I Wrote That One, Too . . . Page 4

  Write we did . . . for the last forty years.

  Not only have we written songs for pop, country, and R&B artists, but John and I have written the themes for hit TV shows like Growing Pains, My Sister Sam, Murphy Brown, and Just the 10 of Us, and songs for film like The Last Boy Scout, Pure Country, and Curly Sue, among many others. John’s versatility as a lyricist is unparalleled. He can write about anything in his own unique voice and style and possesses that rare ability to either write to an existing melody or come up with a lyric idea first. I had gotten so used to working “lyric first” with both Milton and Marty that working with John gave me the musical freedom to go to more unusual places with both melody and time signatures, rather than keep within the framework of a finished lyric.

  The truth is, I love writing both ways, and that’s been the beauty of working with all of these guys, but when it came to writing for the theater, which is the direction in which I saw myself inevitably heading, it was John’s flexibility for writing anything in any shape that made him the perfect choice to write the lyrics for any show I was approached to write.

  The real magic of a successful collaboration is that unique musical miracle that comes from each of them. In every cowriting situation I’ve had, I’ve found the chemistry between myself and the person I’m working with to be unique. Fortunately, I’ve gotten to write with some of the most wonderfully talented people on the planet. I am forever grateful that they shared their time and talents with me over the years, and my deepest admiration goes to them. Unlike the mostly “exclusive” songwriting teams, like Bacharach and David, Elton and Bernie, Bricusse and Newley, and of course, Lennon and McCartney, most of my major successes were written with a select group of four songwriting partners, or the occasional cut or hit from a first-time write with a new collaborator.

  It doesn’t matter what comes first, music or lyrics. What matters is that you have a symbiotic relationship with your collaborator. The value of working with a cowriter, especially one who is strong lyrically and can turn a phrase and come up with fresh approaches to well-worn stories, is that it makes it fun to cowrite.

  At the end of the day, we’re usually all just singing or writing about either love found or love lost.

  At least that’s what I’m usually writing about.

  6

  Knocking on Doors 1

  Herb Bernstein

  I was trudging through high school with no band, not much money, and a small stack of some pretty good songs that I had no idea what to do with. I was still unhappy at home, and all I really wanted to do was to run away and join the circus.

  But since I was afraid of heights and allergic to elephants, I knew I had to follow a different destiny. I took the subway from Queens to Manhattan and met with a publisher. It was all about chutzpah—instilled by my mom, no doubt. It was about having the guts to follow your dream.

  I went directly to the Brill Building, because I heard that’s where the publishers were, and I started knocking on doors. The problem was, the Brill Building was not really the happening place anymore. Most of the great writers and publishers had moved on from there.

  I wasn’t daunted. My endgame was getting into Herb Bernstein’s office. He was a man whose work I really loved, and I was determined to try and charm him with my talent.

  I was prepared: I studied every record Herb had arranged or produced, and was surprised at how easy it was to find his office address. It was actually listed in the phone book.

  So, I knocked on his door.

  His office was at 39 West 55th Street. As I walked in, there was a gentleman seated at a desk who asked if he could help me. Gathering my courage, I told him that I had written a few songs I wanted Herb to hear. I didn’t know I was talking to Herb’s assistant, Bud Rehak.

  Bud grinned at me, amused by the audacity of a sixteen-year-old kid, and asked me if I had some demo tapes I could leave for Herb, because he wasn’t in the office. I couldn’t. I was unprepared and I didn’t know I had to leave behind a demo.

  “No, not really,” I stammered. “I thought I could just play for him.”

  Bud kindly told me that I could play something for him instead.

  So I sat down and played. Bud must have been impressed, because he told me to hang out and wait for Herb. We chatted for a while, and Bud had told me he was a lyricist as well as being Herb’s assistant and office manager. About forty-five minutes later, we heard the door open, and it was Herb Bernstein.

  I was awestruck.

  Herb was one of the hottest arrangers in town, having done many charts for the Four Seasons, the Tokens, Brooklyn Bridge, Laura Nyro, and so many others. Bud introduced us, and Herb asked me to play him what I thought was my best song.

  I guessed that meant I probably was only going to get one shot off. I took a deep breath to steel my jittery nerves and played him a song. He listened all the way through.

  He asked me if I had another one. About halfway through the second song, he held up his hand, signaling me to stop. I thought he hated it, but it was the exact opposite.

  “I’d like to sign you to a publishing agreement,” he said, matter-of-factly. “How old are you?”

  “I’m sixteen.”

  Herb sighed and said, “Well, your parents are going to have to sign for you.”

  I knew that might be a problem.

  My dad had returned after a ten-year absence spent making another woman fairly miserable, and the minute he returned, mom kicked out Uncle Phil and pretended we were a normal family again. I was in the middle of hormonal rebellion, and my father and I were not exactly seeing eye-to-eye. Any and every choice I wanted to make for my life was always accompanied by a three-hour dissertation from my father about the pros and cons of making that choice. I only cared about music. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about school at that point. I just wanted to write songs.

  After having me sit through another one of these long-winded orations, my father surprised me and signed the contract. I guess he figured it would keep me focused until I went to college.

  Herb paid me thirty-five dollars a week, which was a lot of money back then—especially for a sixteen-year-old. Within a month of signing my first official songwriting agreement, Herb recorded my first commercial record, a song called “Infinity Blue,” released as an instrumental by Al Caiola and his orchestra on United Artists Records.

  There was my name, in parentheses, underneath the title.

  I was way beyond cloud nine. I was also introduced to my first professional collaborator, Myles Chase, who was from Brooklyn. He was also signed to Herb as a writer, and was a killer piano player. Herb recorded four or five of my songs in the two years I was writing for him, as well as giving me a crash course education in the recording studio and demo process.

  Even then, I got involved, and was somewhat adamant about, how and what the players played and what I was hearing. These guys were the top session players of the day in New York, but if I heard something musically that didn’t jibe with what I had envisioned for my song, I would quickly give Herb my opinion.

  Surprisingly, Herb would often listen to me and make the necessary adjustments to satisfy me. As much as I might have appreciated that gesture then, I find that I appreciate it more now, as it was a valuable first lesson to me in how to collaborate in the studio with great musicians.

  Fifty years later, I’m still friends with Herb, who is still working and looking great in his mid-eighties.

  As excited as I was to feel like I was finally on the trajectory of doing what I was supposed to be doing, the reality always hit on the subway ride heading back to Queens: I was still a teenager who lived with my parents, and I still had to take chemistry, geometry, world history, and gym. Every time I left the city, I dreaded leaving my fantasy world behind as I headed home.

  7

  Pains Growing

  My father was not a bad pe
rson.

  He was incredibly smart and well read, and he could be extraordinarily charming and funny. He just had an unpredictable temperament, primarily fueled by vodka martinis. The slightest thing a person might say could send him into a verbal rage, where he would rant expletives and storm out. For my sister and me, this was a frightening thing to experience: it would take me weeks to get over the shock of one of these vituperative rants. And they would happen way too often.

  I loved my dad, but I panicked every time the vodka bottle came out, because there would inevitably be a battle brewing between him and my mom.

  Despite their long estrangement during the Uncle Phil years, my parents decided to get back together during the summer of my junior year of high school. They wanted a fresh start, so my father accepted a new job opportunity and moved us rather abruptly to Baltimore, Maryland.

  In their minds, a fresh start meant a new environment. For me, it meant a certifiable nightmare.

  Everything I knew was in New York. I had lived in the same neighborhood and had the same friends for almost seventeen years, and now they wanted to uproot me? No. I was furious. I was about to enter my last year of high school, and I was determined to graduate with my friends.

  Firstly, I was wildly uncomfortable with the fact that my parents were getting back together and were going to sleep in the same bed after ten years of them both being with other people.

  Secondly, my sister was now living in her own apartment, while I was still transitioning and getting used to being the only kid in the house with my mom.

  Thirdly, I still had disturbing memories permanently imprinted on my psyche of all of the yelling, screaming, drinking, and fighting of the past decade. What was going to be different now? All of a sudden they were planning on peace, love, and “Kumbaya”? I didn’t think so, and I did not believe or trust that change was possible. They were forcing me to be a part of this great experiment in a new city where I didn’t know a soul except for Mark Jerome, whose dad coincidentally had also taken a new job and moved his family to Baltimore just a year before. Yes, that Mark Jerome, who I guess you’d say was my first songwriting partner in the Four People. Crazy coincidence.

  To me, however, the impending move was still akin to child abuse.

  Technically, I was still a minor, so I did not have a choice. I packed up my stuff—mostly my beloved records—and begrudgingly moved to Baltimore. Saying goodbye to everyone I knew, including Herb Bernstein, was horrible, and I was petrified of entering a new high school where I had absolutely no friends. The only good news was that Mark might be in my class.

  We left New York and moved to a split-level townhouse in the Baltimore suburbs. I had a little more than five weeks of summer to get adjusted to the new surroundings, make a few friends, and get ready for the torturous first day of school. Having Mark Jerome there to show me around, introduce me to some of his friends, and just hang out was the only thing keeping me relatively sane. The only problem was that Mark didn’t live in my neighborhood. He lived fifteen miles away, in Pikesville, and went to a different school. My mother tried to get me into that school district, but there was strict zoning, and I was denied.

  I tried to stay as positive as I could, but it was tough.

  As luck would have it, I was at our community swimming pool one weekend, and there was a band playing a pool party. The band members were all my age, and the lead guitar player/lead singer was surprisingly good. This guy was the first person I ever saw that could play the guitar riff to the Beatles’ “And Your Bird Can Sing.” I later would learn that not even George Harrison himself could do that without an overdubbed second guitar.

  I listened intently to the band for about forty minutes before they took a fifteen-minute break. I went over and introduced myself. The lead guitar player’s name was Tony Sciuto, and he had formed the Ravens a year earlier with his little brother Mike—a crazy good bass player considering his bass was bigger than he was. I told Tony my story about writing songs and playing in bands myself, and he asked me if I’d like to play keyboards with them.

  This was the beginning of a friendship that would take many turns over the course of our lives. I had graduated to a Farfisa organ that my parents had gotten me, in retrospect probably as a bribe for moving.

  I spent the remainder of the summer playing gigs with the Ravens. I had a purpose again, but the summer was in the rearview mirror, and the first day of school was unavoidable.

  To say that I felt like a fish out of water on that day would be the understatement of the century.

  My entire life to this point was about me always trying to fight past the disappointment and make the best of every day. That’s what I learned from my grandma, Gertie, who was the most positive female influence on my life. I tried desperately to hold on to that as I struggled through that first week as a senior at a new high school. I might as well have been thrown into a new universe.

  The only tool I had to make new friends was music. Somehow, I needed to seek out those people at Woodlawn Senior High who would have common interests. At five-foot-five and one hundred and thirty pounds, I clearly wasn’t going to make the football team.

  Surely there had to be a few people there that wanted to either sing or write songs? My teachers had clearly spoken to my parents about my situation, because they went out of their way to introduce me to kids with whom they thought I’d have something in common. I was assigned a senior guidance counselor who also made my life there a lot better than I had anticipated.

  Before long, I began to make some friends who I looked forward to seeing each day. Russ Margolis, Marc Bacon, and Bob Marvin were all talented music guys. Things were looking up.

  I wasn’t getting to see Mark very much except on weekends because of school commitments, and most of the Ravens lived in the inner city of Baltimore, so playing with them became more and more infrequent. About two months into the school year, I tried out for the drama/music club at the urging of Stuart Mason, a fellow student who would go on to be the senior-class president. He heard that I wrote songs, and as a senior-class project he wanted to write an original spring musical, instead of doing the usual high-school production of an existing Broadway show.

  It was my first musical.

  Stuart had an idea called Protest Man. Neither one of us really knew what we were doing, in terms of writing a musical from scratch, so he suggested I write a few songs and he would come up with a storyline that we could turn into a play script.

  “Why not?” I thought. I certainly didn’t have any better offers.

  I wrote eight songs that had absolutely nothing to do with each other, but it was enough of a template for Stuart to craft a fun little story about a group of kids who were protesting something at school. I have no recollection whatsoever of what we were protesting about. Frankly, I’m not sure he did either, but it worked. The mid-year show was a big hit at the school, and it brought me quite a bit of peer notoriety.

  The school year was rapidly coming to a close and I had managed to survive. With college options looming, the only thing I knew was that I needed to get as far away as possible. I loved my parents but I needed space to figure out me.

  With the help of my guidance counselor at Woodlawn, we began to try to figure out where I might be able to attend college.

  I had barely a C average when I graduated high school, so there weren’t many good choices of schools I could get into. I had no formal training in music, and my dad wouldn’t hear of me choosing music as a career choice. So, since my next favorite things in life were dogs, I decided I’d be a veterinarian.

  I randomly pointed at a map of the United States, and based solely on which schools had the highest-ranked football team at the moment, I began to apply to colleges that had pre-vet programs. I also wanted to get as far away from home—and my father’s endless, long-winded, alcohol-fueled speeches—as I could.

  Afte
r being rejected by eight schools in a row, including Cornell University, I received an acceptance letter from Northern Arizona State University in Flagstaff. I was happy to have gotten into college but somewhat unimpressed with their football team. So, I waited to see if there were any more acceptances. Luckily, the University of Georgia somehow saw past my mediocre grades and accepted me. And their Top 10–ranked football team was amazing.

  Kentucky and Arizona also accepted me late, but Georgia had the better upcoming football schedule. It was also an incredible party school, and as far away from my dysfunctional family life as I could get. They also happened to have a highly rated veterinary medical program.

  My father had deeply ingrained in me that while music is a wonderful hobby, one can’t make a living at it. One of my father’s favorite things to do—usually lubed by his fifth vodka martini—would be to pontificate on how he didn’t want his son playing for tips in a glass. So I was off to Athens, Georgia, to become a veterinarian.

  During my tumultuous year in Baltimore, and due to the distance away from New York City, I was sadly forced to let Herb know that I would no longer be able to fulfill my songwriting obligations. He gave me a release.

  The drinking, which was the chief cause of the bickering between my parents, never really stopped. I never fully accepted my dad coming back until maybe ten years before his death at the age of eighty-four. The scars of the four-year-old little boy whose father had left for another woman were etched deeply, and the truth is, it took me most of the rest of his life for me to fully come to terms with it.

  8

  Knocking On Doors 2

  Bill Lowery

  I was not really happy in college.

  Sure, I made some new friends, and I loved going to football and basketball games, but that was about it. I wasn’t following my dream. I wasn’t being true to myself. I was trying to be a vet because that’s what my parents wanted me to do, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do. It only took me one trimester of chem 101 and advanced math to figure out veterinary medicine was not even a remote possibility in my future. I needed to switch majors, and my only criterion was that it did not require numbers.