Between a Heart and a Rock Place

by Pat Benatar

  One day Spyder was working on some songs, and he mentioned that he liked to write in his head while he’s driving. Olsen threw him a set of car keys.

  “No problem. Take my Porsche. I’ll get Pat’s vocals down, then when you get back we’ll work on some overdubs.”

  Spyder was only too happy to drive around in that Porsche and write songs. Of course, the instant he left, the session turned bad. Olsen kept getting up and leaving—disappearing right in the middle of my singing. Peter Coleman and Spyder had done such an excellent job of recording my vocals on the first record. They knew how fragile the atmosphere was when you were trying to coax a performance out of someone. Singing is such an organic process: no amps, no instruments, just flesh and muscle and psyche. I was panic-stricken. I couldn’t stand his half-assed attitude, and the longer I sang, the more I felt that the session was going south. The vocals sounded horrible. By the time Spyder got back from his songwriting trip, I was in tears and Olsen was nowhere to be found. Spyder took one look at me and freaked.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t work with this guy. He doesn’t understand my voice and he doesn’t stick around long enough to find out,” I said. “This album is not going to work like this.”

  Spyder immediately took charge and calmed me down, setting up a vocal mix with Chris Minto, the engineer. Keith came back at that point. I went back into the booth and cut the vocal. Whether or not he was completely ready to take on the task, Spyder stepped up. Whatever anxiety he had about his producing talents was put aside for the good of that record. He knew it was going to be up to him. He continued his technical education on running the board with Chris Minto, taking everything that he’d learned from Pete Coleman and Mike Chapman and becoming a producer. Spyder never left the studio again.

  As things progressed, Olsen showed up less and less, and when he was there, he was often asleep on the couch. Eventually we came to learn that his apparent disinterest stemmed from problems in his personal life that kept him perpetually distracted. It was unfortunate for all of us that it had to happen during our record. It wasn’t that he was a bad person; he’d simply gotten himself into a situation in which it was hard for him to maintain his professional duties and sort through the problems he was facing elsewhere. When he saw that Spyder could handle things and that we were capable of doing what needed to be done, he left us to it. Still, Spyder’s presence was no excuse for his detachment. We were all professionals, and we were supposed to be able to put personal things aside to get the job done. As the artists, it was certainly expected from us on a daily basis. He’d been hired to produce an album, not deal with his shit. Maybe the absentee-landlord technique works with some artists, but I loathed it.

  It wasn’t a good way to make a record—in fact it was downright awful. But as maddening as his disconnection was, there was a silver lining. It forced us to mature musically and vocally, while also thrusting Spyder into a job he was born to do. More than anything else, though, it cemented my relationship with Spyder in ways that neither of us could have predicted. Things had been intense between us since the beginning, but dealing with the emotional drain of recording that second album deepened our connection in ways that Chrysalis would come to regret. Now more than ever before, we were partners in this. Everything I did belonged to him as well. Peter Coleman commented that he had never seen two people who connected musically like we did. It seemed like we were one person split into two.

  Despite the drama with Olsen, those sessions led to some incredible material. Spyder might have just been starting out as a producer, but as musicians everything we were doing seemed to fall into place. “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” was a song that had been originally pitched to Rick Derringer. Spyder had liked it and kept a copy. It was written by Canadian writer/artist/producer Eddie Schwartz, and it would become his first big songwriting chart success. Chrysalis also had a copy of the song, and they pitched it to us. Spyder thought the song was catchy, but the demo didn’t really show its potential. He started working with the band while we were still in New York and had his own demo version by the time we got to Los Angeles. So this session came together quickly. Even though it was pivotal in propelling the album, I always joke about how much I hate this song. It comes from its being played incessantly when it was released.

  Given our schedule, it’s surprising that any of us in the band were able to write anything for Crimes of Passion. In addition to the group effort that produced “Hell Is for Children,” Spyder wrote “Little Paradise,” and the two of us wrote “Never Wanna Leave You” and collaborated on “Out-A-Touch” with our drummer Myron Grombacher, who had come with us from the first tour. He was Spyder’s closest friend; they were like brothers. Myron was the perfect complement to Spyder’s guitar style, bringing the forceful drum sound that Spyder wanted for the band. Together the three of us made up the sound that became our signature. Rhythm guitarist Scott St. Clair Sheets wrote “Prisoner of Love,” and at Spyder’s suggestion, we did Kate Bush’s “Wuthering Heights” and Billy Steinberg’s “I’m Gonna Follow You.” We also did “You Better Run,” written by Eddie Brigati and Felix Cavaliere of Young Rascals fame, which had been one of the songs I used to sing when I was on my own.

  Listening to the playbacks was enough to give you chills. After all the stress and horrible shit we went through recording this record, we’d done it. We’d made the record we needed to make despite all the obstacles. Crimes of Passion reflected more of what we were about than In the Heat of the Night. Between Spyder stepping in on the production end and our live band hitting its stride, it had turned out to be a great recording. The band was solid and intense. Every one of them understood the sound that we wanted and delivered it.

  When we were finishing the album, I told Chrysalis that I thought Spyder should be listed as co-producer on the record. After all, he’d done a lot of the work. I kept telling them that it wasn’t fair to have him step in and save the record, then act like he’d done nothing. Not only did the label say no, but surprisingly Rick Newman agreed with them. When I asked Rick why, he was blunt:

  “Keith Olsen won’t hear of it. Keith never shares producing credit with anyone.” And just like that it was an across-the-board decision. I was dumbfounded. After the way he’d abdicated his role during recording, the arrogance of this was intolerable. Olsen knew what had gone on, how he’d stepped aside and let Spyder do his job. Olsen knew that everyone in the band had witnessed his abandonment of this project, but he didn’t care. He was shameless. There would be no production credit for Spyder. Olsen had said no, and my manager and my label refused to back me up. I was livid.

  While Chrysalis’s lack of support was nothing new, seeing Newman’s lack of support left me disappointed and confused. Suddenly my eyes were opened to how allied Newman was with the record company. In his mind, he was making necessary compromises, but I felt betrayed and angry.

  When I started out in New York, I might have been young and somewhat naïve, but I was never ignorant enough to trust just anyone. I knew enough to be skeptical of people and keep my guard up. But once I let you in, that was it: I trusted you. And that was the case with Newman. For years he’d shown himself to be someone I could rely on. He was a guy I expected to have my back. Now it was like I’d fallen off a turnip truck, a girl from Long Island with no concept of how the world worked or that your own people see you as simply a cash cow.

  I never saw this one coming. All at once, the harsh reality of the music business began to rear its ugly head. Of course, I’d seen it at a distance since the beginning through my run-ins with Chrysalis, but this was different—more personal. Sadness and disappointment turned into defiance and contempt. I don’t like confrontation and neither does Spyder. I’m normally an easygoing person. Just don’t cross me. And absolutely don’t try to hurt someone I love, because then I will jump right in the ring. I’d had balls ever since I was growing up with all those neighborhood boys, but this was different; this new lev
el of vileness would have taken more than anatomical correctness. They were officially the enemy, and this was going to take unrelenting retaliation.

  I said fine, if not production credit, then production payment. If not, then they could put the album on the shelf. Chrysalis didn’t like paying money, but they also didn’t like losing money. Shelving that album would have cost them, because after the success we’d had with In the Heat of the Night, they knew this album could be even bigger. So that was how the battle was won. Spyder got no credit publically, but he did get paid for producing. Of course, neither Chrysalis nor Olsen would foot the bill to pay Spyder. In the end, his payment came out of my royalties. Olsen wouldn’t even split the cost with me, and unbelievably, Newman went along with it.

  It felt good for Spyder to be compensated, but it frayed relationships at all ends. I stayed mad and Spyder remained hurt. He didn’t say much about it, but I knew he was. He’s not the kind of person who demands praise or public recognition. He was never into self-promotion. It wasn’t the credit that was so important to him; it was the principle of why they would treat him like that. To be denied that production credit was a slap in the face. It was an insult because it was coming from our own people. Furthermore, it’s just not how either of us would have handled things. If the situation were reversed, we would have insisted the person be recognized for his work. No questions asked. Good work should be rewarded. That’s how we were both raised, and that’s how we wanted to do business.

  This was the first time I started to understand just how different Spyder and I were from some of the suits in the music business. We were working-class people, with working-class standards. Treat us fairly and with some respect, and we’ll work our butts off for you. In their world, we were just another revenue source. And to think my family was proud I wasn’t punching a time clock. Working for this group of mercenaries was obviously nothing to write home about. I couldn’t trust the label. When they had been haranguing us about our personal life, I’d hoped things might change. Clearly I was wrong.

  THAT WAS JUST THE beginning of the shit storm.

  For weeks, I’d been asking Chrysalis when they were going to set up a photo shoot for the cover. I couldn’t figure out why they kept giving me the runaround and refusing to put something on the calendar. That started pissing me off, because I had some definite ideas about the cover. The label knew this. I’d told them that I wanted to capture the energy of the live show on the album cover. Remember, this was when we had large album covers, not CDs, and certainly not MP3s. You could really make an artistic impact with an album cover. Either a performance shot, or one of me and the boys. Either way, I wanted to establish what we were: a band. That’s what I believed this album proved.

  “Wait and see,” label head Terry Ellis said.

  Wait for what? I thought.

  One day, while we were in the final stages of recording the album, Billy Bass, the head of marketing for Chrysalis, asked if he could come to our house to talk over ideas for the new album cover. It was a strange request, given that we still hadn’t finished the record, we hadn’t chosen a title, and I hadn’t formally even told them what the album was about. Normally, you choose a title based on the content of the record, which in turn dictates what direction the artwork will take. You don’t choose a cover in a vacuum. But that’s precisely what they had in mind.

  Billy came to our house that day with a stack of photos from a recent publicity session. Spyder was sitting with us and together we pored over the photos, all of which were of me in a tight tank-type top with skinny little shoulder straps. I didn’t particularly like the pictures, but if they were just sending them out with a bunch of other press photos, I could live with that. He kept coming back to one in particular. Then he showed me a mock-up of the cover. It was the same photo.

  While it was nice enough for what it was, it had absolutely nothing to do with anything. There was no link to the material on the record, and more important, there was no link to the collaborative process that had gone into making the record. My intention had been to elevate the band’s position on the cover because they were such an integral part of what we were doing on the record. The cover art he brought that day only had photos of me—good photos, sure, but totally irrelevant to the content of the record.

  Saying nothing about it to me, the label had picked a cover shot from these supposed publicity photos. I was stunned. How could you make an album cover with no relevance to what had been recorded?

  “We haven’t done a cover shoot,” I reminded him.

  “You’re going to love it when it’s finished,” he said. The back of the cover mock-up was another shot of me. No mention of the band. No names. Nothing. Seated next to me, Spyder didn’t say anything, but we could both feel the tension building. I took a minute to keep myself in check before I really lost it.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said after a long pause. “At the very least, there has to be a photo of the band on this cover.” That was not what he wanted to hear.

  “Do you have any idea how stupid and naïve you are?” he asked in his most patronizing tone. “No one wants to see the band. This is about you. No one cares about the band.”

  For a split second, I was speechless. Did he really just say that out loud? With Spyder, a band member, sitting right here next to me? It wasn’t just the sentiment that surprised me. After all, everything the label had done told me they felt this way. It was the fact that he’d come here, to the living room that I shared with Spyder, and said those words to my face. In addition to being blatantly insensitive, it was disrespectful to both of us. There was absolutely no concern for Spyder and no concern for discretion. They were just dissing him to his face without an ounce of remorse. My anger, which had been building for weeks and months, boiled over. I threw him and his cover out of my house. We were done talking.

  This was an issue for my manager to handle. It was his job to represent my interests in disputes with the label. Frustratingly, I got the same amount of cooperation on the cover issue as I had on the question of Spyder’s production credit. None. Newman would not support me. Coming so soon on the heels of the producing debacle, I could see that he was caught up in record label politics. Something had changed. Newman was making the huge mistake of trying to stay neutral. He’d protect me only so far and stop short of offending them. While he did his best not to hurt me, he thought that he could straddle the middle ground without jeopardizing his relationship with either side.

  As usual the only person forced to compromise was me. The front cover would remain of me alone, and the back would be a photo of the band. Contractually they had the advantage. Normally, after a success like we’d seen for our first record, the manager would have gone back in to renegotiate the artist’s contract for the next album, giving the artist more control over things like artwork and song choice. For some reason, that never happened with us. Chrysalis had total control over this album cover, just as they did with the last one. I had no option but to keep the front cover they’d chosen, of me alone, and shoot the back cover with the band.

  On the day of the photo shoot, the boys arrived dressed in the clothes they wore onstage, only to be told they were to change into the wardrobe some stylist had brought along. It was a bad day. The glammed-up outfits could only be described as lame. Rock and roll band? Please. The guys looked like they’d stepped out of the pages of GQ magazine. The expressions on their faces in that picture are priceless. They were all thoroughly disgusted. From then on, the band and I referred to what would become my biggest album as Crimes of Fashion.

  It was too late to do anything about it, though. I didn’t have one bit of control over what was done with regard to cover art, or much of anything beyond the music, at that point. I was the resident star, but that status got me nothing.

  I like to think that I have a pretty good asshole detector. But I realized then that I had been dead wrong about Terry Ellis. I liked him very much when we first met at Tramps. He
seemed like a stand-up guy, interested in me as a person and in my music. Instead, he was turning out to be one of the most arrogant and overblown men I’d ever met. And with the exception of our one ally, Buzzard, Terry surrounded himself with people who were just like him.

  The label wasn’t finished pissing me off. The biggest insult came as the new tour to promote the release of Crimes of Passion got started. I picked up a copy of Billboard in the Denver airport, knowing that Chrysalis had taken out a full-page ad to promote the album. With no advance warning, no hint of what was going on, I saw myself practically nude on the pages of the most important music trade magazine in the nation. I slammed the magazine shut and tucked it under my arm. I felt like I’d been raped.

  They had taken the cover photo to the album and airbrushed off the tank top I was wearing. In its place, they’d put a sign over my seemingly nude chest that announced the release date of the new record. As if that weren’t enough, they’d also given me a boob job. So I was not only naked, but naked with cleavage. I am a very small woman. I do not have large breasts (I only weighed ninety pounds back then). In fact, I’m damn near flat chested and that’s just how I like it. But they’d drawn on breasts and cleavage, which was insulting and humiliating.

  I kept thinking, Who approved this? Not me.

  Aside from being embarrassing, the photo was stupid. Didn’t they understand that people already knew how I was built? All people had to do was take one look at me and they’d know I didn’t look like that. Were Billboard readers suddenly going to flock to my album because I’d miraculously grown new breasts? It was sexism at its worst, and I immediately broke down. Months of stress, exhaustion, and frustration came pouring out of me. I’d been going nonstop for so long. I’d toured relentlessly and promoted as hard as anyone could. In the face of numerous obstacles, I’d recorded an album that I knew had enormous potential. I was on the cusp of something great, but in that moment, all I felt was shame.