovely plantation-style house with a view of the ocean. It's a home where I can sit with a cup of coffee and watch the waves crashing against the cliffs, the Ewa birds, and the turtles that come into the cove to lie on their backs and float in the water. It's paradise.

Hana is a very tiny, close-knit community, a place where you don't “talk stink,” 'cause you never know who you're talking to. Almost everyone in Hana is related in some way. It's also a sanctuary of sorts for some celebrities because it's isolated and the folks in Hana are immune to the modern fascination with famous people. They simply don't care about it. They're much more interested in whether you are a good person and you respect the
aina
(land). A perfect example is Kris Kristofferson and his wife, Lisa, who are responsible for our finding Hana in the first place. We've known each other for years; Haley went to Our Lady of Malibu school with their sons Jesse and Jody, and Hana later went to Hana School with their youngest son, Blake. Kris and Lisa are our neighbors and good friends. The thing I love about them is they're straight shooters, no pretense; what you see is what you get. They're tireless activists, hands-on parents, and good people.

Everyone in Hana calls me CP; our dear friend Pinky gave me the name after he heard my mother call me “Patti.” There are a lot of cattle in Hana, so there are a lot of cow pies and patties around. Pinky thought it would be “cute” to call me “Cow Patti,” abbreviated later to “CP.” Spyder is known to everyone as either “Coach Spyduh,” because he was the soccer coach for two years, or “Paisan.”

In a lot of ways, the Hana property coming along when it did seemed to represent much more than just our finding a home away from home. For years we'd been wandering, searching for a path that was truly ours. Now, in this town that meant so much to us, we'd found what we'd been looking for all those years. Coming at the same time as our epiphany about going independent, the symbolism was too clear to deny. We had found our way out, our way to happiness. We didn't belong to anyone but ourselves. We knew what we had to do.

I
N
1999, EMI
RELEASED
Synchronistic Wanderings: Recorded Anthology 1979–1999,
a three-CD box set of our music to mark the twentieth anniversary of our first release, 1979's
In the Heat of the Night
.

This was a project we believed important after several years of EMI putting out one compilation after another. Sometimes the songs were put together in an inappropriate sequence, and sometimes the song choices were just
off
. But to the company's credit, EMI approached us about how we'd like to be represented for a twentieth-anniversary release. As long as we had some say in it, we were on board. One thing we insisted on was the use of certain material we'd done that they didn't own and had no access to. That way we could show the entire career and not just what Chrysalis had been involved with.

To celebrate the milestone we set out on another big tour and made a few changes in our usual set. During the mideighties we'd cut back on doing so many of our oldest hits. I believed in looking forward, in playing new music and trying new styles. Also, it gets old singing the hits like “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” every night. But now we brought back the whole hit parade, and the audiences loved it.

The box set was a collector's item. For example, the box-set version of “I Need a Lover,” from 1979, was recorded at the Bottom Line just a couple of weeks after we put the live band together. It wasn't the best version of that song in existence, but it was raw and authentic, which is what we wanted. “Love Is a Battlefield” is an original demo version with only one vocal, whereas in the final version, I recorded several. We included some things no one had heard. “New Dream Islands” was an unreleased outtake from
Seven the Hard Way
, the first song Spyder and I wrote for the album. But in the end, it did not make the cut. “Run Between the Raindrops” was recorded live in Philadelphia in 1988 and had been used only in one radio show. “True Hearts” was another previously unreleased recording, as was 1978's “Crying,” the Roy Orbison song that I'd performed at my first (and only) showcase. I found an old cassette tape of “Crying” in a box of material that I used to take around to pitch myself to labels before I ever got a deal. It was amazing to find it and to be able to let the fans hear what had initially been turned down! We also included a song I'd done for an Edith Piaf tribute, “The Effect You Have on Me,” and “Rescue Me” from the
Speed
soundtrack.

There was talk of adding some of the old material I'd recorded with Coxon's Army, but in the end we decided it was just too different from our music's evolution. It was definitely cabaret-type music, and even though it played a role in my getting started, it had never been a part of my ultimate career.

Unlike the earlier retrospectives that EMI had issued, this process felt cathartic and well produced. It was a good encapsulation of everything that we'd done—everything that we were proud of. In talking about the record it was also a chance to clear the air about the vital contribution that Spyder had been making since day one. As we looked back at twenty years, it was the perfect time to eliminate the long-held misconceptions about how our collaboration functioned. When Jim Moret of CNN interviewed us about
Synchronistic Wanderings,
he intro
duced Spyder as “producer/collaborator/songwriter/guitarist and husband.”

“That's too many titles,” Spyder said.

“You just have ‘entertainer,' Pat,” Moret said to me.

“That's because I'm smart,” I said with a laugh. “I've got one job. I like it. It's good.”

 

A
FTER FINISHING OUR LEARNING
experience with CMC International, we thanked Tom Lipsky for the caring job he'd done and we moved on. We began writing material at our own pace. Eventually we'd put out another new album, but in the meantime, we would concentrate on touring, merchandise, and brand extension—all building up to the launch of an independent record label for our albums. Since 1995, we'd been touring consistently every summer, but now the goal was to raise our profile, increase our exposure, and rekindle the love affair with our fan base. The diehards were loyal (God bless 'em) and they never strayed, but looking to the future, we also wanted to capture a new audience.

With this in mind, we refined our set lists and made it a point to play songs that would get different kinds of listeners out to the shows. We wanted to focus in on the sound that had helped get us to where we were in the first place. The tour wasn't a way to help sell millions of records or sell out the biggest venue in every city we went to. We wanted to play to audiences that knew us and give them a show that they wouldn't forget.

And every summer without fail our kids came with us, along for the ride no matter where we were. It turned into a family tradition—every summer was a two-month-long road trip. And while being rock stars didn't preclude being parents, ever, it did help when you had girls who were obsessed with teen bands. Just because we were rockers didn't
mean that we were above aiding and abetting our daughters' teen pop obsessions. Every summer Haley and Hana would get on the bus armed with their favorite bands' touring schedules, our itinerary, and an atlas, and then proceed to map out the number of shows they could attend while we were touring. Spyder and I each had to pay our parental dues, accompanying both girls to see everyone from Hansen and N*SYNC (Haley) to Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers (Hana). Only kids can make you grovel to get backstage passes. We both spent many of our evenings off during those summers being trampled by hormonal, squealing twelve-year-olds.

For a short time during the boy band craze, Haley and two of her friends, Erin Potter and Molly Torrance, thought it would be great to have an all-girl band à la N*SYNC, so they formed a group called GLO. Molly was later replaced by Natasha Porlas. Spyder wrote a couple of songs for them, they got a choreographer, and they practiced day and night. After a little bit they got really good and we decided they should open for us in the summer. It would be a gentle introduction; they'd perform about three songs. They were always working on their stage personas, changing hairstyles and outfits constantly. They all wore those low-cut jeans; I always said that during that tour I saw more butt crack than there was at a plumber's convention.

These consecutive summers on the road had exactly the kind of impact that we'd hoped for, so much so that by the time the millennium began, we were ready to be on our own completely, and we formally parted ways with our manager. From now on, we would be self-managed. We felt that after twenty-one years of making music there was no point to having someone guiding us. If we weren't able to take charge of things after all this time, then we had no reason to be in the business anymore.

Armed with that, in 2001 we set out to change the way we did business. We would now take an active role in every aspect of our professional career. Back in 1993, we'd formed a company called Bel Chiasso
to handle our eventual publishing program. Now that would become the name of our new label. “
Chiasso
” in Italian means “noise,” “uproar,” and “
bel chiasso
” means “beautiful noise,” which was what we planned on making after
Innamorata
. We had our business manager Gary Haber and our agent Brad Goodman to help us navigate. Spyder and I would be the CEOs of the company, and our trusted friend and tour manager John Malta would oversee to the day-to-day. The plan was to grow the brand that was Pat Benatar and Neil Giraldo.

And throughout 2001, that plan was in place and moving forward, but like most of America, all that we were doing came to a screeching halt for us on the morning of September 11, 2001.

We were on the road and had a gig up in Napa Valley that night. We were staying at an area hotel to be ready for an early sound check, and I woke up to a frantic call from my mother: “Patti, wake up, we're under attack! Turn on the TV!”

It was one of those moments in everyone's life where you never forget where you were when it happened, like Pearl Harbor or Kennedy's assassination, pivotal moments in history that impact your life forever. We woke up, turned on the television—and were horrified at what we saw. It still seems surreal to think back on it all. There was my city—New York—attacked, smoke billowing from the streets, people screaming. How was this possible? I was trying to calm down our crying daughters and their friends who were traveling with us. I stared in disbelief at the images of the city I'd grown up in. Half of my family lived less than two miles from Ground Zero. It was too much to comprehend. We sat glued to the television, listening to the reports, trying to make sense of what had happened. As terrifying as it was, I felt, as many people did, a camaraderie with all Americans that morning. I knew we were all feeling the same shock, fear, revulsion, anger. It was one of those things that are so huge, so horrific, that you feel like the entire world has just been stopped in its tracks. I assumed everything
would
stop, including the concert. Surely the show was canceled.

The phone rang; it was John Malta telling us the promoter still planned on doing the show that night. Were they insane? How could they possibly think it was appropriate to go on with a planned performance in light of what had happened? Our country had been attacked! I went crazy.

“Absolutely not! There is no way that I'm going to perform after all this; it's disrespectful! And who would come anyway? The answer is no!”

It made no sense to me that anyone would hold a concert on this of all nights. They had to cancel. Everyone was going to stop doing everything. But the promoter had a list of reasons why the show had to go on, none of which made a goddamn bit of difference to me.

“It's completely inappropriate,” I told him. “I won't participate.”

When the follow-up call came, the answer was the same. The show was going on.

“The guy says he'll sue you if you don't play.”

“So many Americans have died today! How can he do this?”

I didn't know what to do and still hadn't decided when I got another call. This time the tone had changed. The promoter had had a change of heart, and he was about to cancel the show when the phones started ringing off the hook. People were calling and asking if the show was still on, because they wanted to come. They wanted to be out together with other Americans; they didn't want to go through what they were feeling alone. They wanted to mourn together, even if it was only for a few hours.

While a part of me thought he was full of shit and making it up so I'd play, if there was even a remote chance that what he'd said was true, I couldn't walk away from people in need. I agreed to go on. Once the decision was made, I had to figure out how I was going to manage this. I was heartbroken, sickened by what had happened, and I was afraid. I was afraid for the people of New York, my family, America, and the
impact of this on the world. How on earth was I supposed to justify something so trivial in the face of something so profound? How was I going to go out there and jump around and sing stupid love songs? I still couldn't believe it. I kept thinking,
Oh my God, don't make me do this. I'm not that cool, not that good. Don't give this to me while I'm feeling so torn apart
. I just shook involuntarily at the thought of what I had to do.

I still hadn't pulled myself together by the time I got to my dressing room. I paced and paced, praying I could make it through this show and trying to figure out how. What about the set list? Christ, every song seemed to have a reference to either war (“Love Is a Battlefield,” “Hit Me with Your Best Shot”) or fire (“Fire and Ice,” “All Fired Up”). I'd have to take everything out. But then I started thinking,
What about “Invincible” and “We Belong”? These are positive songs about survival and brotherhood. What
about
“All Fired Up”? If this was done by terrorists, well, they can just kiss my ass. They can kiss all of our asses. You bet I'll do “All Fired Up.”

Then I started to think maybe I
could
do it. It wouldn't be business as usual; I'd have to talk to the audience first, get a few things worked out. We'd do this show together: if I felt uncomfortable with a song I'd stop; if they did, they could ask us to stop. We would go one step at a time and see how far we'd get. Maybe this could work after all.

I am never nervous about shows, but when I walked on the stage that night I was shaking. My teeth were chattering so bad I didn't know if I could talk. I went to center stage and sat down on the stool I'd requested. It was a beautiful night. The stars were out. It was in a vineyard in Napa Valley—one of the most beautiful places. I'd played it so many times, and it had never looked any more spectacular. I asked that they turn the lights up at the venue, so I could see the audience better. I needed to see their faces.

When I looked out my heart broke, for all of us, for America. People had brought flags, hundreds of them in all sizes, and they waved furiously. They'd made banners out of sheets and spray paint that said
“God Bless America.” I could see people in the front rows, and they had tears running down their faces. There was a collective weep that went out across the crowd. People were sobbing, and so was I. We all were.

The hairs rose on my arms and even more than ever, I believed I might not be able to speak to them or sing. My emotions were wound too tight. When I finally pulled myself together, I began to talk to them. I was so upset and worried that I wouldn't be able to say anything that would be relevant or sufficient. I felt so anxious that I wasn't up to the task at hand. Knowing how awkward I probably appeared only made me feel even worse—how could I let an audience see me like this? I normally have a boundary line that I keep between an audience and me so that I don't get too emotional and lose control of the situation. In order to take them on a journey, someone has to be able to steer the boat, and that someone was always me. That night, I crossed the line. We sat there, the band, the crew, the waitstaff, and the audience, and we put our trust in each other and tried to make sense out of a senseless act.