In my band with Jon, we played music that could be described as the poor man’s version of the Knack, happy little major key rockers born of Buddy Holly. One of the last songs I wrote in that band (produced by our good friend Billy) was a departure from that sound, and it is from where I discovered the “formula.” A formula used by me, Desmond Child, and countless others for sales reaching into the hundreds of millions of records sold.

This opened the door to the next phase of my writing and really made this last band stand out. Some music historians list this band as extremely influential in the birth of “hair metal” or “melodic metal” and I’d like to think so. It was this simple chord progression of minor 1, 6, 7 that we wrote so many hits with, and countless others did as well. It was the minor chord version of the Buddy Holly formula of major 1, 4, 5 and that formula I used to death in my prior bands, so converting to the minor version was a piece of cake.

I stumbled on it in an old Alice Cooper song “Halo of Flies,” and with my music theory background, I understood it further and immediately was able to write “catchy” songs within the harder rock structure. I’m sure everyone else figured it out the same way, but there is always the sliver of hope that I was the grandfather of this, of course that could be loosely psychotic thinking as well!

This band contained the drummer from my old Asbury band, a new bass player (one that didn’t use Crazy Glue for dental work), me, a keyboard player who couldn’t really play (what a character he was, more on him later), and a singer that shared something special with me: we hated each other from the start. The songs were killer, and the band was tighter than a crab’s ass during mating season.

Another local from the scene took the smart detour and started working for a record company; his name is Tom Whalley and, as of this writing, holds the lofty position of Chairman of Warner Brothers Records, after starting there in the mail room. Tom was, and is, a great guy. He turned me on to a local demo recording studio run by an equally great guy named “R.” “R” was once a rock star and played drums for a legendary guitarist. Having “R” work with us was inspiring because he had been there and he convinced us we could get there as well.

He had a cool little studio in a funky little town and though this was not the Power Station and he was not Southside Johnny or Billy Squier, it worked for us and worked well. We recorded there for months and perfected our sound and my writing (not to say it was perfect). I’m now able to see that the tension with the singer added something as well. It was getting close to the end of my personal pact, as my daughter was nearing a year old. So here we went. We started sending out demos, fingers crossed, prayers said, dreams woven.

About this time, Bon Jovi got a record deal, and I got my first song placed on a record. This was monumental. It was hope, it was within reach, and it was now possible. I was a published songwriter! Of course this was also interesting because Jon’s lawyer tried to force me to give up my publishing in the song, and so goes my first round of learning the business side of the business. I was scared that this brass ring would be lost, so I reached out to many people to help me find a lawyer.

Who gave me the recommendation, I can’t recall, maybe selective amnesia. They not only introduced me to a lawyer, they introduced me to the Anti Christ and my first official, royal fucking in the music business. You know the old saying a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Well this was more like the devil dressed as Don Johnson circa Miami Vice.

More on this scum later, because this was also the time of meeting the man who came in right before my personal pact sands in the hour glass ran out and I would quit. You know, speaking of quitting, my Mom was a saint, the most amazing, loving, inspiring woman I have ever known. She was my world, and I miss her every second of every day. I told my Mom about my pact, and it was the only time she ever slapped me across the face, and she screamed at me, “Don’t you dare quit, you’ve come this far, you will be fine.” Thanks, Mom, for that and everything else you gave me and taught me. Picture how good life would be if every kid had such loving and supportive parents.

Anyway, enter Roy Thomas Baker.

RTB! Now, of course, I continued to “work the phones” over the years and just became better at it. Through that phone hustle, I managed to get our newest demo into the hands of Roy’s girl Friday, and she informed me Roy would be calling because he loved it. Loved it? Loved it! Roy Thomas Baker, the legend, loved it? Man, couple that with a song of mine going on a Bon Jovi record to be released by Polygram and my mom slapping me and yeah, I was not ready to quit.

So I sat waiting for that call from RTB. Sat in that little shithole apartment we called home, where we had no bath tub (just a rusted shower stall), and the baby took baths in the sink. You bet I was ready; my whole family was ready. We had four rooms. My wife and baby slept in one bedroom, my mom and sister in the other, me and my dad slept on cots in the living room. Our clothes kept in a shed in the yard. We were broke, but those four rooms had more love and hope in them than mansions on the ocean front and made me understand all I really ever needed to know about life.

One day I came in from band practice, and my sister was on the phone. I was pissed; you see this was before call waiting or anything like that. Shit, I was waiting for the “call,” and there she was chatting away for like a half hour. She turned to me and said, “Here, it’s Roy Thomas Baker.” I was even more pissed at her for kidding me about that so I yanked the phone violently away from her and said hello in a pissed tone.

The reply was this exactly: “Hello dear, it’s RTB, and I love your music.” I almost died. In my excitement and nervousness, I replied, “I love your snare drum sound.” Great retort, huh? I love your snare drum sound, great. Roy being Roy replied with, “Oh, that’s easy to get.” And that began my decades-long friendship and mentorship with one of the greatest producers in the history of music.

Roy asked if I could come meet him in New York at Elektra Records, where he was VP of A&R. I said of course I could. Man, the call now turned into a meeting! Though my meetings always turned into shit, this was different; this was a record producer first, an executive second, plus I was now a published writer (big deal), so you never know. I could barely sleep that night, and I remember distinctly the odd Jennifer Beals type sweatshirt I picked out for that fateful meeting.
Off I went to New York.

So here I am at Elektra Records in the office of my good friend Michael Alago (who always passed on my music, but I love him dearly), when Michael looks behind me and says “Hello Roy.”
Now, the name Roy Thomas Baker alone conjures up the prototypical stately English gentleman; coupled with his legend and vast discography, you kind of expect the host of Masterpiece Theatre, all decked out in a three-piece suit and perhaps a walking stick.

I get and up and turn around, and I am now face to face with RTB. Roy of course being Roy, was wearing checkered knickers, red knee socks, blue bowling shoes to match his blue hair, and giant, red, Elton John glasses. So much for preconceived notions!

He stuck out his hand and said, “Hello dear, I’m Roy! Do you like Indian food? Let’s go for lunchy poo!” Wow! This was going to be a very different meeting indeed. So here I am walking the streets of New York with a living legend, going to lunch to eat an exotic food I had never tried, talking about my songs and my writing and him telling me I wrote hit songs!

I was screaming inside with joy! To top it all off, like it was an everyday thing (for RTB it is), we walk into the restaurant and there sitting at a table waiting for us is Eliot Easton from the Cars! I love the Cars! I love Eliot as a guitar player, and I want to fucking scream out loud. Me and my buddy Vic look at each other, our eyes laughing, and we sit down. Jesus, does it get any better?

Apparently not for us, at least not yet.

Lunch with RTB can only be topped by breakfast with Ahmet, which comes up later.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 7th, 2009 at 3:21 am and is filed under Label Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.