The Soul of It All

by Michael Bolton

  My spiritual inquiry might have all started while I was up in Berkeley, when a girl gave me a booklet called Sermon on the Mount. There I was, a long-haired hippie Jew, reading about Christ and finding that more of his teachings resonated with me than did the lessons I learned in synagogue.

  By the time we began studying the Knowledge, the Beatles had already found their guru, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and embraced Transcendental Meditation, or TM (not to be confused with TMZ). Many young people were looking for similar ways to tap into a more spiritual, tranquil, and contemplative lifestyle.

  Our guru, who is now known as Prem Rawat, held that “peace, enlightenment, love, and wisdom reside within each of us.” The Knowledge taught by him and his followers consisted of meditation techniques that allowed one to access those elements within. The Knowledge came without the social structure found in most churches and faiths. There was no Bible, no Koran, and no commandments to follow, though there were elements of Hindu, Buddhist, Muslim, and Christian faiths in his teachings.

  Maureen and I went to the New Haven ashram and took the introductory course before we were married. We were asked to keep an open mind and to give the teachings a chance. Each of us was given our own techniques for meditating anytime, anywhere. I had studied other religions over the years because I needed a spiritual element in my life, something to speak to and ease my soul.

  The Knowledge was the greatest awakening for me. It felt like the key to everything I’d read about in my search for some sort of spiritual connection that provides true peace. All religions I’d studied seemed to be talking about the same thing: becoming one with your creator. This guru taught that the Knowledge was the key. Once you have that key, you always have access to your true home and a sense of true peace. The Knowledge fast-tracks you to a place where you can be wiser and not reactive. Whatever your hair trigger is, when you consistently meditate you are calmer and you make decisions not out of anger or fear but from a more peaceful state of mind. You become more of an observer, and that allows you to be more compassionate instead of being a victim or getting caught up in the stress and drama around you.

  I still meditate to quiet my mind. The goal is to slow the activity of your brain in a way that allows you to actually hear, sense, feel, and experience what is known as the “primordial vibration,” or your spirit, which is your true essence beyond your body. We were taught that we are all part of something greater than ourselves, and that there is always a divine presence in our midst. We acknowledged that spiritual presence at every meal by meditating quietly before eating.

  Meditation is still my path to inner peace during difficult times, when stress threatens to send me into a raging panic. I go there automatically now. It’s like diving into a pool of calm. The longer you stay immersed in a meditative state, the less likely you are to be reactive because you feel threatened or intimidated or angry. The Knowledge reinforced my efforts to look inward for strength. It became very clear to me that this was a life choice. I wanted to aim inward through meditation instead of dealing with stress by drinking or getting high.

  One of my favorite memories of going to the ashram in New Haven was being asked to sing by the other members. At first I preferred not to, because I was still trying to focus on learning to meditate properly, but as I became at home with the Knowledge, the more I found peace and comfort in singing the devotionals. I found some of the soul of it all in those sessions because singing wasn’t about entertaining anyone. It was about feeling inspired and inspiring others, which isn’t far from what I try to do onstage, except no one at the ashram threw panties at me. Seriously, meditation helped me stay on course even as I struggled in my musical career.

  RECORD DEAL NO. 4

  Nearly two years after my second solo album with RCA fell like a tree in the desert—with no one listening—my career took an abrupt U-turn, thanks to a call from Phil Lorito, who was managing me then. He connected me to Steve Weiss, an attorney for artists and bands including Bad Company and Led Zeppelin. Steve sent a limo to bring me to his home on Long Island. He’d heard my two solo records with RCA and complimented me by telling me I was “a tremendous talent.” But Steve thought I needed to be the lead singer in my own band instead of a solo act. I told him about Joy and our lack of success. Steve thought my new band should follow the pop-rock track taken by Foreigner and Journey.

  I’d given away my roach clips and rolling papers, but my wardrobe was still Haight-Ashbury haute couture. The only pants I had that weren’t jeans were corduroy. I wanted to look like a rock star when I showed up at his house because I thought Steve had the power to change my life. I walked into this palatial home rocking the cords and figuring my long hair gave me Zeppelin cred. I was prepared to pitch myself to him, but Steve was already stoked. He did the selling. I listened.

  He’d already worked out a plan to put me back in a band, a rock band in the Journey mode. Steve envisioned me as the lead singer and songwriter for his new project, and he made me a believer. He was one of those bigger-than-life guys who seem to step out of movies and into reality.

  His words, gestures, and claims seemed grandiose, except that he had the gold and platinum records on the wall to back them up.

  “Everything you see here I have made from representing other bands, and believe me, when success happens there is plenty of money for everything,” he said Weiss-ly.

  I looked around his cavernous home, which may have served as the model for the future Hard Rock Hotels. There was at least one Rolls-Royce parked out front, with a driver in waiting. A coach and horses would not have surprised me.

  I was not inclined to argue with a Long Island mansion-dwelling lawyer with platinum plaques lining his den walls, especially when he was talking about lining my own pockets with some of that gold. Steve was then part of the management team of Swan Song Records, which was founded by the members of Led Zeppelin to produce their own records, those of Bad Company, and other performers, including Dave Edmunds.

  Steve promised that if I put together a strong band, he’d help me get a record deal either with Swan Song or with another company. He recommended his friend Phil Lorito as my manager for this new band. The group came together as Blackjack in the fall of 1978, with Sandy Genarro on drums, Bruce Kulick on guitar, Jimmy Haslip on bass, and me on vocals. Because of the talent we’d assembled, Blackjack had a much more hard rock, though not “heavy metal,” sound than any of my previous bands. Bruce is a world-class rock guitarist, and I had to sing with all my power to be heard over his guitar and Sandy Genarro’s thunderous percussion.

  Steve Weiss lived up to his word once Blackjack was ready to rock. We were signed to a two-record deal with Polydor, a division of Polygram, and we released two albums: Blackjack in 1979, and Worlds Apart in 1980. The first album was produced by a true genius, the late Tom Dowd, who was the only nuclear physicist I’ve ever had as my record producer.

  Tom was in his fifties when Blackjack recorded at Criteria, his Miami studio. Thirty years earlier, he had worked on the Manhattan Project, which produced the atomic bomb. A classical music lover, he changed his career course to more peaceful pursuits and became a revered record producer who worked with Ray Charles, Eric Clapton, Otis Redding, and Aretha Franklin, among other stars.

  When Polygram execs learned that Tom Dowd was producing our record, they broke out the champagne and toasted our inevitable success. Having him on board was a major deal. I felt damned lucky just to be working with him. But Tom wanted us to take a little edge off our sound. I wasn’t thrilled, but Tom’s track record was so much better than mine at that point. He was a very expensive producer who had huge hits. He had just turned out a big one in Rod Stewart’s “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy,” which sold more than two million copies. Tom also packed heat with the record companies, who wanted to keep him happy. Polygram seemed confident in his approach with us. Any lingering doubts we had about Tom’s strategy were washed away when we heard reports that other artists with the record company wer
e pissed because Blackjack was getting so much promotion money that there was little left for them.

  To this day, the irony in Tom’s prophetic suggestion makes me smile. He wanted us to turn down Bruce’s amp, declaring, “What do you think this is, KISS?” He only said it once, but we never forgot it. That was the sound Bruce was looking for and would fully realize several years later, when he became the lead guitarist for KISS.

  Polygram did pull out the stops to promote Blackjack. Our record company even paid for music videos with each of the two singles released from the first album, “Love Me Tonight” and “Without Your Love.” They also had us open one night for Ozzy Osbourne at Roberto Clemente Coliseum in San Juan, where I later performed with the Joe Perry Project. As soon as the tour ended, so did our relationship with Polydor and Polygram. There were a dozen or so top rock bands that fought the good fight and stayed on the record charts during the disco era, but Blackjack wasn’t among them.

  RECORD DEAL NO. 5: CRASH & BURN

  Shortly after Blackjack got the Poly-ax, Allen Jones asked me if I’d like to cut a record with his production company in Memphis. Allen had been a Stax Records producer and songwriter. He’d worked with Otis Redding and the Bar-Kays, and he’d won a Grammy for his contributions to the Shaft sound track. When he said he thought of me as “a white Otis Redding,” he won me over. I flew to Memphis and recorded about ten songs with him and some amazing musicians at SoulTastic, but that production company was shut down by financial difficulties before the record could be released. Another record deal crashed and burned.

  I had no problem getting record deals in the 1970s, but capitalizing on them with hit records, or any records at all, was definitely a challenge. I had some rough breaks, but today the environment is even more treacherous. Record companies now will sign groups or individuals to deals; and if they don’t like the first four or five songs they record, they’ll drop them after keeping them tied up for years. There is no going back to work to refine your act. They cut their losses and move on. As tough as it was for me, I would not trade my experiences for being a new artist in this current climate. I hear repeatedly that artists and bands are dropped one after another in the midst of recording. Just a few years ago, I watched an A and R person at a record company listening to CDs of songs she’d been waiting for from bands they’d signed. One by one she dropped them into the trash can, signaling the end of their record deals. I knew many of those whose names were on the CDs.

  Orrin, Klatty, and Phil Lorito, who had signed on as my manager before the Polygram contract, had worked their asses off for me and I appreciated all they’d accomplished, but I needed to find a way to get more traction as an artist. I decided it was time to look for some veteran professional management.

  The pressure of having virtually no income and rent checks bouncing and only enough food in the fridge for one more meal was sucking the life out of me. I couldn’t handle being such a disappointment to my family. When I’d feel a wave of depression coming on I’d try to stay focused on building a career and being successful, but it was increasingly difficult.

  I was really sick and tired of coming up short, and haunted by concerns that I was letting my family down. I had nightmares of being thrown out of our crappy little apartment and my girls having to live on the street while I sang and begged for spare change. My lack of formal education left me without anything resembling a Plan B, so I had to find a way to make a living as a singer, songwriter, or musician. There was just no other way. Besides, I had a friend who went to law school and abandoned his music career. He had written a couple of successful songs, but he never returned to it because the family law practice took all of his time. He always told me he wished he’d never developed a Plan B, because he would have stayed with what he loved, his music.

  DINNER WITH TED’S HEADS

  In early 1981, a young junior manager named Louis Levin asked me to sign with a management company led by Steve Leber and David Krebs. They had a reputation for developing new artists and seemed hungry, so I joined their roster of clients, which included Aerosmith, AC/DC, Def Leppard, Ted Nugent, and Joan Jett. Steve Leber wrote the check to buy out my management contract with Phil Lorito for about $20,000, which turned out to be a very sound investment for them and a very good move for me as well.

  One of the first things my new managers did was take me to meet with their client Ted Nugent, who was looking for a lead singer for his band. They were about to make a record and go on tour. Joining another band wasn’t my goal, but I’d just signed with Leber and Krebs so I agreed to go with David Krebs to Detroit, where Ted lived. The idea was to have dinner and hang out at Ted’s place so we could get to know each other. I’d heard that Ted was an avid big-game hunter, and the walls of his home offered testimony to all the animals he’d bagged. I’d been in zoos with fewer species.

  When dinner arrived, I realized no one had tipped off Ted that I wasn’t so big on game myself. He noticed right away that I was eating everything but the meat course. There was no hiding from the hunter. I had to confess that I was a vegetarian.

  “So what do you have on your walls, cabbage heads?” he asked, and we all broke out laughing.

  The ice was officially broken. Despite our vastly different menu preferences, Ted, David Krebs, and I talked music and had a great evening. He could not have been a more gracious host, and my new management team was smart to see that there might be a fit, but my interests at that point were really to pursue a solo career and there was some support for that back at the home office.

  A short time after we visited Ted’s really excellent animal-head house, David was talking with some of his secretaries and other women staffers about the challenges of the business climate. He asked them if they thought there was one artist on their roster who could sell ten million albums.

  One of their long-term staffers said, “Yes, Michael Bolotin.”

  David found that curious since I’d had all misses and no hits up to that point. Still, when David and Steve saw how their staff members responded to my singing, they became true believers. They dished out cash advances so I wouldn’t have to worry so much about feeding my family. The cash helped, but it would be more than six years before I lived up to the ten-million-album-man billing. After all those years of struggling, my fortunes were about to take a favorable turn in a way that none of us had anticipated.

  SHAKING THE MONEY TREE

  I’d signed with the management firm of Leber and Krebs with the goal of getting a breakthrough record deal. While working on demos, we brought in some background singers for a session in the studio. On the day we’d set aside for them, they were running late. I was told that they were stuck at a “jingle house” but would be arriving soon. I’d never heard that term, so when the singers arrived, I asked what they’d been doing. One of them, Angela, explained that they were making “good money” singing for radio and television commercials.

  I found that very interesting.

  “Would you ever consider doing jingles?” Angela asked.

  I guess she thought I was too proud to do commercial work. I might once have considered myself too much of an artist for that line of work, but any opportunity to earn extra income was enticing at that point.

  I wasn’t thinking “stigma.” I was thinking “food for the family.”

  Louis Levin filled me in on the pros and cons of doing commercials, and he assured me that many singers on the charts had done jingles early in their careers. Some, including the R & B star Luther Vandross, continued to do them after they’d had hits.

  Louis explained that singing jingles could be especially lucrative if the commercials a singer did “went national” and were played repeatedly over extended periods. Jingle singers were paid an up-front fee, and they also earned residuals every time their commercials played. The challenge for many singers is that jingle writers and producers—and their big-brand clients—often have very specific and inflexible visions for how they want their commercials
to sound. In other words, I would have to check my ego at the door in exchange for the paychecks and residuals. Louis said most jingle singers were making $50,000 to $70,000 a year, but the top singers who were in constant demand could make $100,000 or more with residuals just doing commercial jingles.

  I thought about that for, oh, a minute before I had Louis make some calls and line me up for auditions in an entirely new area of the music industry.

  EGO CHECKED!

  If I had any reluctance about singing jingles, it disappeared when I did a commercial session with singer Valerie Simpson, half of the legendary performing and songwriting team of Ashford & Simpson. She and her husband, Nick Ashford, had already written many of Motown’s biggest hits, including “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing,” when she began doing jingle work for Budweiser and the Hershey’s candy bars Mounds and Almond Joy, among other clients.

  I’d been performing in clubs and bars, parties, and small concert venues since my early teens, and I was always cutting demos for record companies. I thought I knew a lot about singing and vocal techniques, but jingle singing proved to be a revelation on several levels. Like most musicians and singers, I am not an early riser, but if the jingle was being recorded in the studio at 9 a.m., I had to be there and ready to sing or miss out on the paycheck. Usually there is no freestyling and no ad-libs unless the client requests them. The singer has thirty to sixty seconds to sell the hook of the jingle, which is the brand message created by the jingle writer under the direction of the advertising agency and the top executives of Coca-Cola, Budweiser, or whoever the client might be.

  The singer must also deliver that message in whatever musical style the commercial calls for, whether it’s rock, country, classical, pop, folk, blues, or polka. And while proper enunciation was never a big priority when I was singing rock and blues music, clients paying big money for these musical commercials want the viewers and listeners to understand every word of the message.