Between a Heart and a Rock Place

by Pat Benatar

  In the end it wasn’t so much a deliberate choice to avoid the various scenes out there. We simply didn’t have the time, and when we did, we spent it with our true friends. The only thing that we consciously distanced ourselves from when we were at home was work. One of the things that Spyder and I realized after we got back together was that music had taken over our lives, and more than anything else, this was why we’d broken up. We had allowed music to control every aspect of our earlier life together, and it had almost destroyed us.

  We were determined to never let that happen again. If we were going to stay together, we had to set boundaries for ourselves when it came to work, and these boundaries would have to be steadfast. No talking about music, no discussing scheduling, no complaining about the label. We were adamant about not letting music encroach on our private time, and bit by bit, we began to regain control of our lives. We stopped being accessible twenty-four hours a day, ceased planning conference calls after six P.M., refused calls on the weekend unless it was an emergency. We were going to have a life and we strongly encouraged everyone around us to get one as well.

  This break after the release of Live from Earth was the first time that we really got serious about imposing these rules on ourselves. When we’d had enough of a break that we could start to think about work, we turned our attention to writing, but we would do this in concentrated batches, not all the time. By this point, with several albums under our belt, I had a good sense of what conditions worked best for me when it came to writing songs. I’d written enough to know that it was not something I could just do on command. Songs just didn’t hatch fully formed (or at least they never did for me). It was a much more organic process and it was never forced. Words are very important to me and finding the optimum way to say what I’m thinking is paramount. I don’t sit with a thesaurus in hand; I want to find the word in the same way you might find an exquisite shell on the beach: by accident.

  While Spyder and I were home, we tried to write as much as possible, getting into a pattern that works for us to this day. We would seldom write together. I was actually that way with other writers, too. Over the years I wrote a lot with Myron, and we rarely worked on our songs while we were sitting in the same room. We’d go back and forth on the telephone. The most important thing I needed for writing was solitude. I could begin an idea with Spyder and Myron, but then I’d have to step away and work on it for a while on my own. After I’d gathered my thoughts we could come together again and continue. They didn’t like it at first, but after a while we created a rhythm that would be our lifelong writing style.

  Furthermore, I didn’t like writing for a specific album, preferring a more low-pressure situation when I had time to just flow with the creativity. When Spyder and I felt that we had enough material, we’d start to think more about what might fit together in an album, but creativity would come through the writing and recording process. Sometimes I’d get a burst of energy right at the end of recording, and instead of trying to force it into the record on hand, I’d end up with songs for the next record.

  Regardless of where we were in the process, patience and time were key components to getting the right songs on the right albums. This was largely why Chrysalis’s incessant requests for new records were so stressful: it was antithetical to my creative process. Some people do their best writing when they’re pressed for time, but that was never the case for us.

  For the most part, Spyder came up with the melodic stuff and I focused more on writing lyrics, although we would take turns doing both. The times I got into working on a melody were when I heard something in my head that felt good vocally. Then I’d sing it so Spyder could see why that particular melody was best for the composition. We’d do more writing between tours than on the road. When we worked together as writers or in the studio, we each had a spark that the other would ignite. It’s a cosmic, spiritual thing—there really isn’t any other way to describe it.

  Spyder wrote more often than I did—he was constantly working on songs. I think one reason he wrote so much was because of his continuing interest in experimenting with our sound. If we relied on songwriters too much, we’d run the risk of our sound becoming static. We had no interest in receiving unsolicited outside material any longer, and we’d only write with friends or writers whose work we admired. Often, when outside songwriters would bring us material, it would sound like stuff that belonged on our previous record. It would mimic without elaborating. We became insulated, locking ourselves up with the band and maybe Peter Coleman and making music undisturbed. We were always trying to evolve and experiment—it was a very prolific and satisfying time.

  Our writing usually went something like this: Spyder would come out in the morning and tell me he had a title. If I hadn’t had my coffee yet, I’d wave him away for the time being.

  “Get out of my face—it’s only six thirty!”

  “But I’ve got a title. I’m gonna leave it on the counter.”

  He’d put down a little piece of paper with his idea, walk out of the room, and let me wake up, knowing full well that the minute I saw the title I’d start thinking about the lyrics. He knew I’d be compelled no matter what the hour (it’s an annoying, dirty little trick that he’s played on me throughout our life). He’d come back in an hour or three, ready to work on it again, and by then I usually had the chorus and most of the verses. I’d almost always start by asking him about the melody.

  “What’s in your head? What chords do you have so far? Give me a hint where you’re going with this.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he’d respond. “Just let me see what you’ve written.”

  Once he’d read the words, he would sit down at the piano and start working on a melody that he already had in his head. I’d go off and do something else while he worked on that, and after he’d been at it for a bit, I’d come back to see what he’d done. And just like that, it would come together in a very organic way. We’d play off each other, back and forth, even though sometimes to an outsider it might have sounded more like fighting than collaboration, as if we were bickering like the married couple we were.

  If he did something I didn’t agree with, I never sugarcoated it for him.

  “Are you nuts?” I might say. “There’s no way that’s going to work.”

  “You’re impossible. It will work. Don’t be so stubborn,” he’d shoot back.

  “No, it won’t. And I’m not singing it that way. Pick a key that humans can sing in.”

  “You’re such a pain in the ass. Just sing it, for chrissake.”

  Or sometimes I’d come to him with an idea that he fought me over for a time. I remember one time in particular, Spyder was convinced that a song would not work for us, and we argued about it.

  Photographic Insert

  This was my first head shot, taken around the time I first moved to New York and started performing at Rick Newman’s club, Catch a Rising Star. Photograph by Jerry Tyson

  From the very beginning, I loved being in front of a crowd. There was nothing like working the room and keeping the energy high. Photograph by Joe D’Amato

  In 1979, Mike Chapman introduced me to Neil Giraldo—who would soon become “Spyder” to me. It was only a matter of months before we were getting ready for our first tour (left to right: Spyder, me, Scott Sheets). Photograph by Joe D’Amato

  This shot of the band and me was taken at our first gig, at a club called My Father’s Place on Long Island (left to right: Spyder, me, Myron Grombacher, Scott, and Roger “Zel” Capps). Photograph by Joe D’Amato

  Spyder and I hit it off right away—musically, we just clicked. He knew exactly what kind of guitar sound I was looking for, but it wasn’t until after we’d recorded In the Heat of the Night that we became romantically involved. Photograph from the author’s collection

  Backstage with Spyder at the Boomer Theater in Norman, Oklahoma. Photograph by Vernon L. Goudy III

  An outtake photograph from the cover shoot for In the Heat of t
he Night. Despite the strength of the song “Heartbreaker,” the label hesitated to release it as a single, but once they did, there was no looking back. Photograph by Alex Chatelain

  Spyder tearing it up at the Boomer Theater in December 1979. Photograph by Vernon L. Goudy III

  On that first tour for In the Heat of the Night in 1979, the crowds were insane. After “Heartbreaker” came out, everything just exploded, convincing Chrysalis, our record company, that they had to push us back into the studio to cut another album. Photograph by Vernon L. Goudy III

  In the fall of 1980, we went on tour to support Crimes of Passion. Fueled by the strength of “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” it was mayhem—crowds unlike anything we’d seen before. Photograph by Fred Joslyn

  Myron Grombacher, Spyder’s childhood friend, joined the band for the first tour in 1979 and he’s been a vital part of our lives ever since, remaining one of our best friends. He and his wife, Monica, are godparents to our daughters. Photograph by Neal Preston

  Live performance was the reason I started singing in the first place. The shared experience with the audience is still irresistible. Photograph by Neal Preston

  The marquee outside of Madison Square Garden on the Precious Time tour. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  It didn’t take anyone long to realize what a game-changing phenomenon MTV was. For the “Promises in the Dark” music video, where this was taken, we rented out a soundstage in North Hollywood and taped a performance with fan club members, contest winners, family, and friends as the audience. Photograph by Neal Preston

  In the beginning, MTV completely encouraged creativity and new ideas. The video for “Shadows in the Night” was unlike any video we’d done to that point. With its story line, elaborate concept about World War II, and professional actors like Judge Reinhold (pictured), I wanted to see just how far we could push the story and still have it work with the song. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  At the shoot for the “Get Nervous” video. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  The presentation of quintuple platinum albums for Crimes of Passion (from left to right: Myron, Spyder, me, Charlie Giordano, Roger, two representatives from Chrysalis, and Newman). Photograph from the author’s collection

  Quintessential ’80s: lots of eyeliner and bad clothes. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  This photograph was taken during an HBO special that we did in New Haven, Connecticut, in 1982. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  A shot from the set of the video for “Love Is a Battlefield.” It took forty-eight hours of intense rehearsal to get ready for the dance sequence in the video. The end results were worth it, but I couldn’t walk for days afterward. Photograph by Misha Erwitt

  During the video shoot for “Lipstick Lies” this is the band having a laugh between takes. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  Spyder and me in 1983. Photograph by Laura Levine

  The schedule of touring and promotion was never-ending. When we weren’t recording an album, we were either on the road or promoting it with publicity photographs like this one. Photograph by Mathew Rolston

  This photograph was from an article in Harper’s Bazaar. Photograph by Mathew Rolston

  A publicity shot from 1984. Photograph by Wayne Mazer

  This was taken on the set of the video for “We Belong,” which was featured on our album Tropico. It was while we were recording this record that I learned I was pregnant with our first daughter. Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  On Tropico, we took our sound in a different direction, taking a step away from our signature, electric-guitar-driven sound. This photograph was taken during the video shoot for “Ooh Ooh Song.” Photograph by Jeffrey Mayer

  The song and video for “Invincible” were recorded and shot only a few weeks after I gave birth to Haley in 1985. The song was on Seven the Hard Way and became a top ten hit for us. Photograph by Lester Cohen

  An outtake photograph from the cover of Wide Awake in Dreamland. Photograph by Moshe Brakha

  This photograph, taken in L.A. in 1988, was a promotional shot for Wide Awake in Dreamland. Photograph by Moshe Brakha

  A shot from the video for “Let’s Stay Together” off of Wide Awake in Dreamland. Photograph by Lester Cohen

  This photograph is from the video for “All Fired Up.” Even though the single was a hit, it couldn’t save the tour we embarked on in support of Wide Awake in Dreamland. Photograph by Lester Cohen

  After the fiasco with Wide Awake in Dreamland, I was ready to walk away from singing for good. This photograph was taken for the album True Love. Spyder’s crazy idea. A collection of blues songs that inspired us to continue making music. Photograph by Randee Saint Nicholas

  This shot was taken during our Can’t Stop Rockin’ tour with REO Speedwagon and Fleetwood Mac (from left to right: Myron, Spyder, and Mick Mahan). Photograph by Brigette Leonard

  A photograph from our Innamorata cover session. Photograph by Dennis Keely

  Me signing photographs backstage during the 2001 Summer Vacation tour. We’ve toured every summer for the past thirteen years. This allows us to be hands-on parents during the school year. Photograph by Roxanne Lowit

  Spyder and I have been together for thirty-one years. Raising kids, making music, it’s been an amazing journey. Photograph by Beth Herzaft

  Our daughters, Hana and Haley. Photograph by Dana Fineman

  “Just listen to the vocal on the chorus. I know I can sing the shit out of that.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It seems like a predictable love song.”

  “But you can do your thing, churn it up. Make it sound huge, not like a ballad anymore,” I said insistently. “Let me sing it for you.”

  Then he started warming up to it. In a few days he returned with an epic, beautifully constructed song with an arpeggiated keyboard intro that would become the most identifiable part of the monstrous hit that was “We Belong.” By working it out on his own, he’d sold himself on it. Now he was professing his love for the song, to which I promptly responded, “You’re such a pain in the ass.” He smiled back, and said, “Thanks, that’s my job.” He didn’t care how it got done as long as it was great in the end.

  “We Belong” was released on Tropico, our first full studio album in two years at the time. But that wasn’t all that we produced. During the making of Tropico, we finally got pregnant.

  AFTER THE SUCCESS OF “Love Is a Battlefield,” Live from Earth went platinum, and I won a Grammy for “Battlefield.” The album stayed on the charts nearly three years. Those awards, the twenty-sixth annual Grammy Awards at L.A.’s Shrine Auditorium, on February 28, 1984, marked the reign of Michael Jackson as the King of Pop. Michael won record and album awards in the overall categories for “Beat It” and Thriller; Best Pop Performance, Male, for Thriller; Best Rock Performance, Male, for “Beat It” and Best Video for “Thriller.”

  In my category, Best Rock Performance, Female, I was up against Joan Armatrading for The Key, Kim Carnes for “Invisible Hands,” Stevie Nicks for “Stand Back,” and Bonnie Tyler for Faster than the Speed of Night. “Love Is a Battlefield” became my fourth Grammy win. Ironically, we didn’t attend the awards show, but they did finally televise the category and someone accepted for me. The video was nominated for an MTV Award. Those were heady days. In the midst of the awards, Crimes of Passion went five-times platinum and Precious Time was certified double platinum.

  Despite everything that was going on, our break from recording emphasized that this was a time of commitment for us. Once we had made the decision to marry, everything had solidified. I was the most important person in his world, and he was the most important in mine. We shared the same goals and aspirations, the same values, and the same professional dedication. One goal in particular that we shared would have caused hysterics at our record label if they’d known about it. Spyder and I were determined to start a family.

  Ever since we’d gotten married, we’d both wanted children. We actually started trying right away bec
ause we wanted more than one child, and at twenty-nine, I was not getting any younger. But it hadn’t been working. Mother Nature played her cruel hand, and after two years we still didn’t have a baby. By the time we went into the studio to record the material that would become our fifth studio album, Tropico, Spyder and I had just about given up trying to get pregnant.

  Thanks in part to our prolonged break, the recording of Tropico began without much of the stress that had followed our earlier trips into the studio. We had cultivated some really strong songs and we both felt very optimistic about the ideas we had for “We Belong.”