The Soul of It All

by Michael Bolton

  My middle daughter, Holly, was born on 7/7/77, so I’d promised her that when she turned twenty-one, we would have to put that lucky date to work. I flew her into Vegas and played blackjack at a private table at the Mirage. Her very first hand was a twenty-one. (For the longest time she was convinced that I had had the casino deal that hand as a favor. There are more than a few restrictions that I’m certain would have prevented that, no matter how much they might have liked me at the Mirage.) Holly quickly found herself up $2,100. Then she looked at me and said she’d like to quit. I was shocked but pleased and proud of her. We left the table high-fiving the occasion, enjoying our hang time. Holly’s twenty-first birthday was quite a successful one and is still a great memory.

  When Taryn was about ten, we took our own special trip to Disney World in Orlando. The VIP treatment by Disney allowed us to go through the back entrances of all the rides, not so much to avoid lines as to have a little privacy, away from the crowds. We pretty much did everything you could humanly do in a fourteen-hour day at Disney World, including riding Space Mountain twice. Taryn was always so sweetly appreciative of these kinds of opportunities. At the time, she probably didn’t realize how much that father-daughter time meant to me, but now that she is a mother herself, I’m sure she understands.

  SWINGING FOR THE FENCES

  Aside from standing onstage and performing, the most fun I had in those many years of touring behind big-selling albums was playing in charity softball games with my semipro team, Bolton’s Bombers. My softball team was originally called Bolton’s Bad Boys. We weren’t that “bad,” but we discovered that we were a couple of leagues over our heads.

  When we first fielded a team in 1990, we thought it would be fun to have pickup softball games for local charities while playing against the radio-station teams along each stop. Our team consisted mostly of members of the band and road crew, but we quickly realized that the radio stations were flying in serious ringers who were professional or semiprofessional softball players. Our first hint should have been that there aren’t many deejays or radio program directors with eighteen-inch biceps. When these hired guns stepped up to the plate, they blocked out the entire backstop. They were hitting 400-foot home runs and line drives that were like missiles. The infield was a dangerous place to be, as my manager, Louis Levin, discovered. He was hit with a line drive that damn near killed him.

  I don’t like losing, even if it’s for charity, but injuries were the main reason I had to bench most of the band members. They kept jamming thumbs and spraining fingers on the ball field. You may have never heard a performance by a guitarist or keyboardist with damaged digits, and there is a reason for that. They can’t play their instruments without healthy hands, and if they try, the result is music that sounds like a sore finger feels. There were other dangers on the diamond. We often played on rocky fields that weren’t exactly up to professional standards, so there were a lot of bad hops on hot grounders that had the potential to behead our players.

  I needed a band with a complete set of body parts. So I began beefing up the team with nonmusician, nonroadie recruits. We became Bolton’s Bombers in our second season because we weren’t bad anymore. The benefit of having our own string of ringers wasn’t just more wins for our team. When we became more competitive, we began drawing serious softball fans and bigger crowds, which also benefited the children’s charities, food banks, and other organizations we gave to. As word got around that Bolton’s Bombers had game, we were able to schedule bigger games against other celebrity teams, including one formed by the Green Bay Packers and another led by Michael Jordan, which was a memorable matchup.

  We played Michael’s team in July 1993 at Comiskey Park in Chicago. As you can imagine, he rounded up a few decent athletes for his Air Force Squad, including an NBA legend, a former Pro Bowl NFL star, a four-time World Heavyweight champion, an NHL All-Star, and some athletic actor types. On the field for MJ’s team were Earvin “Magic” Johnson, Mark Harmon, Evander Holyfield, Ahmad Rashad, Tom Selleck, Chris Chelios, and a couple of Baldwin brothers (William and Daniel).

  They had a great team, but my Bolton’s Bombers managed to beat them, 7–1. I’d recruited softball players from Nashville, Alabama, and Milwaukee, my own pro and semipro ringers, to compete with those brought in by our competition. I’m not going to rub it in. I’ve found it wise to never taunt four-time World Heavyweight champions or their tree-size teammates. Playing against Jordan’s team was a thrill. Michael had flown in one of the most famous softball players in the history of the game, a fierce slugger, but for that game we played at a baseball park without a 300-foot fence, so we just played him very deep.

  Nicollette Sheridan, whom I was seeing then, was there for that game. She’s extremely athletic and a competitor, and she always wanted to grab a glove and play the infield, but I had to keep her on the bench. Most of the players were capable of ripping the ball so hard that it could take your head off if you couldn’t get a glove on it. Years later, I thought of that and reminded Nicollette that she would not have looked good as a headless Desperate Housewife.

  In another incredible, unforgettable softball game, we played against Barry Bonds’s All-Stars. His team consisted of people like Frank “The Big Hurt” Thomas, Ken Griffey Jr., Bobby Bonilla, Matt Williams, and Ozzie Smith, some of the greatest ballplayers in the history of the game. It was an insane experience to be on the same field with them. I often wished my father, who loved all sports, could have been with me in the dugout. But I did have a new friend of mine in the dugout, and that was Joe DiMaggio. I was playing in the Legends Game to benefit the Joe DiMaggio Children’s Hospital in Florida. Just an hour before showtime, there was a knock on my dressing room door. The gentleman in the doorway, Morris Engelberg, said, “Mr. DiMaggio would like to know if Mr. Bolton would like to have coffee with him in his trailer.”

  Imagine that. I was out the door so fast I don’t think Joe’s emissary had time to finish his invitation. The next thing I knew, I was sitting face-to-face with the famed “Yankee Clipper,” Baseball Hall of Famer, and world-class guy. I loved his opening line, too.

  “I understand you can hit a ball pretty well, Michael.”

  We had an amazing conversation in which DiMaggio talked about playing stickball as a boy. Since he was pretty good at hitting with the stick, he figured swinging a baseball bat might not be too big a chore, he told me.

  When I wrote a song with Bob Dylan, I couldn’t stop thinking that this guy playing the guitar in front of me was “The” Bob Dylan. The whole time I was talking to “The” Joe DiMaggio that day, I couldn’t stop thinking that I wished my dad were there with me. That was a big one, Dad. Joe and I actually became friends on that day. In the years that followed, he came to several of my concerts and softball games.

  When I met him at the gate as he arrived at one game, several thousand people stood up and applauded and Joe said, “Wow, they really like you here, Mike.” I said, “I’ve been here all day, Joe. This is for you.” And he knew. Sometime later, when he came to one of my concerts at an amphitheater in the Bay Area, I introduced him to the audience and he received a standing ovation that went on so long we couldn’t start the show. He was a private guy, but he shared stories with me that I’ve never seen written elsewhere.

  I attended his funeral in 1999, and a family member pulled me aside afterward and said, “Joe talked about you a lot. He didn’t spend time with many people, but he appreciated his time with you.”

  I felt the same about him.

  BACHELOR FATHER

  After my divorce in 1991, my three girls came to live with me. They were ages twelve, fourteen, and sixteen and, since I was often on the road, I needed help with adult supervision. I tried a couple of nannies before finding women who were up for the challenge and compatible with our group. Our saving grace was Laura McKinley, who adored the girls and was with us until they were too old to have a nanny. Even then she stayed on as our property manager. It was important for m
e to know that the girls were safe, but I know they managed to have fun, too. Strangers often approach me all over the world to say that they loved hanging out with my daughters “at those massive high school parties at the big house on the lake.” Not a very comforting visual for me. Over the years more than a few have confessed to raiding my wine cellar, too. “Awesome wine collection, sir!”

  When the girls moved in, I built a recording studio on the property so I could do much of my work at home. The home studio proved to be a great move for all of us. For the first time in years, I experienced the joys of being close enough to my daughters to share meals and visit with them during my workday. By building the studio next to the house, I was able to have dinner with my girls at 6:30 every night. Many people take that for granted, but I never did. I knew I could never buy back the time I missed with my girls. We had wonderful times when I took them on my tours around the country and overseas, either by private jet or on the bus. Of course, I quickly learned that attending my concerts wasn’t nearly as interesting for them as raiding the hotel minibars and ordering in-room movies.

  Another great thing about the home studio was that record producers, including Mutt Lange, David Foster, and Walter Afanasieff, were willing to work there on my projects. They even joined my family for meals. At one or two of those gatherings, my male guests and I even managed to slip a word or two into the conversation. Mutt Lange joined us for dinner one night. I could see him absorbing the home environment, in which the three girls were chattering away with the nanny and the cook, making me outnumbered by women five to one. I poked around, asking questions, refereeing, and making dumb dad jokes that provoked eye rolls and looks of mock disgust (or maybe real disgust; I could never tell the difference).

  When we returned to the studio to continue working after dinner, Mutt said, “Do you realize, Michael, that you are entirely surrounded by women night and day? Maybe that’s why your songs and your voice resonate with the female audience so well. You are dialed into their frequency.” It’s true. There’ve been many times when I’ve come home from a long road trip, opened the door to my home, and smiled at the swarm of women working behind the scenes to support me and keep my crazy life running as smoothly as possible. For more than twenty years, Ronnie Milo has been the dedicated head of “mission control” for my business, operating as office manager, personal assistant, document and mail wrangler, personal and business scheduler, problem solver, mother hen, and keeper of secrets twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  For about ten years, she worked with Kim Downs, who always helped hold down the fort at home. I met Kim courtesy of Joyce Logan, a dear friend who created my first fan club and organized others across the country. Joyce was a true believer in me even before my songs and records hit it big. Joyce told me that I should hire Kim to work for me, saying, “You know how every person claims to be your number one fan? Well, Kim truly is your number one fan.” Joyce added that Kim was also highly capable and would be a real asset to my office staff. She was right on all counts. Kim became known as “the Gatekeeper” for her determined efforts to not allow anyone without authorization onto my property and to keep me free of distractions so I could focus on being an artist. Kim became VP of Bolton Music.

  Without Ronnie, Kim, and other members of my support team back home, I could easily end up lost somewhere between Singapore and Sheboygan and never be heard from again. I probably couldn’t blame Ronnie if she did let me get lost, considering all the teasing and pranks I’ve subjected her to over the years.

  She’s incredibly dedicated and efficient, yet she’s also a very vibrant, bubbly, and fun-loving person, which is a good thing for me. Ronnie has a great sense of humor and knows how to be a joker while developing and maintaining close relationships with people important to my business, as well as with my family and daughters. Ronnie often joins me on my insane travels across the universe. Because I can never sleep on airplanes—my curse—Ronnie usually doesn’t, either. She’ll go through things with me or just keep me company on most trips. Then once, on a long flight during an Asian concert tour with staff members from my record label, Ronnie did fall asleep. In fact, since this was a jet chartered by the record company, she chose to stretch out on the floor behind my seat, stealing a few winks after making sure my life was in order and my baggage was on board.

  When the plane began its descent to land, I noticed her eyes flick open in recognition of the change in speed and I leaned back, waved my arms, and yelled, “Ronnie! I think we’re going down!”

  Everybody else laughed, but Ronnie, who was still in a bit of a sleep fog, instinctively grabbed her cell phone and began hitting numbers.

  “Ronnie, who are you calling?” I asked.

  “Tommy Mottola,” she replied.

  Apparently Ronnie’s first waking thought when faced with a potential disaster was that the then head of Sony Music Entertainment, Tommy Mottola, could solve any problems we faced.

  I was not surprised. Ronnie’s first response to any crisis is “How can I fix this?” She is a very caring person, and when I told her I was writing about her in the book she asked that I encourage all women readers to keep up with their mammography appointments. She nearly skipped one a couple years ago because she’d just had one six months earlier and we were busy. I encouraged her to keep the appointment and, as her doctor recently noted, it saved her life. “You are the poster child for early detection,” he told her.

  I am very, very happy she is here for us all. So please heed Ronnie’s advice.

  This great lady is actually half of my highly valued superhero power couple. Her husband, Steve Milo, whom she met while working for me, has been my studio and concert technician, as well as my recording engineer and tour manager, for two decades. (Funny how they still think we didn’t know they were hooking up until they made it official.) I can’t leave home, go home, or be home without either of them. Steve has the complex job of handling all of the music that flows into, around, and out of my studio, whether Mutt Lange is sending fifty harmony parts that are being bounced down from analog to digital or David Foster’s studio has an orchestra recording for me to work with in the home studio. Steve, forever known only as “Milo,” also puts together the prerecorded music tracks I perform to when I do smaller venues like charity events or private concerts without a band or an orchestra. I really can’t perform anywhere without Milo doing his magic behind the curtain. Besides probably being the most beloved employee and member of my organization, Milo is also the first one at the studio and the last to leave. On tour he is one of the first in the building and one of the last out, too, and some wonder how he maintains his positive disposition through it all.

  My support team also includes my daughters, who step in from time to time to help out in the office, back up Ronnie, and come out on the road. Christina Kline, my manager, is based in L.A., but somehow manages to work tirelessly across all time zones to support, inspire, and help drive my career. It is of great comfort to me to know I can focus on performing and recording while she is always on the watch to create opportunities and smooth the way for the next leg of my journey.

  I made a decision after working with Louis Levin for twenty-five years—as well as a few others before and after him—that I wanted to manage my own career because after more than thirty-six years of experience in this industry recording, producing, promoting, and touring, nearly all decisions were coming back to me anyway; but then Christina Kline offered to represent me in 2010. She was in the thick of the music business, working with some of the most successful songwriters and producers, and she is a writer and quite a poet, too, which gave her an appreciation for every aspect of my work as well as an insight into the mentality of a creatively driven workaholic such as myself. She has been invaluable, keeping projects moving forward and networking with people around the world at all hours.

  TOO SEXY FOR MYSELF

  Over the years, the members of my family and support team have often been amused an
d sometimes appalled at one of the aspects of my “public” life as a performer. My daughters were especially freaked out when they first realized that their scrambling single parent was viewed in an entirely different way by female fans.

  This hit home for my girls when I was somehow named one of the 25 Most Eligible Bachelors of 1988 by (ahem) Playgirl magazine. (People magazine has named me one of its “sexiest” men on a couple of later occasions, but I’m sure it was only because they’d never met my brother, Orrin.) I was grateful, but uncomfortable with that designation, although an Italian journalist did ask me once if it was true that I had found a way to bring women to orgasm with my singing during concerts. Apparently there was a rumor in Italy about that. I did absolutely nothing to squash it. And Oprah once told me that she’d seen a marketing study that said female shoppers tended to buy more when my songs were played in stores. I’m always glad to do my part in boosting the American economy.

  My daughters thought the whole idea of me as a sex symbol was either disgusting or hilarious. To them, I’m just a dad—and now a grandfather, too—and I’m very content with that role. My daughters are adults now. Taryn has made me a grandfather with two incredibly beautiful girls, Amelia and Olivia (called Gwenny), who are a constant source of joy, which starts with one look at their gorgeous faces. They are delicious in every way. (Amelia calls me G’Pa and I love it—sounds young, doesn’t it?) Watching my granddaughters reminds me of my own daughters, and I look forward to every next step and stage of their childhoods. Since I am the poster child for dream chasers, I’ve always encouraged my daughters to pursue their passions, and they have certainly done that. I am very, very proud of them for all kinds of reasons, and I love them unconditionally.