The Soul of It All

by Michael Bolton

  After we’d talked through half of the commuting time, I finally got up the nerve to tell Cory I had something I wanted her to hear. I had the master recording of The Hunger on a cassette tape in my Walkman. I gave her my headphones and played “That’s What Love Is All About” first, and watched as tears welled up in her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

  You can imagine what that did to me. It meant so much that she seemed proud of me and could see how far I’d come since I’d been her shadow all of those years. In that moment, I remembered how excited and light-headed I’d always felt in her presence, which may be what love truly is all about. There have been several women in my life who’ve had that effect on me. Cory was the first.

  THE BREAKTHROUGH

  “That’s What Love Is All About” was released as the first single from The Hunger and hit No. 3 on Billboard’s Adult Contemporary chart and No. 19 on the Hot 100 in December 1987. Interestingly, that song had also made it to No. 62 on Billboard’s R & B chart a couple of months earlier. There weren’t a whole lot of white male singers on that particular chart, but apparently many fans who’d heard me sing only on the radio or their stereos thought I was black. Someone introduced me to Tina Turner around this time and the first words out of her mouth were “I thought you were a brother.” I took that as a compliment.

  That common misperception seemed to work in my favor initially with the release of the second single from The Hunger. That Otis Redding R & B classic, written with singer, songwriter, and producer Steve Cropper, was the only cover song on the record, but it was one that was close to my heart. When I was a teenager adrift, playing for coins on the New Haven Green, on street corners in Greenwich Village, and in Berkeley Square, the one song always guaranteed to draw a crowd and bring in the cash was “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay.”

  Later, when I played Yale frat parties, clubs, and bars with my first bands, our audience always responded with the most enthusiasm to that same song. My version of “Dock of the Bay” had been eliciting the same strong feedback from some of the greatest musicians in New York City when I’d go jam with them after hours at JP’s and China Club after my songwriting and recording sessions.

  I’d take the stage with their tremendous house players—all of them monster musicians who led the bands for Leno and Letterman or toured with Clapton—and somebody would say, “What key?” I’d reply, “D,” and we’d be off and running.

  Every time I performed that song, veteran musicians I respected would come up and encourage me to put it on a record someday. So when we were selecting songs for The Hunger, I told Jon Cain that we had to do just one cover, “Dock of the Bay,” because the song and the response to my interpretation had meant so much over the years.

  Like Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, and Ray Charles, the pioneering Southern soul singer Otis Redding had been one of my inspirations and heroes. I especially love and relate to his lyric “I can’t do what ten people tell me to do, so I guess I’ll remain the same.” Believe me, I knew better than to try to outsing any of the great soul singers. Their own definitive versions of their songs inspired me. Performing their songs is not about being like them or trying to be better than them; it’s about being yourself, respecting them when you sing their songs, respecting the composition, and putting your own heart and soul into it.

  All artists draw inspiration from the masters who came before them, whether they are painters, poets, authors, singers, or musicians. Feeling and acknowledging the presence of their contributions and what they’ve added to your own understanding of the art is essential for creative and artistic growth. I’ve actually always enjoyed this sense of obligation, the responsibility to bring something new to every song, including my covers of the R & B classics, just as the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and other artists had done when recording those songs in their own voices.

  My version of “Dock of the Bay” brought a slight rock edge to the classic, thanks to contributions from Neal Schon and Jon Cain, with Randy Jackson on bass. The team at Columbia Records loved it. Upon its release as The Hunger’s second single, the song took off. The amazing thing was that we were running strong in four formats. Our “Dock of the Bay” was getting airplay on rock stations, on adult contemporary stations, on Top 40 stations, and it started out strong on the R & B stations. We were seeing something that rarely happened: This song was a four-format hit. Rock and R & B stations rarely embraced the same music, though pop and adult contemporary often did.

  Then, after the first three weeks or so, something odd happened. The record hit a wall of resistance from radio stations. Their program directors—those all-important gatekeepers who decide which songs get airplay—were suddenly saying they were reluctant to play a revered Otis Redding R & B song covered by a little-known white guy. Of course, I felt my version respected Otis, just as I did. To record his great song was an honor for me, and I’d hoped it would bring more attention to his body of music, so this was a disturbing development. Columbia Records agreed and looked for ways to get that message out to radio stations.

  A promotions exec at Columbia said he’d heard that Otis Redding’s widow, Zelma, had seen a performance of mine at the Apollo Theater and she had loved my cover of her husband’s song. We all knew that “Dock of the Bay” was special to the family because Otis died in a plane crash just three days after recording it. In fact, I’ve heard that Otis had whistled part of the song only because he intended on writing lyrics for that section when he returned from that trip.

  Otis was only twenty-six years old when he died. He was one of the first black soul singers to have a huge following among white fans. Like many of his songs, “Dock of the Bay” was drawn from his experiences. He began writing it while staying on a friend’s houseboat near Sausalito, California, where we shot the video for the song. As the song says, he’d left his home in Georgia, headed for the Frisco Bay, but unlike the song, he had plenty to live for. After his death, which occurred when his private airplane crashed into a Wisconsin lake, “Dock of the Bay” sold more than four million copies around the world and received more than eight million airplays. It also won two Grammy awards, for Best R & B Song and Best Male R & B Vocal Performance. Because of his tragic death, Otis Redding never enjoyed the praise and love his very personal song drew. But “Dock of the Bay” would become a major part of his enduring legacy.

  I witnessed that firsthand many times, but one time stands out. During a White House event celebrating American music, I introduced President Bill Clinton to Otis’s co-writer, Steve Cropper. The president responded with enthusiasm, giving an animated, heartfelt, and very in-depth description of seeing Otis’s legendary performance at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. Steve was touched by the president’s words, as was I.

  We were thrilled that Otis Redding’s widow had approved of my recording, and we were hoping she would spread the word. She said that my rendition was her “all-time favorite” of the song and that my performance at Showtime at the Apollo was “so emotional” that it brought tears to her eyes and reminded her of her husband. She said her husband would “feel the same.”

  Columbia took her words and ran with them. They used them in huge ads placed in the biggest music industry trade magazines that were read by radio station programmers across the country. Thanks to Zelma Redding’s endorsement, walls came tumbling down at radio stations nationwide. The play the song received on the R & B stations helped open the doors for me to later perform at the Apollo, as well as the Essence Awards and BET Awards.

  We saw the impact right away. In January 1988, my “Dock of the Bay” single entered the Billboard Hot 100, charting for 17 weeks and peaking at No. 11. It reached No. 19 on the Adult Contemporary chart and No. 58 on the R & B chart. I was grateful to be sharing the charts with hits by artists such as Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, George Michael, and, ironically, Cher, whose comeback song, “I Found Someone,” I had penned.

  The Hunger’s first single, “That’s What Love Is All About,
” put my third attempt with Columbia Records in great position, and “Dock of the Bay” brought home the winner. The song was playing as often as eight times a day on rock, Top 40, adult contemporary, and R & B radio stations, which drove album sales. The combined strength of the two hit singles put me on the map as an artist. The album was eventually certified double platinum.

  I am eternally grateful for the endorsement provided by Zelma Redding, because the song would never have received the airplay it deserved without her kind words and public expression of support. Mrs. Redding also provided one of the most rewarding moments of my life at the BMI Film & TV Awards show in 1988 at the Beverly Hilton Hotel in Los Angeles. Mrs. Redding was invited to receive an award for her husband’s most enduring hit, which had been the year’s most played song because of my cover. Backstage that night, a friend tugged on my arm and pointed to her. I walked over to introduce myself, but before I could say my last name she threw her arms around me, hugged me tightly, and said, “I know who you are.”

  She was crying. I had not expected her emotional greeting, nor had I anticipated how deeply it would connect me with her husband’s song.

  That moment is one of the most cherished of my career, so gratifying and so significant, too. Not only did I have the great pleasure of paying homage to Otis Redding through his song, but I was also privileged to experience even a small portion of the soulfulness, creative energy, and passion Otis put into his music.

  STAR-MAKING MACHINERY

  It was 1987 and I wasn’t a real worldly guy at this stage in my career. So when executives from Sony invited me to come to Norway to promote The Hunger, I didn’t initially see the value in it. I wasn’t even at all sure where Norway was on the map. They seemed convinced that there was a market for my music in places like Lillehammer, Kongsvinger, and Steinkjer, but Oslo was my primary destination.

  Louis Levin agreed with them. He thought most artists were missing out by not marketing themselves overseas. I needed convincing, especially since they were talking about an eight-and-a-half-hour flight to do seventeen to twenty interviews each day for two days with reporters who spoke in Norse code. I finally caved, stocked up on long underwear, and flew to Oslo.

  Something very interesting happened on that trip. For the first time, I found myself enjoying the marketing side of the music business. The Sony people in Norway made me feel like an important part of the team, and the results were impressive. I realized that a little effort could produce big results in a small country. The Hunger became a huge hit in Norway.

  The next thing I knew, the invitations came rolling in from Sony Sweden and their neighbors in Denmark, Germany, France, Ireland, England, Spain, and Portugal. I’d never owned a passport, and I’d certainly never even dreamed of performing for audiences around the world. Yet when I began studying the international sales reports sent by my record company, I saw that selling 100,000 CDs in Korea, 40,000 in Thailand, 50,000 in Jakarta, and even more in Australia and Canada gave me an audience around the world, which has been very gratifying as I return with new album releases and to perform in concerts year after year. As I write this, I’m preparing for shows in Italy, China, Japan, South Korea, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Chile.

  Thanks to a change in direction creatively, I found my sweet spot in the mainstream, writing and recording songs I loved—without feeling any more obligation to look and sound like a hard rocker. That sweet spot grew even sweeter with my next album. I moved up from selling 500,000 copies and releasing two singles with The Hunger to the even greater success of Soul Provider, which released five singles and sold more than 12.5 million copies worldwide.

  BITTERSWEET

  I felt in control of my destiny as a songwriter and performer for the first time after the success of The Hunger. It was sweet, and bittersweet, too. My career was soaring, but I seemed to have fewer and fewer people to share my successes with. I’d lost one of my greatest cheerleaders and champions, my father, who had died seven years earlier.

  My career success and all the opportunities that were coming my way pulled me farther and farther from my girls. I couldn’t be there for them while writing, recording, touring, performing, and promoting during every waking hour. I told a People magazine reporter around this time that success sometimes felt like a video game in which the more levels you advance the greater the challenges and obstacles become.

  Touring demands periods of separation that are often simply too much for relationships to endure. Many musician friends who don’t tour still work such long hours in the studio that their relationships and marriages suffer. Those of us who work like that sometimes feel that maintaining a relationship is like putting a dollar down on a million-dollar debt.

  Missing my daughters’ birthdays and other important moments in their lives always left me horribly conflicted and anguished. I always aspired to be a good and present father to our girls. Sometimes I made it to the birthday parties by scrambling from a concert to catch a plane and then I’d have to catch the last flight out to make the next concert date. Often in those situations, I’d feel drained emotionally, fearing that I wasn’t fully present.

  Yet when I wasn’t touring or focused in the studio, I loved spending time with them. Riding the train home from New York City, I couldn’t wait to hug them and catch up on their days. I loved to read to them when they were little. All three of them shared a bedroom, and we’d sit on the floor with Taryn on my lap and Isa and Holly on either side in their little girl “footie” pajamas. I tried to find books they couldn’t resist, with beautiful illustrations and great stories. I’d read to them in character, doing voices and sound effects. I loved it when they’d reach up with their little hands to peek at the next page while I was reading because they couldn’t wait to see what was coming. Those were precious times. They’d also call all of their friends together while playing in the yard and have me tell them scary stories and chase them. Taryn reminded me recently of our “octopus” game, in which I would sit in one spot on the floor and they’d run around me while I reached out to pull them to me while they were screaming and laughing. They loved that simple game, maybe as much as I did. I was surprised that, twenty-five years later, Taryn remembered it being so much fun.

  Still, there were times when I couldn’t be there for them. I would try to explain and convey my sadness and let my girls know I loved them more than anything. One night I walked into Taryn’s bedroom when she was sleeping. There was a cassette player on her nightstand and one of my demo tapes was in it. I was touched that listening to my music soothed her and that she enjoyed it. Maybe it was her way, too, of keeping me close.

  You just can’t make it up to a six-year-old, an eight-year-old, or a ten-year-old who wants nothing more than to be Daddy’s girl. On one of these occasions, I received a little note from one of my daughters, and before I opened the envelope I thought how sweet it was of her to send it. Then I read it and felt like a stake had been driven through my heart. It was a sweet note, but she had written a heart-wrenching plea for my presence in her life. She asked me to come home, please, “whenever you can” because “I can’t really explain it but I love having my daddy home.”

  I cried for an hour after reading her note because I knew how pure and simple the expression was. It wasn’t the first or the last time I broke down. Shortly after the divorce, I had just dropped the girls off after my weekend with them when the reality of being a “visiting” parent sank in. I was driving and I had to pull the car over to the side of the road because my whole body was convulsing with grief. I wasn’t crying so much as wailing in that deep guttural, primal moan you rarely hear except when a tragic death has occurred. No matter how hard men may work to deny or hide their vulnerabilities, there is no controlling that kind of overwhelming grief. You may try, but your body can’t contain that volume of sorrow and loneliness. Not long after that emotional breakdown I wrote a song called “I’m Not Made of Steel.” I’d been visiting with the girls and they weren’t getting along a
nd again the weight of losing them and seeing them act out because of their own grief and confusion just hit me. I told them that I wasn’t made of steel, that I was hurting, too, and I just wanted them to stop fighting and have some peace with me. I was making a statement of vulnerability to them, and they responded as well as they could.

  I never had as much time with them as I wished for because of so many contractual obligations to deliver songs, perform in concerts, produce records, and do publicity. I had done my share of tours over the years, but when my singing career took off, I discovered that there were no longer any borders. My world expanded exponentially. I’d look at my travel itineraries and all the stops and wish that human cloning were possible. I still feel that way.

  Once an album was released, the concert tour was unleashed, which meant the publicity machine had to be fired up. I’d find myself hopscotching across Europe—Norway, Sweden, Denmark, England, Germany, France, Spain, Portugal—to do performances followed by morning television shows and interviews with local media, and then we’d hit the road to perform at the next stop on the tour.

  After a long, long time of not being able to even buy my daughters new sneakers, there were some perks to being successful, especially when they could travel with me and I was able to share some very special moments with them. When Isa became a fan of boxing, I flew her out for a championship match to see her favorite fighter, Oscar De La Hoya. Once he’d won the match, we went backstage to meet him and he was very gracious. She cried as we were leaving. For me, mission more than accomplished. About a week later, an autographed pair of boxing gloves arrived at our house.