Between a Heart and a Rock Place

by Pat Benatar

  Sometimes his efforts were aided by the handful of good apples at Chrysalis who wanted to help us. One executive named Linda Carhart knew that Newman hadn’t managed a music act before and she put her job on the line many times by giving him advice on how to navigate the negotiations. Likewise, the president of the company, Sal Licata, was always trying to help us find compromises. Sal was in the difficult position of having to run the company and be a “Chrysalis guy” while also being fair and nonconfrontational. Sal adored Spyder and was often one of the few advocates for him at the label. As someone who loved the music business, Sal hated all the bullshit that went on as much as we did. He did his best to referee, but he had to answer to Terry Ellis and Chris, so there was only so much he could do.

  In the end, my advance, payment schedule, and royalty percentages were increased, though not as much as they could have or should have been. While I got more control over song choice and artwork, I would have to “mutually” agree with the label on both of those points. In other words, I was still bound to their opinions. They couldn’t make unilateral decisions, but then again, neither could I. The one thing we didn’t gain any ground on was the suspension clause. They still retained the right to ask for a new album every nine months—whether we were ready or not. Given our success, it felt like they were just throwing us a bone with these “more favorable” terms. I was confident that we could have demanded just about anything we wanted and gotten it. We were in the perfect position to put them to work for us, but for some reason, we didn’t.

  This relaxed attitude toward the negotiations was frustrating. We didn’t push for as much creative control as we could have, and I couldn’t understand why we were taking such an accommodating approach. When I would press Newman and my attorney, Owen Epstein, they always had some elaborate explanation as to why we couldn’t ask for more. I should have held my ground with my team and pressed the case, but I didn’t. Back then, I could only see the situation as a confusing problem that I’d grown sick of. I was tired of fighting. Terry played hardball, and though Newman did the best he could, in retrospect I never should have acquiesced.

  Still, heading into the release of Precious Time, there was no doubt that we’d made strides. The cushion of success that we’d earned was enough to make everyone relax a bit. Spyder was getting a production credit, and because of our negotiations, the Precious Time cover did not elicit the same knock-down, drag-out fight. We weren’t novices anymore; we had proven ourselves completely. I was being called the “reigning Queen of Rock and Roll.” For the first time since In the Heat of the Night, we were all actually getting along.

  Of course, there were moments when the worst would come out and the blatant sexism in the company would be readily apparent. Every few months, they held meetings with all of the execs to discuss strategy, marketing, and future album plans with us. Not long before Precious Time was released, we were at one of those meetings discussing ideas for a video—which song, who should direct, what the budget would be. It was a business discussion between eleven other people and me. Linda Carhart and I were the only females in the room, so I wasn’t surprised when one of the marketing guys leaned across the table lasciviously and said, “What are you gonna wear?” his voice lingering on the word “wear” as he licked his lips like a predatory animal. What was I going to wear? We’re in a business meeting talking about spending $350,000 on a promotional video and he wanted to know what I was gonna wear?

  It was the same shit I’d had to deal with from the beginning; the only thing that was different was me. Instead of reacting with a crazed, militant response, I gave them reserved indignation. For a few seconds, I sat there silently, quietly looking at all of them with disgust at their behavior. Collectively they all shrank and became sheepish and apologetic. I stood up, accepted their apology, said, “Thank you, gentlemen,” and walked out. Meeting over.

  It didn’t just feel good, it felt amazing. Finally, after almost four years of putting up with that crap, I was starting to take charge of my musical life. Not Newman, not my attorneys, not even Spyder—just me.

  WHEN PRECIOUS TIME WAS finally released, it caught on quickly, becoming number one in the U.S. Billboard Top 200 chart and a Top 40 release in the UK. The first hit, “Fire and Ice,” landed on the singles charts about the same time as the album release. “Promises in the Dark” came out a couple of months later in October. That single, too, was a Top 40 hit. The reviews were great. The Los Angeles Times called it “layered, fiery rock,” even saying that one of our longest cuts, “Evil Genius,” with its four-saxophone horn section, was an “epic” recording. It was clear to reviewers and fans that with our highly charged arrangements we were finally coming into our own.

  Though only a few months had elapsed since our video for “You Better Run,” we were all too aware that MTV’s power and influence had grown exponentially. In that time, making videos had gone from a quirky, optional experiment to an essential part of a record release. Once the label knew what they wanted your first single to be, you had to plan and shoot the video that would accompany it. MTV was a force to be reckoned with and it could not be ignored.

  We decided to do “Fire and Ice” and “Promises in the Dark” as performance videos. We rented a soundstage in North Hollywood and invited the members of the fan club, radio contest winners, and family and friends. With that crowd of people, we filmed a miniconcert. For the title cut, we did a concept video that was a story about a rich girl who was a prisoner in her own life. (Sound familiar?)

  With our faces all over MTV and two hit records on the charts, we once again embarked on a tour, only this time, with me and Spyder broken up, things were much more complicated. Chrysalis’s prediction came true: we made the tour a nightmare for the rest of the band. We argued, fought, and acted nothing like our old selves. It was like we were two different people. Even today Myron refers to that tour in support of Precious Time as the “Hell Is for Us” tour, “Us” being pretty much everyone who wasn’t Spyder or me. As everyone came to learn, it is not that much fun touring with a warring couple. We fought constantly, and the band and crew were ready to commit a felony just to get us to stop. If it wasn’t about the latest Chrysalis offense or insult, it was about an amorous fan thinking it was open season now that we had broken up.

  As it became common knowledge that we’d split up, people’s lecherous qualities came out. When Spyder and I had been dating, the girls in the audience who were crazy for him had always kept a respectful distance. Now they were exposing their breasts during our show. At one concert in particular, some obviously drunk girl in the front row opened her blouse during our first set and proceeded to bleat, “Neil, Neil,” for the entire show. Occasionally she’d put her hands onstage, and when we got to the show’s closer, “Heartbreaker,” I stepped on them and stood there until the song was over just to shut her up.

  Spyder didn’t have it much easier. I was constantly being approached by men in one way or another, and it took massive amounts of restraint on his part not to react. There were many nights onstage that Zel had to hold Spyder back from using his guitar as a baseball bat on some overzealous male fan. Guys came out of the woodwork with no rhyme or reason, thinking that I was fair game because I was single. Even my attorney, Owen Epstein, hit on me, which was just creepy.

  Everything was torture. That tour was the only time I ever trashed a hotel room. Spyder and I were arguing, and I was screaming at him about one thing or another. We were both raging mad, and I went into the bathroom and slammed the toilet seat down, breaking it in two. I was horrified! It stopped the argument cold. It was such an out-of-character moment, but in an instant we both could see just how bad things had gotten. I’d like to think that all that tension made us rock harder, but we all could have done with a little less rock and a little more peace.

  What made it harder was that I loved the road. Live performance was the reason I started singing and will always be my first love. I was never one of those musicians who dr
eaded the rigors of tours. People would ask me all the time if touring was difficult, and I’d tell them, “Life is hard, the road is easy.” Under most circumstances that’s true. Being on tour allows you to step away from everything in life and just focus on performing. On tour I’d sleep until noon, have room service, wear black leather, put on lots of makeup, perform, hear people cheer for me, get on the bus, travel to the next city, and do it all again. I’d show up to packed arenas and sing my heart out for people screaming my name. I’d see the enthusiasm in the faces of the fans in the swirling mass of the crowd, and I’d work as hard as I could to give them everything I had each night. There was no reality involved and that was the whole point. For twelve weeks, you could step away from your problems and return to the life that began it all.

  That is, unless your problems happened to be on the bus beside you looking incredibly hot and emotionally distant, while reminding you that you never should have broken up in the first place. The fact that we’d had no downtime and no break from each other only exacerbated things.

  There were funny moments on that tour, though. One night, we were playing a huge indoor venue when we had something of a Three Stooges moment with Myron. His drum setup that year included a cage and a large gong on a stand. Myron was a little guy, wiry and compact, probably 124 pounds soaking wet. We were playing the encore, and “Promises in the Dark” had a lot of breaks and rhythmic stops. The ending of the song had us playing a crescendo and Myron was supposed to blast the gong just before the last note.

  Myron was a brilliant drummer and an amazing showman—well known for his acrobatics on stage. He’d routinely climb all over his drum set like a deranged red-haired monkey. As the end of the song drew near, he positioned himself on the gong stand in anticipation of delivering the final downbeat. The gong was much bigger than he was, and it certainly weighed more. He swung the mallet as hard as he could and hit the gong, and when it swung backwards, he turned to face the audience, raising the mallet triumphantly in the air.

  While he was facing the audience, the gong swung back, knocking him off the drum riser and onto the stage. He was out cold. We too were facing the audience with our backs to him, so we didn’t even know anything had happened until we heard scuffling. Zel, Spyder, and I turned around to see Myron lying on the ground, unconscious, with his drum tech and assorted crew members waving towels and throwing water on him. Like a badass, he woke up and immediately staggered to the drums to play the final beat and end the song. In spite of what had happened, the whole scene was pretty comical, not worrisome at all. Not to mention it displayed exactly the kind of dedication we’d come to expect from Myron.

  But that laughter and camaraderie came sparingly. By and large, the only time that we put the fighting with each other on hold was when we were dealing with the label. We would make this band work even if that meant that we couldn’t be together. Even if we fought on the road, we’d do the right thing when it came to dealing with the label: put personal problems aside for the good of the whole. We argued our case together, stood up to them when we felt they were being unfair. Spyder and I are both Capricorns, confident, driven, and goal-oriented. When we are working toward something we can get tunnel vision. And we are very loyal people. Chrysalis made us dig our heels in. When we did have to meet with any label executives, we didn’t walk in with Pollyanna attitudes, thinking everything was going to be sweetness and light. We knew better and we went into warrior mode, together.

  Still, we were all too aware that the status quo was not sustainable. Neither one of us said anything about it but we both knew that something had to change. We just didn’t know what.

  AT THE END OF 1981 and early 1982, following the tour for Precious Time, we were finally able to take a few months off. For the first time since we started making music, we were on break. It turned out to be the best thing we could have done. Spyder produced the first solo album of British rock singer John Waite, who had made a name for himself with the Babys. For all the fights that we’d gotten into with Terry Ellis about Spyder’s contribution and credit, Terry was incredibly pleased with Spyder’s output and he recommended that Spyder produce John’s solo debut for Chrysalis, called Ignition, which had the hit single “Change.” Spyder had also started working on some songs with Billy Steinberg, whom we’d collaborated with on Crimes of Passion and Precious Time. Our friend and drummer, Myron, was featured on Cat Dance, an album from Outlaw’s guitarist Freddie Salem.

  While Spyder continued to work, I was ready to relax. After three records and three tours in two and half years, I was just fine being a domestic goddess for a while. I stayed home and remodeled the house I’d bought after Spyder and I broke up. I went back east to visit family and friends and, of course, Spyder. Spyder spent December in New York working on Ignition, while I stayed in California. We were miserable apart, so for my birthday on January 10, I went to New York to see him. We had dinner and talked but didn’t get back together. When I flew back to Los Angeles we were still in exactly the same position, with both of us thinking, Enough is enough.

  We were tired of being confused. I remember telling one journalist that it had come down to the career or our relationship, that to save the band we had to make a choice. If we kept on trying to be a couple, the band could have been doomed. We had spent the last year fighting and struggling with our relationship. We both thought that we simply had to go back to being friends instead of former lovers, and the only way to do that was to move on with our lives.

  About the same time, we both decided to see if we could have a relationship with someone else. It wasn’t something that we discussed with each other—we just did it. I went on one date, as did Spyder. I had a nice enough time on my date and Spyder enjoyed his. But throughout the night, I couldn’t escape just how wrong it felt. I didn’t want to be having dinner with someone else, I wanted to be having dinner with Spyder. As it turned out, he’d experienced the same thing. He called me the next day, and when I told him I’d been out with someone else, his frustration bubbled over.

  “What are you doing?” Spyder asked.

  “What do you care? And what have you been doing?” I answered accusingly.

  “Nothing that matters. I care about you,” he said.

  “Really? You could’ve fooled me.” I didn’t want to hear this. I’d finally made up my mind that I was going to forget him, try to start over.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I love you. I want you to come home.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It had been an entire year of pretending we didn’t care about each other, an entire year of fighting every day, an entire year of hoping he’d change his mind and come back to me. It seemed too sudden, too perfect to be true. But that didn’t stop me from jumping on the first available flight to New York.

  The whole flight, I kept telling myself how crazy this was. My rational levelheadedness had once again abandoned me, thanks to Spyder. It didn’t make any sense. After all, how could we heal the year of pain and hurt that we’d caused each other with a phone call and a visit? The yelling and the screaming, the hurt feelings and nights spent sulking alone in our hotel rooms? I wanted to believe it was true, that we really could do it, that we were strong enough and important enough to each other spiritually and creatively to make that happen. But I didn’t know for sure—that is, until I saw him at the gate, holding a bouquet of flowers. That was when I threw caution to the wind.

  At first, we just held each other, spending the day like awkward teenagers reunited after a prolonged stay at summer camp, talking and laughing—just enjoying each other for the first time in months. Ironically, it happened to be Valentine’s Day, a holiday that both of us abhor, yet there was no doubt it would be a Valentine’s Day to remember: after many hours of conversation, we decided to get married.

  We didn’t waste much time. The next day we went shopping for rings. Once our minds were made up we threw ourselves completely into it and never looked back. Just like that,
the last year, all the tension, all the fighting, had been erased. Myron and his wife, Monica, were the first people we told.

  “Good,” Myron said. “No, wait, this isn’t just good, this is great. We’re so happy for you.” Listening to his voice, I knew that his enthusiasm was real. He knew that this was not the latest saga in the drama between Spyder and me. This was the end, and he could hear it in my voice. He and Monica were our best friends. They knew Spyder and I belonged together, and many times over the last year, they’d been forced to sit idly by as we’d struggled. It had been painful for them to watch us go through all that—not to mention stressful to see the ways that we’d jeopardized the band. For everyone, it was a huge relief that we’d finally come to our senses.

  We felt defiant when we informed Chrysalis we were getting married. I was ready to tell them to fuck off if they started their negative talk again. This time, though, they realized that there was absolutely nothing they could say or do to change our minds, so all of a sudden they did an about-face and started offering to help foot the bill—ordering Dom Pérignon and toasting us like they’d been behind us the whole time.

  Neither of us wanted to get married in Los Angeles or New York. Spyder wanted a small ceremony in a remote place, and I’d already done that twelve-bridesmaid, two-hundred-and-fifty-guest wedding. We wanted this to be altogether different and decided to be married right away in Tahiti. However, as soon as I spoke with our travel agent, Diane Nardizzi, I knew we had a time problem. The Grammys were coming up on February 24 at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, and I was nominated for a second Grammy, this time for “Fire and Ice.” Traveling to Tahiti, getting married, and having time even for a short honeymoon would be tight if we were going to be back in time for the ceremony. I explained that, primarily, we wanted the wedding to be private and in some beautiful spot—it didn’t have to be Tahiti. We just had to be back in L.A. by the twenty-fourth.