by Tina Arena
It was an incredible tour. We stayed in the same hotels as Lionel and his band and entourage – in fact, together we probably just about booked them out. Lionel was a gorgeous man – still is – and he treated me like a daughter. One afternoon I was in the laundry when his then wife, Brenda, came in. She was washing Lionel’s Calvin Klein underwear and I was washing my Target lingerie. We got talking and she told me that they were in the process of adopting a little girl. I was genuinely excited for them. That little girl turned out to be Nicole Richie.
When the tour was over I returned home to Keilor East. Mum and Dad were spending a lot of time over at the old house in Moonee Ponds. They’d taken over managing the nursing home, but the place was very run-down and Mum was spending every day there, scrubbing on her hands and knees. As well, she’d taken on caring for the elderly clients with almost no help. She bathed and dressed them, cooked their every meal using the fresh produce from Dad’s garden, and put them to bed at night. Dad would shuttle back and forth between the two houses, helping out when he wasn’t at work. Finally Mum decided she’d have to move back to Moonee Ponds – running the nursing home was an around-the-clock job.
It was an extraordinarily courageous choice for my parents to make, but not surprising. Hard work and sacrifice were nothing new to them or to us, and while they were already in their fifties, slowing down or taking time to smell the roses was an alien concept.
The timing was tricky, though. Nancy had recently married her boyfriend, Walter Bilic, and moved out of home. But my younger sister, Silvana, was still at high school and living at Keilor East, and she had trouble coping with Mum being away from home so much. Silvana was rebelling, not happy. I tried to keep an eye on her but I was only five years older and couldn’t be the mother she needed. It was a tough time for everyone, and Silvana and I, in particular, resented the time Mum devoted to the old folk in the home. It clearly wasn’t just a job for Mum – it was a calling. Not until years later did we come to understand why she had to do what she did.
Soon after, I was asked to audition for a role in the Australian production of Nine, a musical by Maury Yeston based on Federico Fellini’s autobiographical film 8½, which had run for almost two years on Broadway. Nine was about a famous Italian film director, Guido, who is turning forty and faces a crisis in his work and love-life. Apart from Guido, the cast were all women. I won the role of Renata, an Italian girl; I was also understudy for Peta Toppano, who was to play Claudia Nardi, a main character based on actress Claudia Cardinale.
The show ran for several months at the Comedy Theatre in Melbourne and starred John Diedrich, who also directed and produced, as Guido, and some remarkable women – Peta Toppano, Maria Mercedes, Nancye Hayes as Liliane La Fleur, Caroline Gillmer, Alison Jiear – so many great Australian performers. It was the first time I’d appeared in a full musical production at a professional level and what an extraordinary experience it was!
It was a beautiful production. The sets were magical, stunning, and for a girl who always appreciated a good frock, the costumes were divine. What I learnt from doing that show is that musical theatre is unbelievably physically and mentally demanding. We did eight shows a week. I wasn’t part of the main cast, but I was on stage for almost the entire show.
When Peta Toppano was sick for a few days, I suddenly found myself in the deep end. There I was, a nineteen-year-old suburban girl trying to play a thirty-something Italian screen goddess. (Having met Ms Cardinale since, I now realise they were quite some shoes to fill!) How on earth I pulled it off, or how convincing I was, I have no idea.
After the Melbourne season, Nine travelled to Sydney, but I stayed behind. Ross Inglis and I had begun working on some demos with Mike Brady’s brother, Doug, who was a sound engineer. Ross had written the songs and we had the idea to release them as an album – my album. Ross and Doug approached Mike to see whether he’d use his contacts to score me a recording deal. Mike agreed.
I was over the moon. With Mike’s help maybe this time I would crack it.
So I stayed in Melbourne to continue work on the demos. Now all we needed to do was find a record company to take me on. How hard could it be?
CHAPTER 6
Strong as Steel
Scoring a recording deal turned out to be too hard. Mike tried all the majors and was knocked back each time. Finally he decided to fund the project himself with a view to finding a label to release it later. It was an incredible vote of confidence on his part. In the end, Mike did a deal with a label called Avenue Records, which had had success with Mondo Rock, Jimmy and the Boys and a few other Australian acts. My album would be released through EMI. But Mike would be footing the bill.
We began work on the album in 1988. We had the songs Ross Inglis had penned, but we needed a couple more, so we trawled through a pile of songwriters’ demos. In addition to Ross’s songs we chose ‘Strong as Steel’ by Diane Warren, who’d written hits for people such as Cher, Tina Turner and Gloria Estefan. The song had been a hit for UK band Five Star and I knew it was a great song. I’d always loved Stevie Wonder, so we added to the list his 1972 classic ‘I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be Forever)’.
The album was recorded at Metropolis Studios in Melbourne. Mike was executive producer, Ross produced and Doug engineered. One afternoon we were sitting around the mixing desk listening to what we had so far and arguing about which song should be the first single. Mike was clear on his preference: ‘I Need Your Body’. It was one of Ross’s songs, a piece of electro-dance pop with a driving synth riff, classic eighties drums and a (slightly) raunchy hook line. It had a catchy, in-your-face chorus and was perfect for radio and clubs. Ross and Mike both felt it would grab people’s attention and would send a strong message that Tiny Tina had finally grown up. Mike strongly believed that getting that message across was the key to the album’s success, and I think he was right.
I knew ‘I Need Your Body’ was a good, memorable song with all the ingredients, and that it would help me lose the YTT baggage that we knew was still holding me back. But the song itself wasn’t one of my personal favourites. Its message was hardly subtle and I had different musical tastes that were perhaps a little more sophisticated – I still loved and listened to the greats like Dusty Springfield, Barbra Streisand and Aretha Franklin, and R & B divas like Donna Summer and Chaka Khan.
The truth was, however, I was twenty years old. I didn’t feel confident enough to believe in my own opinions, let alone express them clearly. All I knew was that I needed to explode once and for all the image of that cute little girl that seemed to be everyone’s idea of who I was. So I agreed.
It was around that time that Mike started talking about getting me a manager. He could see I needed someone to help coordinate media appearances and performances, especially in the lead-up to the release of ‘I Need Your Body’.
One morning he rang me at home. ‘I think I’ve found someone who might be interested in managing you,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet him this afternoon. He’s only in Melbourne for one day.’
I’d heard a bit about Geoffrey Schuhkraft. He’d been working in the business for years, and had been an offsider of Glenn Wheatley, John Farnham’s manager.
We met at Mike’s office in Batman Street, West Melbourne. When I walked in a tall, slim man in a black suit stood to greet me. Probably in his mid-thirties, he had curly, sandy hair, rosy cheeks and a wide smile. His manner was very polished and professional but he radiated warmth and charisma. I liked him straight away.
I sat down and we got talking. Geoffrey was living in Los Angeles looking after Little River Band, among other projects. He told me he had a business partner, an American manager called Paul Palmer. They were clearly well connected in the US music industry. Mike filled Geoffrey in on what we were working on. As Mike saw it, we needed someone to take on the management of day-to-day stuff.
Geoffrey and I talked some more. He came across as honest, straight-talking, caring, but with a wicked sense of h
umour that had me laughing every second minute. We just seemed to click.
After we’d chatted for a while, he said: ‘Now, Mike’s told me a lot about what he thinks you need, and what the plans are. But what do you think, Tina? I know you want to sing, but what’s the bigger picture for you?’
I think I stared at him like he was a four-eyed alien out of Lost In Space. While I’d never been pushed, or told what to do, I’d never really questioned what I was doing or why. He was right, I wanted to sing, but beyond that, I wasn’t sure.
I stammered something about a music career, recording, performing.
He peered at me through narrowed eyes and pursed his lips. It seemed to me that he knew more about what was in my head than I did. ‘Perhaps we can talk more about that later, Miss Tina,’ he said. And he laughed.
When we finished up, Geoffrey left to think about it. He hadn’t said no, but he hadn’t said yes. I went home that night with my fingers crossed. I’d liked him so much and thought we’d hit it off. I just hoped he felt the same way.
I also couldn’t get his question out of my mind. It’s one thing to know you want to be a singer; it’s another thing to know what kind of singer and why. Sure, I had a voice, but how would I use it?
Geoffrey had hit on where I was at. While I was loving making the album, sometimes I felt like I was little more than a voice on tape. Put me in front of a microphone and I could sing for hours – I was a workhorse. But that’s all I was doing. Every song on the album had been written by other people. They weren’t my own words or my own thoughts or feelings. I was just the interpreter.
The next morning Geoffrey rang me from the airport. ‘I couldn’t possibly say no,’ he said. ‘We get on too well.’
He was right. We did.
The first thing Geoffrey did was look at my agreement with Mike. He came back to me with a few thoughts. ‘I’d like to renegotiate it,’ he said. ‘As an artist you need more control. The contract needs to allow for that.’
I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and left him to it. Mike probably wouldn’t be thrilled, especially as he’d introduced me to Geoffrey. But Geoffrey was putting my interests first, and that was his job. I’d been bumbling along doing my own deals as best I could, but I was still young and had no head for business. I didn’t have the balls to push hard for what I wanted. For one thing, I wouldn’t have known what to push for. I’d simply been grateful to get any work. Now at last I had someone in my corner, someone who would look at the bigger picture and plan accordingly. Geoffrey was a godsend who came at the right time in my life.
For the rest of that year I gigged live for money while putting the finishing touches to the album.
We also filmed the video clip for ‘I Need Your Body’. Mike lined up Melbourne film and ad director Salik Silverstein to direct. Salik was looking to create something lush and mysterious. He decided to film the clip in Melbourne’s Regent Theatre, which was out of commission, having been earmarked for demolition. It was a stunning space – classic 1920s Italianate architecture – but freezing.
Mike was a mate of Melbourne fashion designer Jenny Bannister, and he suggested to Salik that Jenny dress me. Salik agreed and he and Jenny designed an outfit. It was beautiful and I still have it: black velvet, handmade, lined. But when I tried it on I was embarrassed – all I could see were curves and cleavage. Everyone else loved it, so being an old pro and a trouper, I just got on with it.
When I look at that video clip now, I see a curvy young woman who I guess is not too hard on the eye. And as someone recently commented, the dress covers so much that, these days, I could be mistaken for a nun. But when I saw the rough cut of the clip back then, I was mortified. To my eyes I looked like a chunky Italian girl who loved her food (which was exactly what I was!). Today, people pay good money for boobs like that, but in 1990 I would have given them away for nothing. I cringed every time I saw that clip. It certainly shouted the fact that Tiny Tina had grown up, but it just wasn’t me. Still, I swallowed my pride and went along with it. After all, it was too late to change it now.
But when it came to naming the album I was more assertive. ‘It’s called Strong as Steel,’ I said at a meeting.
‘Why?’ Mike very much saw this album as his baby – after all, he’d funded it – so I knew he’d have firm views regarding the title.
I had good, clear reasons for my choice. ‘Strong as Steel’ was a great song by a well-known songwriter and I was proud of my version. As well, the phrase struck a chord with me: I was finding out that in the music business you had to be strong just to turn up every day to work. More often than not the odds were stacked against you, and every time you put yourself in front of a microphone you risked hanging yourself out to dry.
The truth was, I still didn’t know if I had it in me. Especially since, to be strong, you’ve got to know what you’re being strong for. Even back then I was coming to the realisation that to have a career in music would mean making compromises, especially in my personal life. I’d been raised to value family above everything else, and I knew that one day I’d want a family of my own. Already Fab and I had had to compromise. Fab had always been understanding when it came to my work, but I knew it wasn’t easy for him. To balance work and family in this business you needed backbone. ‘Strong as Steel’ summed up how I wished I felt.
Mike, Ross and Geoffrey all liked the title so that was that: Strong as Steel it would be.
Those recording sessions and making the video clip for ‘Body’ were a lot of fun, but I needed paying work. In the music business paying work is usually live work. I’d been living off my savings from Nine, plus a few gigs here and there, but funds were running out.
Geoffrey put out feelers and I was offered and accepted a part in a new live show. Called Dynamite, it had been conceived by David Atkins, one of Australia’s great song-and-dance men, and written by Tony Sheldon, another brilliant Australian singer, writer and performer. The show was a collection of set pieces built around popular songs – ‘Man in the Mirror’, ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ and ‘Age of Aquarius’ were just some of the numbers I sang. There would be three months of rehearsals in Sydney, where the first leg of the show’s national tour was scheduled, at the Footbridge Theatre. The show would run for ten months in all, touring to Surfers Paradise, Adelaide, Melbourne and elsewhere.
So in late 1989 I headed for the Emerald City. It was the first time I’d moved away from home for any length of time. It was exciting but daunting, complicated by the fact that it wasn’t great timing for my family: Mum was still living over at Moonee Ponds caring for her clients night and day, and Silvana was only sixteen.
I also had to leave Fab behind in Melbourne, which was hard, but, as always, he was patient and supportive.
I moved into a place in Coogee Bay Road with Alyssa Lloyd, one of the dancers on the show. It was my first introduction to cockroaches. As a fastidious Sicilian who’d been born with a sponge in her hand, I spent every minute when I wasn’t working scrubbing and vacuuming.
Collaborating with David Atkins on Dynamite was exciting. I’ve never met anyone who worked so hard. He was tough on me – he’s such a perfectionist and my dancing skills were not exactly on par with his own – and yet what a gentleman!
David’s then wife, Sheree da Costa, a former principal with the Australian Ballet and Sydney Dance Company, was one of the lead dancers. Bless her heart, Sheree was very generous when it came to my own dancing. I guess she and David figured my talents lay elsewhere.
The show premiered on 6 April 1990. By turns dramatic and tongue-in-cheek but always entertaining, Dynamite was physically demanding for the performers. Every night I’d drive home almost asleep at the wheel.
One of the numbers was set to Sting’s song ‘They Dance Alone’. The song was originally written about Chilean women protesting the ‘disappearing’ of their loved ones, but David had reinterpreted it, and the piece included images of Australians going to war. It became an
especially poignant moment in the show once the Gulf crisis developed in August that year.
A month after the Dynamite premiere, ‘I Need Your Body’ was released. The song was picked up by radio stations around the country as well as the dance clubs. It very quickly charted, reaching number 3.
I was bowled over. I’d given it my best shot, but the success of that song still came as a shock.
Geoffrey swung into action and began organising interviews and appearances, which I’d squeeze in between my Dynamite performances. It was crazily busy but fantastically exciting. However, soon it became apparent that no one wanted to talk much about the song. Everyone seemed to be obsessed with one thing: the video clip. Or, to be more precise, my cleavage in the video clip.
CHAPTER 7
Woman’s Work
Australian comedian Gina Riley added to the clamour around the video for ‘I Need Your Body’ when she performed a parody of the song on the Australian TV skit show Fast Forward. Gina’s version was called ‘I’ve Got This Body’. The clip looked something like the original. Gina had been poured into a tight black velvet dress that barely covered her spectacularly augmented boobs, which, in the song’s chorus, she implied were ‘running free’. I had to laugh. I may have been the one in the firing line, but Gina was hilarious, and at least this time it wasn’t me in that dress!
Always two steps ahead, Geoffrey pointed out that it could only help raise my profile and sales of the single. And he was right. The fact Gina thought I was worth parodying was a compliment in itself.
