Between a Heart and a Rock Place (7 page)

“No, you don't understand. This man is going to be the father of my children.”

“It's 1979, you don't have to marry him to sleep with him!”

“That is not gonna happen. I won't be able to get this man out of my system.”

“Dumbass.”

With Spyder signed on, we started making plans to record the first record,
In the Heat of the Night,
in Los Angeles. In the beginning, Chrysalis was infatuated with Spyder. He was miles ahead of me in terms of recording experience. They were relieved that they didn't have to spoon-feed the novice every step of the way. He'd do that for them. He quickly became the guy who was getting it done. They stood by his
decisions, especially when it came to the band. Roger “Zel” Capps had been playing with me since the Richmond days. He'd been the bassist for Coxon's Army, and he'd actually moved to New York when I did. We'd been playing together in the city ever since. I was comfortable working with him, and Spyder liked his playing. But Chrysalis wanted him gone.

“He's been playing in lounge bands with her,” they protested.

“That doesn't matter, I'll get him rockin',” Spyder countered. “Pat's worked with him and she likes him. He's a nice guy who will be easy to have around on the road. And besides, she
should
have someone in the band who's been with her from the beginning. He also sings backup.”

Chrysalis went along with him. And so we auditioned more players and got the band together. After we got Zel on board for bass and backing vocals, we hired a drummer, Glen Alexander Hamilton, and a rhythm guitarist, Scott St. Clair Sheets. Spyder would play lead and slide guitars and keyboards. Then we set off to California to make a record at MCA Whitney in Glendale.

As much as we were thrown together and I was incredibly attracted to him, I didn't look to make it anything more than just infatuation while we were making the record. For one thing, when I'd met him, he was dating the actress Linda Blair. I wouldn't have tried to split up a couple, whether they were married or merely dating. But it was hard to control myself. It was torture. I'd never had such a chemical reaction to anyone before. But it was more than that. We were connected on every level.

Some mornings he'd pick me up to drive me to the studio. When it came to his car, he was “relaxed” about neatness, which ordinarily would drive me crazy. Cleanliness and organization were always a big deal to me, and I was the kind of person who couldn't go to sleep if there was a spoon in the sink. Spyder would open the door and a mixture of burger wrappers and paper cups would come spilling out onto the pavement. He'd knock a bunch of papers off the passenger seat and
onto the floor so that I could sit down. His ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. And yet somehow, I never saw any of that; I saw only him.

Sitting so close to him in the car was the most intense time of my days recording that album. I'd sneak looks at him while he was driving and think about how good he smelled. Whatever it was—cologne, shampoo—it drove me nuts. This was so unlike me. I was always in control of my emotions. I was never the pursuer, always pursued. He short-circuited all of that, and my mind went crazy.

I'm gonna die. I am so in love with this man. I'm gonna kill myself if this doesn't happen. I'm gonna kill him. And there's Linda Blair. I might kill her.

So while I was busy plotting to kill Linda Blair, Spyder was busy getting the sound of the record right.

Still, we kept it professional during the recording. We worked in the studio eighteen hours a day. I'd never been to L.A. before, but there was little time for socializing or hitting the L.A. scene. It was round-the-clock recording. One of the first things Spyder told me was that my instincts had been right all along—everything depended on me having the right sound, the right direction, and the right players. What I needed was a band where the bed of the music was aggressive and strong, a band that would push me to sing harder, tougher. As he says, I needed a Sicilian guitar player from Cleveland to dirty it up some.

And when Spyder made that sound a reality, I thought the very same thing I'd thought a few years back at the Liza Minnelli concert:
I can do that
.

I'd had it in me all the time, but it was Spyder who let it out.

Spyder understood that my classical training could be either a plus or a minus, and maybe both. I was always going to have that range and clear quality to my voice, because I'd spent years training for five and six hours a day. Whereas most rock musicians might see that vocal clarity as a detriment, he actually thought the contrast of pristine vocals with
hard-edged playing would be unstoppable—the unique combination we needed to produce a powerful sound.

What we both heard was unmistakable: with the right music behind me, I could go head to head with any rocker and still have the years of classical training help me with both stretch and stamina. What I really had to put behind me was the time I'd spent singing covers of Ronstadt and Streisand. I literally stopped listening to all music while I was recording that first album, because I was still very impressionable musically. If I listened to Linda Ronstadt, I might put some of her vocal mannerisms into a song. The same thing went for Chrissie Hynde, whom I admired vocally and didn't dare listen to before I went in to record. I avoided listening to even the male singers I loved, just to make sure that what I was doing was me and not outside influences.

In the Heat of the Night
was recorded in twenty-eight days for $82,000. Because of his hectic schedule, Mike Chapman was only hired to produce four of the songs. As Chapman was winding down his involvement, he sat down with Pete Coleman, the engineer/producer, and Spyder.

“Okay, Peter, why don't you continue to engineer and work on the rest of the album with Spyder.”

Spyder turned to Peter questioningly. “Is that how you want to work?”

“Sure,” Peter said. During the short time we'd been recording, Pete and Spyder had developed a good rapport. They were a great team, with Pete a patient and thorough teacher. He loved explaining every minute detail of the recording process to Spyder and seeing Spyder absorb every word of it. Soon Spyder was Pete's equal. And so the majority of the material on
In the Heat of the Night
was produced by Peter Coleman with a great deal of help from Neil “Spyder” Giraldo, but Spyder neither asked for nor received credit for his extra work on the album.

As it turned out, I didn't get my name on the song “Heartbreaker,” either, despite the fact that by the time we laid it down, I had rewritten so many of the lyrics and we wouldn't have used it otherwise. But the writers wouldn't go for giving me credit. I was an unknown, and Chrysalis did not stand with me. It was one of the first times that they put their interests before mine.

“Heartbreaker” was the first song that the new team of Coleman/Giraldo recorded. It was a blistering recording, setting the tone for the entire record. We included the John Mellencamp song, “I Need a Lover,” and three by Mike Chapman and his frequent collaborator, British writer/producer Nicky Chinn: “If You Think You Know How to Love Me,” “No You Don't,” and the title cut, “In the Heat of the Night.” Zel and I had two songs on the album, “So Sincere” and “My Clone Sleeps Alone.” “Rated X” was a Nick Gilder/James McCulloch song, and “We Live for Love” was written by Spyder.

I noticed right away that Spyder was careful not to try to bring his own songs to the table, especially after he was tapped by Chapman to work with Peter Coleman. A very conscientious person, Spyder began to see that he was influencing much of what was happening with the record, and he didn't want it to look like he was taking over, even though he wasn't. He was the driving force, the catalyst making it all happen. He thought that by adding songs he'd written, his influence would be disproportionate.

But when we cut everything that we liked, we still needed one song. That's when he invited me to his house to hear “We Live for Love.” (In the years since that album came out, Spyder has always said that he wrote that song for me, and I always call him on it, because he wrote the song before we had anything going. He says that's just part of my shtick, but I know better.)

As good as we all knew “Heartbreaker” was, it wasn't the first single release, because Chrysalis, in their continuing infinite wisdom, didn't think it was a hit. Disco was dying, but the label didn't see it.
Those guys were positive that disco-loving deejays would not play the song because there was too much guitar on it. The irony is that the resurgence of guitar-driven music was about to happen. The Clash was ushering it in, with punk becoming the antidote to disco. Thank God. We were going to bring guitars back into the mainstream and we were moving in the right direction, but at that moment, we were the only ones who thought that. I was in love with Spyder's guitar playing, and as far as I was concerned, there was never enough of it. I was the one pushing him to play more guitar. Our conversation usually went like this:

“I think that song needs more guitar.”

“No.”

“Come on, put another guitar part on it. I swear to you that it will work.”

“No, it won't. Listen to the song structure.”

Spyder had a theory about the way that guitars and vocals should work together. He wanted the guitar solos to be melodic—to lead into the vocals, not fight with them. It all had to do with keeping people musically interested in the song. When the vocal stopped, the guitar would take over. When the guitar stopped, the vocals would come back in. He saw a good song structure as being like a story with no lulls for someone to get bored. Every note would lead into the next, set the scene.

“Heartbreaker” was teeming with that kind of back-and-forth, but Chrysalis lived in fear of disco's popularity and wouldn't release it. So the first two singles were the safer choices “I Need a Lover” and “If You Think You Know How to Love Me.” They were released respectively in August and October of 1979, and neither of them did what we needed them to commercially. However, the important thing they did do, especially “I Need a Lover,” was introduce us to the world. “I Need a Lover” created a huge buzz. Including it was a brilliant suggestion by Chapman. It was a song that was relatively unknown in America but
had proved itself in Australia. And of course lyrically, it was perfect. Radio stations loved it. They even began splicing our two versions together. In the end, “I Need a Lover” got us airplay, just not enough to break us out.

The thing about albums is that not all songs have to be hits. I subscribe to what I'm sure is a widely held belief that not all songs are meant to be number one records. All songs are pivotal, important stones in the path that you're walking, stones that you follow to your next destination. Each one leads to the next. They're not all meant to be commercial successes. But they need to be successful for the artist on some level.

I believe that everything is connected. When you ask someone to listen to an album, you want them to feel like they are listening to someone's heart and soul. You do not make records for the fans, for radio, or for sales. You make the record that needs to come out of you. Then, and only then, do you give it to the public. Then it becomes a personal gift from you. And the truth is, if you are honest about making music, it is irrelevant whether the public likes the album or not. What is important is that you made the record you wanted to make, one that says something about how you're feeling at the time. It's completely narcissistic and at the same time you hope it has relevance for someone else. And when it does, you've tapped into the “common thread.” This can't be fabricated; it's not something you do by design (well, I guess some people do, but I never could). It determines hit records, it's elusive, it's coveted, and it's best left to the whim of the universe.

If all those songs happen to end up radio hits, that's great. As long as you don't compromise art for the sake of commerce, I'm all for it, but it's not always easy to do. There were many times throughout our career that we were forced to do just that. It always felt wrong and it always came back to bite us in the ass.

In the end, the recording process went better than any of us could have expected. Whatever “it” was, we'd captured it and we were all ec
static. Strangely Chrysalis seemed lukewarm about the finished product. Terry even commented to me, “Don't expect too much.” But there was no doubt in our minds that we'd made a great record. It was going to take a lot more than a music exec to bring me down.

When we finished, I went back to New York while Spyder stayed in Los Angeles for about a month, until we started rehearsals for our live show. In order to promote the album, we'd landed a gig opening for David Werner, who'd just released a glam rock album that was sometimes compared to David Bowie's
Ziggy Stardust
. Though we'd been refining our sound in the studio for the last month, we'd never played a live show as a full band. We had work to do.

I
FILED FOR A
divorce as soon as I got back to New York. I didn't know what was going on between Spyder and me, but I knew that those twenty-eight days we'd spent making
In the Heat of the Night
had been some of the best of my life. Dennis and I hadn't had a real marriage for so long it just felt like a detail that needed to be handled. And it was a way to get my side of things rolling, whether Spyder was still involved with someone or not.

The month before Spyder came back to New York to rehearse was agonizing. With the record release and our tour with David Werner coming, we talked on the phone almost every day. But when he arrived from California, I didn't know what to do with the emotions I felt. With each day I became more certain that this was a lot more than infatuation. This was not a man I was ever going to get over.

To hold it together, I kept having little talks with myself.
Stay businesslike. Concentrate on rehearsing, on this first tour. Don't be a dumb shit and throw all this away.

Spyder didn't help matters. He teased me mercilessly in just the right way to make me think that he felt the same way I did, and I knew
he was serious about the flirtation. It was that awful dance that people do when they are so attracted to each other yet, for one reason or another, can't be together. It was exquisite agony. At first, my responses to him were more of the “Yeah, sure” variety. Then one day at he started playing the familiar chords of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” on the piano, and when I asked him why he was playing it, he said, “It's ‘Somewhere over Montana'—me and you.” We were going on tour through Montana.

That did it.

“You know what? You're full of shit.”

“Montana, you and me,” he said with a little smile.

“You've got a girlfriend. Don't talk to me.”

Over the next week, he kept it up, mentioning Montana every so often, like we were going to head off into the wild and start a new life together. I became very blunt. Every time he mentioned Montana I'd say, “Figure out your own situation. Then we'll talk about Montana.” I was trying to protect myself. His relationship with Linda seemed intact, and I wasn't going to play the fool.

I couldn't imagine what it was going to be like with him out on the road. It had been hard enough being around him most of the day while we were recording, but at least he went home at night. On the road we'd be together twenty-four hours a day. How was I going to do
that
? There was
no way
I could travel on a bus with this man and not really be with him. On the other hand, I couldn't help thinking that something had changed, that whatever relationship we had was being taken to the next level, even if superficially nothing was different.

One evening toward the end of our rehearsals for the tour, Spyder asked me to have a drink with him at a little seafood restaurant named Pier 52 on the West Side of Manhattan. There wasn't anything odd about his invitation, and I didn't anticipate that anything out of the ordinary was happening. We sat beside a big aquarium, talking about the
rehearsals, just making casual conversation. Finally he said he needed to have a serious talk with me.

Oh crap! He's gonna quit the band!

“I'm having some problems,” he said.

God, no! What if he's on drugs?

“I think Linda is cheating on me.”

I mentally raised my arms in triumph. I couldn't believe it. She had screwed up. She'd cheated. How could she want somebody else? Was she crazy?
Give him to me, I love him.
I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him to forget about her, but I tried to control how happy I was. I could see he was hurt. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Neil,” I said, barely managing to conceal my smile.

He had a solemn look on his face and just nodded.

I had my chin in my hands, and I leaned in toward him with my most sympathetic look and spoke very low. “What a bitch! I don't know how she could do that to you. You are the sweetest person in the world. You don't deserve this.”

But right under the sympathy, I was thinking,
This is a done deal, Neil Giraldo. You. Are. Mine.

He nodded. I commiserated with him, thinking how everything that I'd been saying really was true. He really
was
the sweetest person in the world, and he really didn't deserve to be treated like this. There was something grounded, moral, and
Midwestern
about him. Even though we were both rockers and we were both serious about our music, in his own way he was just as traditional as I was, which was no small feat.

It took a couple of weeks for us to take the next step. Like me, Spyder is a conventional person. So while the attraction between us was mutual, he wasn't the type to end a relationship and jump right into another one. His attraction to me was real, but so was his hurt over being cheated on.

We went out with some of the band members as a group a few
times, never addressing the fact that the sexual tension between us was building. He and I were together constantly. When we weren't playing, we were shopping, listening to music, or running errands. We ate with each other every day. We were never apart, and it was getting intense. Then finally we went to Little Italy for the San Gennaro Festival, New York's September tribute to its Italian immigrants—just the two of us. Every year they hold parades, dances, and cannoli-eating contests. It couldn't be missed if you were an Italian boy and a girl who always felt like she should have been Italian.

We walked around Little Italy, watching people in costumes dance down the street, sampling some of the foods, and listening to the ethnic bands play. We stood there listening to the music, and the next thing we knew we were kissing. Neither of us hesitated or questioned it. We knew it had been coming, so we just let it happen. I thought back to all those morning car rides in L.A., the rehearsal sessions, how closely we'd worked with each other. Standing there in the middle of a narrow street in Little Italy, I knew this wasn't just hormones—this was something else.

From that moment on, we were a couple.

 

In the Heat of the Night
was officially released in October of '79, around the same time that we started touring with David Werner. The shows were primarily in big clubs with big stages that gave us the chance to get our act down. It was a great time. We had our first album out, the road show was well received, and Spyder and I were madly in love.

When Chrysalis decided to take a chance and put out “Heartbreaker” as the third single that December, all hell broke loose. We'd only played ten shows with David when “Heartbreaker” exploded, but after that, we were fired from the tour. The crowds turning out were there for us, and when we left the stage, they almost rioted. Finally
Werner's people said we had to get off the tour. We were causing chaos, and it was hurting David's show.

Though “Heartbreaker” gave us a ton of momentum coming off of David's tour, it didn't take long for us to be humbled. Shortly after leaving David's show we opened a show for Journey, and out of the thirty thousand people out there, I knew that maybe eight thousand had come to hear us. It was good exposure to be in front of a much larger crowd, and it gave us experience in front of a massive audience, but it wasn't always the warmest reception. The audience was mostly ponytailed hippies and they weren't all that interested in us, which was their loss because we were putting on a really good show. We won them over by the end when we did “Heartbreaker,” but before that, they were all a bit too laid-back to get into it. We were way more aggressive and defiant than what they were used to. If the audience wasn't ready for that, they would just have to deal with it.

From then on we were scrambling. We moved quickly through a process that usually takes several years: playing the big clubs like the Agora in Cleveland, then arenas and amphitheaters like the Universal Amphitheatre or Denver's Red Rocks. Everything jumped so fast that we were always just trying to catch our breath. I never had a moment when I could pace myself or find the time to get a grip. Trying to keep up was stressful, because I was (and still am) such a perfectionist. I could not do things half-assed; every night, every show, was all-important to me. I needed to give the audience everything I had.

Long before I began playing arena shows, I knew what I wanted to do for an audience. Even when I was singing in cover bands, I wanted to give the people who came out to see me more than a performance. I wanted to take them out of their world. If they had bills to pay and pressures at work, I wanted them to put them on hold for a couple of hours. I understood that world and what those long nights at the kitchen table felt like. I knew how badly people needed some relief from the daily grind. I looked out into a sea of faces and wanted to
grab hold of every one of them. I wanted to let the audience live out fantasies, go into some other time and place with me. I was living mine and I wanted them to come along.

But even though I wanted to take the audience on a journey, it was always on my terms. I became a completely different person onstage. I prowled around and played with the audience. I never thought of myself as sexy. I never thought about it period. Never. Growing up, I was skinny and flat chested, with big teeth and thin, straight hair; I left sexy to the Italian goddesses at my high school. Sexy didn't even occur to me. I was a product of the women's movement. I dressed the way I did because
I
liked it, not because I thought men liked it. I didn't care what they liked.
That
was the point. I was much more interested in showing how strong-minded I was. It was all about not taking crap from anyone for any reason. I wanted the stereotypes to disappear. I didn't want to be a female rocker, I just wanted to be a rocker. My look and persona were about freedom, strength, and power. The combination proved to be provocative.

I took to touring pretty naturally. Even though I was the only female around a bunch of guys all the time, nothing about it struck me as weird. Over the years, I've heard so many female singers say they had problems with it, but I never did. I loved it. I relished being female, but what I was after was respect as a musician. Despite the rampant sexism in the music business, remarkably the band never behaved that way. We were equals on every level, and those boys were close friends of mine. That made a big difference when we were touring; they always treated me with respect. The fact that Spyder and I were romantically involved was irrelevant. I wasn't a “pop tart.” I was a serious, dedicated, formidably rockin' lead singer who happened to be a girl. And that's exactly how Spyder saw it, too.

Chrysalis was ecstatic when “Heartbreaker” hit big. But that excitement died when they found out that Spyder and I were involved. They were horrified. Each of us got a phone call.

“This is going to ruin your whole career. Don't you remember what happened with Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham? They almost broke up Fleetwood Mac!”

We both had the same reaction: “What? Who the hell are you?”

They tortured us about it, convinced that we were on the road to ruin. We explained that we were making music that they liked and doing our job. Our personal life was not their business. They looked at our situation and saw the worst-case scenario: a rocky relationship that ruins the band. While I understood that there were other bands that had fallen into that trap, the truth was, band tension was always a variable—not just in male/female circumstances. A lot of all-male bands split up because of friction between members. It was ridiculous and intrusive.

Awkwardness in the band was just their cover story. What they really cared about was my image. It's an old tale in the entertainment business that record labels—whether they're dealing with men or women—want solo stars unattached and seemingly available. I've always found that train of thought insulting and sexist. I wasn't a boy toy. My image was for my pleasure alone. I didn't think my fans cared about any of this, and I certainly didn't. This was 1979, not 1950. Women weren't objects anymore. I wanted to make music, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I wasn't in this to fit some male fantasy of what I was supposed to be. That meant living my life however the hell I wanted to live it.

This drama over our relationship was part of my introduction to fame that began following that first tour. It wasn't overwhelming at first—nothing like later on and definitely nothing like today's celebrities have to deal with—but I started noticing people looking at me or whispering to each other when I was in the market. I wasn't sure what was going on for a while. I thought maybe they were looking at someone else, or maybe I just looked weird. Finally someone came up and said my name as if they knew me personally. It's an unsettling feeling. You're thrilled that people know you, because that means you're being accepted. But I'm basically a private person, and it was difficult to comprehend.

We still didn't really understand the magnitude of our career—not surprising, considering we lived in a vacuum. Traveling around on a bus was especially isolating in the early eighties, without cell phones or laptops.
Billboard
's charts were not calculated electronically through SoundScan. If an album was taking off, it took longer for everyone to get the message. We were among the last to understand the impact of both “Heartbreaker” and the album. The world was a different place: no Internet, no daily glut of information.

By the time our tour reached Virginia Beach, we finally saw the scope of what was happening around us. As we pulled up to the club, we saw that it was surrounded with a police barrier, and there appeared to be a massive riot going on. We didn't know what the hell had happened. An armed robbery? An explosion? Not quite. The club had oversold the show, and people who'd paid to see us couldn't get in. It's common practice for some clubs to oversell a show, counting on no-shows. But that night, the no-shows showed up en masse. They ended up cramming more inside than there probably should have been, and I'm sure the local fire marshal would have been pissed if he'd been there to see it. Still, I'm sure some ticket holders went home mad.