We never lived in a mansion by any means, but in my early childhood we did move up to bigger homes as my father moved up the ladder in his career. My belief system, handed down from my father, was that if I worked hard and kept striving, I would be able to thrive one day, thanks to a nation that encouraged and supported its people and their freedoms. By their example—in the friends they had, the way they treated everyone around them—my parents taught me that all men and women, regardless of their race, religion, or sexual orientation, shared those rights and freedoms.
The enduring commitment to the protection of human rights and the promises of freedom makes the United States the greatest nation in the world. That does not mean ours is a perfect country, but I believe historically we are always striving to reach the highest standards and ideals in the world. In difficult economic times, those who can least afford hardship are often saddled with the heaviest burdens. In these times, we have to step up and stand together to support one another in whatever way possible, just as we have done during other national tragedies.
STANDING TOGETHER
I was staying at the Four Seasons Hotel in Dallas in the fall of 2001 when I received a morning cell phone call from Nicollette. I was surprised she was calling because we weren’t seeing each other at the time.
“Michael, where are you?”
I told her I was in Dallas.
“Are you watching the news?” she said.
The concern in her voice alarmed me, so I turned on the television in my hotel room. The terrifying, horrific image on the screen was one that has become indelible in the minds of all Americans and people around the world. Smoke was pouring from the twin towers of the World Trade Center as a result of the terrorist attacks.
I told Nic I had to call home and make sure my girls were safe. I was particularly concerned about Holly, who was driving into New York City from Connecticut to attend classes at Fordham University. I had to know that she was safe. Holly answered her home phone and told me she hadn’t planned on going in that day. Her sisters, Isa and Taryn, were safe at home, too. I made a few more calls checking on friends, all of whom were safe but in shock, like all of us that day.
I had assumed that my symphony concert set for that night at the Bass Performance Hall in Fort Worth would be canceled, but my tour manager said, to my astonishment, that the show was still on. I was at first put off by that, and stunned that people were still interested in attending, but he changed my frame of reference.
He said people had been calling the venue all day with the declaration that they would not concede any further victories to terrorists. I saw the wisdom and admired the proud defiance in that stance. Still, there was a heaviness in the air as I stood backstage that night. I couldn’t just walk out and begin singing, as I did in other performances. The world had changed that day and I had to acknowledge that somehow. I also had to honor those who had died and those who had acted so courageously.
The lights came down and I walked out, still uncertain of what to say. I knew it had to be direct. I thanked the audience and the orchestra for being there despite the tragedies of the day. I noted that Americans put aside their differences on such occasions and pull together. Really, I was thinking out loud when I added, “Looking out into this audience, I don’t see Democrats or Republicans, I just see Americans.”
That statement prompted a roar of cheers that at least temporarily lifted the battered spirits of everyone in that concert hall. Tragedy always tests our spirit. Often, it requires a herculean effort to recover and rebuild from such traumatic events. Yet I am forever amazed by the power of the human spirit to rise up in the face of adversity. The heroism of first responders—especially the fire, rescue, and law enforcement personnel—will inspire us always. But the families of those who lost their lives will bear the heaviest burden.
Evil descended on us that day, but evil did not win. I couldn’t wait to return to New York City after the cowardly attack. I wanted to make my own statement about my feelings for the place where my talents were nourished and my dreams were formed. With New York City as the center of my world, the bar was set at the highest level and I am grateful for that. I made it a point to thank police officers I saw that day, and I know they appreciated it.
Long before 9/11, I had developed an appreciation for law enforcement and the extreme circumstances they encounter. During the late 1980s, when I needed security just to get through an airport or from a hotel to a concert venue, a lot of the security people who worked and traveled with me were once police officers or detectives who had spent their careers working in some of the toughest cities in America. I would ask them what a day in the life was like and the stories were beyond what most of us think comes with the job of keeping us and our families safe. The weight of what their work consists of, and the weight of that work on their families, is something I never take for granted.
Ironically, tragedies often have the effect of reminding us that we are all in this together; it’s just too bad we don’t feel more of a sense of unity at all times. It was almost a year before I saw the bounce return to the stride of New Yorkers. I performed in several fund-raisers for the families of firefighters, police officers, and other responders. I am always open to opportunities to do more to heal our country and to bring us together not because of tragedy but for the greater good.
It starts with dreamers. At the heart of the American Dream is the human spirit. The human spirit is the driving force behind all the greatest achievements that humankind is capable of, whether the achievers are Olympic champions, scientific visionaries, or creative artists.
I am a dreamer, and a believer in the principles upon which this country was founded, as recorded in the Declaration of Independence:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.
Since 1776 people have been risking and sacrificing their lives to uphold these principles. We have inherited a responsibility to these ideals. The greatest argument for prosperity is human dignity. But if we are to be the legitimate beacon of freedom for the rest of the world, it’s time for our leaders to bring the focus home and, as Springsteen recently put it, “take care of our own.”
GAINING STRENGTH THROUGH ADVERSITY
As I’ve revisited so many chapters of my life in this writing process, I’ve realized that eventually a person can come to grasp the full meaning of even those experiences that once seemed beyond reason or comprehension. One such experience occurred during the turmoil and confusion of my fourteen years in litigation. I reached a point where I was facing a potential worst-case scenario—one in which I might lose everything I’d worked for, including the ability to support my family.
During this time, I was pained because I misplaced my trust in those whom I thought would protect me and my career and all that I had accomplished to that point. I remember one afternoon, in the midst of it all, walking across my backyard, looking at the home I’d built, the office where my staff worked, and my recording studio. I was thinking about my daughters as I took all of this in, and I was bracing myself for the worst. The eighteen years of the climb and the successes I had achieved were endangered by a complicated lawsuit in which the stakes were unbearably high.
Those fourteen years became my Odyssey. I felt exiled from my home and from my heart. But the fighter in me, the son of Bullet Bolotin, would not give up. While the legal battle raged and voluminous documents rained on me at every stop, I continued to tour and perform on stages around the world. My survival strategy was to compartmentalize my experiences, walling off the trauma and angst over the lawsuit so I could embrace and enjoy what was good and hopeful.
This was vital, because while the depressing battle raged on, my career was soaring. I recorded a new album nearly every year and each project bolstered my spirits and fortified me. With Timeless: The Classics in 1993, I drew
positive energy from soulful anthems like Holland-Dozier-Holland’s “Reach Out I’ll Be There” (which I recorded with the Four Tops as well) and the classic “To Love Somebody” by Barry and Robin Gibb, which I continue to perform with gratitude in all my shows.
The following year, during the recording of the album The One Thing with Mutt Lange, it was impossible to not focus on the music and connect with the spiritual elation of songs like “Said I Loved You… But I Lied.” I dedicated the song “Soul of My Soul,” written by my genius cohorts Diane Warren and Walter Afanasieff, to my daughters.
This creative process was uplifting and soothing. In 1996, I had the opportunity to work with Placido Domingo and Wynonna Judd, both of whom I love personally and professionally, during the making of my first Christmas album, This Is the Time. A year later, while making the album All That Matters, I enjoyed writing and working with Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds, another wonderful artist. All these projects were rewarding and stimulating, yet throughout each of them, the litigation loomed over me.
In 1998, I managed to channel my deep concerns over the litigation into my work, using that negative energy for positive effect as I focused on a very challenging project, a performance in which I sang one of the most demanding arias from My Secret Passion with an eighty-six-piece orchestra. To prepare physically and mentally, I worked with a vocal coach, Bill Schuman, and also a linguist, Daniella Orlando, since I was singing in Italian and French (I’m still working on my English). This project was inspired by my experience singing with the great Luciano Pavarotti, who was so gracious and generous with me. Once again, I was grateful to have a creative outlet in music.
One day, in the midst of one of the oh-so-much-fun stages of the litigation, I met my friend Barry Levinson (the brilliant Oscar-winning director and very gracious person) in Milford, Connecticut, for a round of golf with his father-in-law and another friend. It was a great day on the course, and definitely took my mind off troubling matters for a while. When it came time to head back home for more work in the studio, I said good-bye to the three of them and drove away, but missed my entrance to the highway. As I started to make my way back around along the side streets, I noticed a car following me, seeming to mimic my every turn. Abruptly, I took a hard left into the driveway of a bank parking lot and slowly looped behind the building. I pulled out onto the main street again, glancing into the rearview mirror, and, sure enough, the car had followed my turn and was right back on my tail. I spotted the highway ramp and got on, and the car stayed close. Quickly, I grabbed my car phone and dialed, shielding my face as I slowed down and forced the car to pass me. Kim in my office picked up and I explained to her that I was being followed. Alarmed, she immediately called my friend Vito Colucci, a private detective who had done security for me in the past. Vito met me at my studio within the hour. It was pouring rain by this time. I was now so paranoid that I insisted Vito and I speak outside in case the house was bugged. (Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there aren’t people out to get you.) Vito and I walked the property, sharing an umbrella, which I was apparently unconsciously tugging toward me, leaving him partially exposed to the rain. I explained who I thought might be up to this act of intimidation and Vito agreed I should take precautions and be careful about what I said on phone calls until he could find out more.
I went back to my recording, but just thirty minutes later, Vito was on the phone. “I have the information for you.” My heart raced. Vito went on. “The car that was following you belongs to a guy named Barry Levinson.” I was mortified and of course relieved and explained to Vito it was “The” Barry Levinson, and we had just finished a round of golf.
It turned out that Barry, who had apparently driven by himself to the course, was as lost as I was, and thought if he followed me I’d lead him home. A few days later I got a call from my good friend Mickey Sherman, who was close with Vito. “Let me know if Martin Scorsese or Francis Coppola starts stalking you, Michael.” Everyone thought it was quite funny, including me, at least in hindsight.
There was another source of light in the midst of the chaos of travel, recording, publicity, and lawyering—the occasional call from Rodney Dangerfield. Many say Dangerfield was the single greatest stand-up comedian we’ve ever known. The first call came just after I had done a few minutes of my best Dangerfield impression while on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno. (Jay and I would continue to do a minute or so of Rodney on every show for years to follow.) I was at home when Kim from my office rang in and said, “There’s a guy on the phone who wants to speak to you. And he says his name is Rodney Dangerfield.” I smiled. The next thing I knew, there was Rodney’s voice on the receiver as clearly as I’d ever heard it. “I tell ya, Michael, I just wanted to thank you for the Leno show! You’re on top of the world and there you are, doing me! It means a lot to me, I tell ya.” I told Rodney I was a huge fan of his work. That was the start of a good friendship. He showed up for me at This Close, a cancer-research fund-raiser, and joined me in a music video for one of my albums. He later invited me to cameo in two of his films.
Radio interviewers were soon asking me to “do some Rodney” when I was on my promotional tours. I usually led with Rodney’s “My wife’s a terrible cook” jokes:
“In my house, we pray after we eat.”
“One night my wife told me to take out the garbage. I said, You cooked it, you take it out.”
“My wife’s cooking is so bad the flies chipped in to fix the hole in the screen door.”
Or another favorite: “I was an ugly kid; when my dog humped my leg he closed his eyes.”
When my assistant, Ronnie, told me that Rodney actually did the cooking in his house and that none of his pots and pans matched, I bought him a full set of Revere cookware for his birthday. Next thing I knew, he was on the phone to thank me. I told him I couldn’t believe he was the cook at home. His reply: “You don’t think I married my wife for what she does in the kitchen, do ya?”
I called Rodney after one of his last rounds of surgery to see how he was feeling. “I tell ya, Michael, I’ve been cut up so much lately I feel like I’m back in my old neighborhood.” After Rodney’s passing, his wife, Joan, asked me to be a pallbearer at his funeral. There was quite a cast of characters at the service, including generations of the greatest comics around, from Chris Rock and Adam Sandler to Jim Carrey, Rob Schneider, and Tim Allen. They all shared stories that had us laughing and crying. There will only be one Rodney Dangerfield.
Perhaps the album I wrestled with most during those endless years of litigation was Vintage. The court case was coming to a head during this project, and though I was staying in a great hotel in Miami, I was unable to sleep even after putting in ten- to twelve-hour days. I was working with Rudy Pérez, my dear and brilliant friend who is a Grammy-winning producer. We had set out to record an album of authentic, timeless American classics, which Rudy arranged masterfully. That’s what Rudy does. I drove back and forth to the studio each day, feeling weary to the bone. I struggled to find my full voice for those sessions. Some days I delivered; other days I was just a mess. Still, being in the studio, immersed in music, was my saving grace, along with the support provided by Rudy and his lovely wife, Betsy.
One night I was working with Rudy when the very gracious and generous Julio Iglesias came into the studio, bringing a bottle of La Tâche (my favorite red wine) with him. He smiled and said, “I’m going to be having dinner with someone who loves you very much.” Later that night the phone rang in the studio and Rudy said, “It’s Julio and he’s got President Clinton on the phone to speak to you.” Every musician and engineer in the studio went quiet and stared as I took the phone. I listened to Bill’s familiar voice on the other end: “I hear you’re doing an album of standards, Michael. What songs?” I started in on the track list, beginning with “The Very Thought of You,” and Bill chimed in without missing a beat, “I see your face in every flower / Your eyes in stars above.” This was yet another endearing Clinton mo
ment for me, and I was once again blown away by the wealth of information the man has at his fingertips and his ability to connect so personally.
By 2005, I was recording the live album Til the End of Forever, which was mostly co-produced by Steve Milo and reunited me with a close friend, the supertalented writer and producer Billy Mann. This CD included my composition “The Courage in Your Eyes,” dedicated to and inspired by Coretta Scott King. I have read all I could find on the teachings of Socrates, Seneca, Buddha, Christ, Gandhi, and Montaigne, as well as the King family. These spiritual warriors practiced compassion during the most intense and perilous times of their lives. They rose up in the face of adversity. Rather than becoming absorbed or overwhelmed by their own suffering, they led by example, offering messages that impacted and inspired generations to come. Love and compassion are at the center of all their messages, which share a universal human quality reflecting the soul of it all—that which fulfills us beyond all else and gives our journey purpose.
We each have our own journey. Life brings trials, tribulations, and challenges to us all. Nothing great comes without challenge. It’s not just surviving the battles that determines our character, it’s persevering with dignity, with grace, and with kindness. That can be the hardest thing to do, of course. The power of the human spirit is manifested when we rise above our hardships and discover what we are truly made of.
THROUGH THE FIRE
It was around 2005 and I was on a short vacation in Mexico with Nicollette. We were relaxing and enjoying each other’s company all day, but that night I couldn’t sleep. My one remaining legal battle was haunting me and my mind would not let go of it. In the wee hours of the night, I got up, turned on my computer, and checked my e-mail. There appeared a message in the in-box and I saw the five words “Your case has been settled.”
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