Between a Heart and a Rock Place_ A Memoir Part 3

"Okay, Peter, why don't you continue to engineer and work on the rest of the alb.u.m with Spyder."

Spyder turned to Peter questioningly. "Is that how you want to work?"

"Sure," Peter said. During the short time we'd been recording, Pete and Spyder had developed a good rapport. They were a great team, with Pete a patient and thorough teacher. He loved explaining every minute detail of the recording process to Spyder and seeing Spyder absorb every word of it. Soon Spyder was Pete's equal. And so the majority of the material on In the Heat of the Night In the Heat of the Night was produced by Peter Coleman with a great deal of help from Neil "Spyder" Giraldo, but Spyder neither asked for nor received credit for his extra work on the alb.u.m. was produced by Peter Coleman with a great deal of help from Neil "Spyder" Giraldo, but Spyder neither asked for nor received credit for his extra work on the alb.u.m.

As it turned out, I didn't get my name on the song "Heartbreaker," either, despite the fact that by the time we laid it down, I had rewritten so many of the lyrics and we wouldn't have used it otherwise. But the writers wouldn't go for giving me credit. I was an unknown, and Chrysalis did not stand with me. It was one of the first times that they put their interests before mine.

"Heartbreaker" was the first song that the new team of Coleman/Giraldo recorded. It was a blistering recording, setting the tone for the entire record. We included the John Mellencamp song, "I Need a Lover," and three by Mike Chapman and his frequent collaborator, British writer/producer Nicky Chinn: "If You Think You Know How to Love Me," "No You Don't," and the t.i.tle cut, "In the Heat of the Night." Zel and I had two songs on the alb.u.m, "So Sincere" and "My Clone Sleeps Alone." "Rated X" was a Nick Gilder/James McCulloch song, and "We Live for Love" was written by Spyder.

I noticed right away that Spyder was careful not to try to bring his own songs to the table, especially after he was tapped by Chapman to work with Peter Coleman. A very conscientious person, Spyder began to see that he was influencing much of what was happening with the record, and he didn't want it to look like he was taking over, even though he wasn't. He was the driving force, the catalyst making it all happen. He thought that by adding songs he'd written, his influence would be disproportionate.

But when we cut everything that we liked, we still needed one song. That's when he invited me to his house to hear "We Live for Love." (In the years since that alb.u.m came out, Spyder has always said that he wrote that song for me, and I always call him on it, because he wrote the song before we had anything going. He says that's just part of my shtick, but I know better.) As good as we all knew "Heartbreaker" was, it wasn't the first single release, because Chrysalis, in their continuing infinite wisdom, didn't think it was a hit. Disco was dying, but the label didn't see it. Those guys were positive that disco-loving deejays would not play the song because there was too much guitar on it. The irony is that the resurgence of guitar-driven music was about to happen. The Clash was ushering it in, with punk becoming the antidote to disco. Thank G.o.d. We were going to bring guitars back into the mainstream and we were moving in the right direction, but at that moment, we were the only ones who thought that. I was in love with Spyder's guitar playing, and as far as I was concerned, there was never enough of it. I was the one pus.h.i.+ng him to play more guitar. Our conversation usually went like this: "I think that song needs more guitar."

"No."

"Come on, put another guitar part on it. I swear to you that it will work."

"No, it won't. Listen to the song structure."

Spyder had a theory about the way that guitars and vocals should work together. He wanted the guitar solos to be melodic-to lead into the vocals, not fight with them. It all had to do with keeping people musically interested in the song. When the vocal stopped, the guitar would take over. When the guitar stopped, the vocals would come back in. He saw a good song structure as being like a story with no lulls for someone to get bored. Every note would lead into the next, set the scene.

"Heartbreaker" was teeming with that kind of back-and-forth, but Chrysalis lived in fear of disco's popularity and wouldn't release it. So the first two singles were the safer choices "I Need a Lover" and "If You Think You Know How to Love Me." They were released respectively in August and October of 1979, and neither of them did what we needed them to commercially. However, the important thing they did do, especially "I Need a Lover," was introduce us to the world. "I Need a Lover" created a huge buzz. Including it was a brilliant suggestion by Chapman. It was a song that was relatively unknown in America but had proved itself in Australia. And of course lyrically, it was perfect. Radio stations loved it. They even began splicing our two versions together. In the end, "I Need a Lover" got us airplay, just not enough to break us out.

The thing about alb.u.ms is that not all songs have to be hits. I subscribe to what I'm sure is a widely held belief that not all songs are meant to be number one records. All songs are pivotal, important stones in the path that you're walking, stones that you follow to your next destination. Each one leads to the next. They're not all meant to be commercial successes. But they need to be successful for the artist on some level.

I believe that everything is connected. When you ask someone to listen to an alb.u.m, you want them to feel like they are listening to someone's heart and soul. You do not make records for the fans, for radio, or for sales. You make the record that needs to come out of you. Then, and only then, do you give it to the public. Then it becomes a personal gift from you. And the truth is, if you are honest about making music, it is irrelevant whether the public likes the alb.u.m or not. What is important is that you made the record you wanted to make, one that says something about how you're feeling at the time. It's completely narcissistic and at the same time you hope it has relevance for someone else. And when it does, you've tapped into the "common thread." This can't be fabricated; it's not something you do by design (well, I guess some people do, but I never could). It determines. .h.i.t records, it's elusive, it's coveted, and it's best left to the whim of the universe.

If all those songs happen to end up radio hits, that's great. As long as you don't compromise art for the sake of commerce, I'm all for it, but it's not always easy to do. There were many times throughout our career that we were forced to do just that. It always felt wrong and it always came back to bite us in the a.s.s.

In the end, the recording process went better than any of us could have expected. Whatever "it" was, we'd captured it and we were all ecstatic. Strangely Chrysalis seemed lukewarm about the finished product. Terry even commented to me, "Don't expect too much." But there was no doubt in our minds that we'd made a great record. It was going to take a lot more than a music exec to bring me down.

When we finished, I went back to New York while Spyder stayed in Los Angeles for about a month, until we started rehearsals for our live show. In order to promote the alb.u.m, we'd landed a gig opening for David Werner, who'd just released a glam rock alb.u.m that was sometimes compared to David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust Ziggy Stardust. Though we'd been refining our sound in the studio for the last month, we'd never played a live show as a full band. We had work to do.

CHAPTER THREE.

AN IMAGE PROBLEM.

I FILED FOR A FILED FOR A divorce as soon as I got back to New York. I didn't know what was going on between Spyder and me, but I knew that those twenty-eight days we'd spent making divorce as soon as I got back to New York. I didn't know what was going on between Spyder and me, but I knew that those twenty-eight days we'd spent making In the Heat of the Night In the Heat of the Night had been some of the best of my life. Dennis and I hadn't had a real marriage for so long it just felt like a detail that needed to be handled. And it was a way to get my side of things rolling, whether Spyder was still involved with someone or not. had been some of the best of my life. Dennis and I hadn't had a real marriage for so long it just felt like a detail that needed to be handled. And it was a way to get my side of things rolling, whether Spyder was still involved with someone or not.

The month before Spyder came back to New York to rehea.r.s.e was agonizing. With the record release and our tour with David Werner coming, we talked on the phone almost every day. But when he arrived from California, I didn't know what to do with the emotions I felt. With each day I became more certain that this was a lot more than infatuation. This was not a man I was ever going to get over.

To hold it together, I kept having little talks with myself. Stay businesslike. Concentrate on rehearsing, on this first tour. Don't be a dumb s.h.i.+t and throw all this away. Stay businesslike. Concentrate on rehearsing, on this first tour. Don't be a dumb s.h.i.+t and throw all this away.

Spyder didn't help matters. He teased me mercilessly in just the right way to make me think that he felt the same way I did, and I knew he was serious about the flirtation. It was that awful dance that people do when they are so attracted to each other yet, for one reason or another, can't be together. It was exquisite agony. At first, my responses to him were more of the "Yeah, sure" variety. Then one day at he started playing the familiar chords of "Somewhere over the Rainbow" on the piano, and when I asked him why he was playing it, he said, "It's 'Somewhere over Montana'-me and you." We were going on tour through Montana.

That did it.

"You know what? You're full of s.h.i.+t."

"Montana, you and me," he said with a little smile.

"You've got a girlfriend. Don't talk to me."

Over the next week, he kept it up, mentioning Montana every so often, like we were going to head off into the wild and start a new life together. I became very blunt. Every time he mentioned Montana I'd say, "Figure out your own situation. Then we'll talk about Montana." I was trying to protect myself. His relations.h.i.+p with Linda seemed intact, and I wasn't going to play the fool.

I couldn't imagine what it was going to be like with him out on the road. It had been hard enough being around him most of the day while we were recording, but at least he went home at night. On the road we'd be together twenty-four hours a day. How was I going to do that that? There was no way no way I could travel on a bus with this man and not really be with him. On the other hand, I couldn't help thinking that something had changed, that whatever relations.h.i.+p we had was being taken to the next level, even if superficially nothing was different. I could travel on a bus with this man and not really be with him. On the other hand, I couldn't help thinking that something had changed, that whatever relations.h.i.+p we had was being taken to the next level, even if superficially nothing was different.

One evening toward the end of our rehearsals for the tour, Spyder asked me to have a drink with him at a little seafood restaurant named Pier 52 on the West Side of Manhattan. There wasn't anything odd about his invitation, and I didn't antic.i.p.ate that anything out of the ordinary was happening. We sat beside a big aquarium, talking about the rehearsals, just making casual conversation. Finally he said he needed to have a serious talk with me.

Oh c.r.a.p! He's gonna quit the band!

"I'm having some problems," he said.

G.o.d, no! What if he's on drugs?

"I think Linda is cheating on me."

I mentally raised my arms in triumph. I couldn't believe it. She had screwed up. She'd cheated. How could she want somebody else? Was she crazy? Give him to me, I love him. Give him to me, I love him. I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him to forget about her, but I tried to control how happy I was. I could see he was hurt. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Neil," I said, barely managing to conceal my smile. I wanted to throw my arms around him and tell him to forget about her, but I tried to control how happy I was. I could see he was hurt. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Neil," I said, barely managing to conceal my smile.

He had a solemn look on his face and just nodded.

I had my chin in my hands, and I leaned in toward him with my most sympathetic look and spoke very low. "What a b.i.t.c.h! I don't know how she could do that to you. You are the sweetest person in the world. You don't deserve this."

But right under the sympathy, I was thinking, This is a done deal, Neil Giraldo. You. Are. Mine. This is a done deal, Neil Giraldo. You. Are. Mine.

He nodded. I commiserated with him, thinking how everything that I'd been saying really was true. He really was was the sweetest person in the world, and he really didn't deserve to be treated like this. There was something grounded, moral, and the sweetest person in the world, and he really didn't deserve to be treated like this. There was something grounded, moral, and Midwestern Midwestern about him. Even though we were both rockers and we were both serious about our music, in his own way he was just as traditional as I was, which was no small feat. about him. Even though we were both rockers and we were both serious about our music, in his own way he was just as traditional as I was, which was no small feat.

It took a couple of weeks for us to take the next step. Like me, Spyder is a conventional person. So while the attraction between us was mutual, he wasn't the type to end a relations.h.i.+p and jump right into another one. His attraction to me was real, but so was his hurt over being cheated on.

We went out with some of the band members as a group a few times, never addressing the fact that the s.e.xual tension between us was building. He and I were together constantly. When we weren't playing, we were shopping, listening to music, or running errands. We ate with each other every day. We were never apart, and it was getting intense. Then finally we went to Little Italy for the San Gennaro Festival, New York's September tribute to its Italian immigrants-just the two of us. Every year they hold parades, dances, and cannoli-eating contests. It couldn't be missed if you were an Italian boy and a girl who always felt like she should have been Italian.

We walked around Little Italy, watching people in costumes dance down the street, sampling some of the foods, and listening to the ethnic bands play. We stood there listening to the music, and the next thing we knew we were kissing. Neither of us hesitated or questioned it. We knew it had been coming, so we just let it happen. I thought back to all those morning car rides in L.A., the rehearsal sessions, how closely we'd worked with each other. Standing there in the middle of a narrow street in Little Italy, I knew this wasn't just hormones-this was something else.

From that moment on, we were a couple.

In the Heat of the Night was officially released in October of '79, around the same time that we started touring with David Werner. The shows were primarily in big clubs with big stages that gave us the chance to get our act down. It was a great time. We had our first alb.u.m out, the road show was well received, and Spyder and I were madly in love. was officially released in October of '79, around the same time that we started touring with David Werner. The shows were primarily in big clubs with big stages that gave us the chance to get our act down. It was a great time. We had our first alb.u.m out, the road show was well received, and Spyder and I were madly in love.

When Chrysalis decided to take a chance and put out "Heartbreaker" as the third single that December, all h.e.l.l broke loose. We'd only played ten shows with David when "Heartbreaker" exploded, but after that, we were fired from the tour. The crowds turning out were there for us, and when we left the stage, they almost rioted. Finally Werner's people said we had to get off the tour. We were causing chaos, and it was hurting David's show.

Though "Heartbreaker" gave us a ton of momentum coming off of David's tour, it didn't take long for us to be humbled. Shortly after leaving David's show we opened a show for Journey, and out of the thirty thousand people out there, I knew that maybe eight thousand had come to hear us. It was good exposure to be in front of a much larger crowd, and it gave us experience in front of a ma.s.sive audience, but it wasn't always the warmest reception. The audience was mostly ponytailed hippies and they weren't all that interested in us, which was their loss because we were putting on a really good show. We won them over by the end when we did "Heartbreaker," but before that, they were all a bit too laid-back to get into it. We were way more aggressive and defiant than what they were used to. If the audience wasn't ready for that, they would just have to deal with it.

From then on we were scrambling. We moved quickly through a process that usually takes several years: playing the big clubs like the Agora in Cleveland, then arenas and amphitheaters like the Universal Amphitheatre or Denver's Red Rocks. Everything jumped so fast that we were always just trying to catch our breath. I never had a moment when I could pace myself or find the time to get a grip. Trying to keep up was stressful, because I was (and still am) such a perfectionist. I could not do things half-a.s.sed; every night, every show, was all-important to me. I needed to give the audience everything I had.

Long before I began playing arena shows, I knew what I wanted to do for an audience. Even when I was singing in cover bands, I wanted to give the people who came out to see me more than a performance. I wanted to take them out of their world. If they had bills to pay and pressures at work, I wanted them to put them on hold for a couple of hours. I understood that world and what those long nights at the kitchen table felt like. I knew how badly people needed some relief from the daily grind. I looked out into a sea of faces and wanted to grab hold of every one of them. I wanted to let the audience live out fantasies, go into some other time and place with me. I was living mine and I wanted them to come along.

But even though I wanted to take the audience on a journey, it was always on my terms. I became a completely different person onstage. I prowled around and played with the audience. I never thought of myself as s.e.xy. I never thought about it period. Never. Growing up, I was skinny and flat chested, with big teeth and thin, straight hair; I left s.e.xy to the Italian G.o.ddesses at my high school. s.e.xy didn't even occur to me. I was a product of the women's movement. I dressed the way I did because I I liked it, not because I thought men liked it. I didn't care what they liked. liked it, not because I thought men liked it. I didn't care what they liked. That That was the point. I was much more interested in showing how strong-minded I was. It was all about not taking c.r.a.p from anyone for any reason. I wanted the stereotypes to disappear. I didn't want to be a female rocker, I just wanted to be a rocker. My look and persona were about freedom, strength, and power. The combination proved to be provocative. was the point. I was much more interested in showing how strong-minded I was. It was all about not taking c.r.a.p from anyone for any reason. I wanted the stereotypes to disappear. I didn't want to be a female rocker, I just wanted to be a rocker. My look and persona were about freedom, strength, and power. The combination proved to be provocative.

I took to touring pretty naturally. Even though I was the only female around a bunch of guys all the time, nothing about it struck me as weird. Over the years, I've heard so many female singers say they had problems with it, but I never did. I loved it. I relished being female, but what I was after was respect as a musician. Despite the rampant s.e.xism in the music business, remarkably the band never behaved that way. We were equals on every level, and those boys were close friends of mine. That made a big difference when we were touring; they always treated me with respect. The fact that Spyder and I were romantically involved was irrelevant. I wasn't a "pop tart." I was a serious, dedicated, formidably rockin' lead singer who happened to be a girl. And that's exactly how Spyder saw it, too.

Chrysalis was ecstatic when "Heartbreaker" hit big. But that excitement died when they found out that Spyder and I were involved. They were horrified. Each of us got a phone call.

"This is going to ruin your whole career. Don't you remember what happened with Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham? They almost broke up Fleetwood Mac!"

We both had the same reaction: "What? Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

They tortured us about it, convinced that we were on the road to ruin. We explained that we were making music that they liked and doing our job. Our personal life was not their business. They looked at our situation and saw the worst-case scenario: a rocky relations.h.i.+p that ruins the band. While I understood that there were other bands that had fallen into that trap, the truth was, band tension was always a variable-not just in male/female circ.u.mstances. A lot of all-male bands split up because of friction between members. It was ridiculous and intrusive.

Awkwardness in the band was just their cover story. What they really cared about was my image. It's an old tale in the entertainment business that record labels-whether they're dealing with men or women-want solo stars unattached and seemingly available. I've always found that train of thought insulting and s.e.xist. I wasn't a boy toy. My image was for my pleasure alone. I didn't think my fans cared about any of this, and I certainly didn't. This was 1979, not 1950. Women weren't objects anymore. I wanted to make music, but I wanted to do it on my terms. I wasn't in this to fit some male fantasy of what I was supposed to be. That meant living my life however the h.e.l.l I wanted to live it.

This drama over our relations.h.i.+p was part of my introduction to fame that began following that first tour. It wasn't overwhelming at first-nothing like later on and definitely nothing like today's celebrities have to deal with-but I started noticing people looking at me or whispering to each other when I was in the market. I wasn't sure what was going on for a while. I thought maybe they were looking at someone else, or maybe I just looked weird. Finally someone came up and said my name as if they knew me personally. It's an unsettling feeling. You're thrilled that people know you, because that means you're being accepted. But I'm basically a private person, and it was difficult to comprehend.

We still didn't really understand the magnitude of our career-not surprising, considering we lived in a vacuum. Traveling around on a bus was especially isolating in the early eighties, without cell phones or laptops. Billboard Billboard's charts were not calculated electronically through SoundScan. If an alb.u.m was taking off, it took longer for everyone to get the message. We were among the last to understand the impact of both "Heartbreaker" and the alb.u.m. The world was a different place: no Internet, no daily glut of information.

By the time our tour reached Virginia Beach, we finally saw the scope of what was happening around us. As we pulled up to the club, we saw that it was surrounded with a police barrier, and there appeared to be a ma.s.sive riot going on. We didn't know what the h.e.l.l had happened. An armed robbery? An explosion? Not quite. The club had oversold the show, and people who'd paid to see us couldn't get in. It's common practice for some clubs to oversell a show, counting on no-shows. But that night, the no-shows showed up en ma.s.se. They ended up cramming more inside than there probably should have been, and I'm sure the local fire marshal would have been p.i.s.sed if he'd been there to see it. Still, I'm sure some ticket holders went home mad.

What made this sight all the more shocking was that back then there were few outlets for artist exposure. The television shows newer acts could get on were few and far between-Don Kirshner's Rock Concert, The Midnight Special. There was no video exposure, no cable entertainment shows. You had radio play and your live show. The only way we knew something was happening was that with each performance, the crowds got bigger and wilder. You could feel the excitement building, escalating even more after the release of the next single, Spyder's song "We Live for Love."

That night in Virginia Beach, our hotel room faced the ocean and had a small balcony. After the show, we were standing on the balcony, admiring the view and looking at the cl.u.s.ter of bars down on the beach. The beach was covered in the gauzy haze of the various marquees, and one of them said spyder's in black and yellow lights. At that point, we were really into giving everyone nicknames, partially because Spyder had always been a nickname guy. I thought he should have one of his own, so because yellow and black were his favorite colors, I started calling him Spyder James. It just had a way of sticking.

A few weeks later we were playing a club in Florida, and again the place was oversold and teeming with people. We'd just begun our set when our tour manager rushed up to the stage yelling something inaudible. Because we were extremely loud, I could barely make out his words beneath all the noise, but he seemed to be saying, "You have to get off!"

I looked at him in disbelief. What the h.e.l.l was he doing? We were in the middle of performing. Get out of my face. But he was panicked.

Finally I heard him say, "You've got to stop, get off..." which was followed by something unintelligible that sounded a lot like "you're bombing bombing." I shot him a look like he was a mental patient. The audience was going nuts. They were hanging on every note.

"What!? Are you nuts?" I shouted back. "These people are going crazy!"

And that was when he grabbed me by my jacket lapels and screamed, "There's a bomb!" There was no mistaking those words.

It turned out that someone had called in a bomb threat and everyone had to vacate. Needless to say everyone filed out of the theater and stood in the street until the bomb squad gave the all-clear. Then everybody went back inside and we continued our show like nothing had ever happened.

That tour was all about having fun and enjoying the fact that we were actually getting paid money to do this every night. We couldn't believe our good fortune that we were getting to live out our dream and we pretty much celebrated that every day. Zel sometimes celebrated more than he should have.

Zel was definitely the colorful member of the band. At over six feet tall, he was a huge Southern boy who loved women and drinking. He was a sweet soul, but he liked to get crazy from time to time. One night in particular, he partied a little too much, and as we were all going our separate ways for the night, he said he was going to take a shower and go to bed because we had a show the next day. The motel we were staying in was nothing fancy, and we all retired to our rooms ready to wake up and do it all over again.

In the morning, we were all going to have breakfast together before we got on the bus to go to the venue for sound check. We went to Zel's room and knocked on his door-no answer. We called out to him and knocked again-still nothing. But we knew he was in there because we heard the shower running. We called our tour manager, Chris Pollan, and told him we couldn't get Zel to answer the door, so he sent someone to us with a spare room key.

The instant the door opened a blast of steamy air smacked us in the face. The entire room looked and felt like a steam bath, and there was Zel, in bed, snoring away. He'd pa.s.sed out and left the shower running the entire night. Everything was soaking wet, and because this wasn't the cla.s.siest joint in the world, he'd even managed to steam all the wallpaper off the walls. It was lying in colored piles all over the room.

The longer we played on the road the tighter our show became. By the time our tour made its way to New York, my family members were beside themselves. Everyone showed up at the Bottom Line in the Village for a big show in November of '79, and I can safely say that they were among the most enthusiastic members of the audience-no one more so than my mom. Both she and my father were ecstatic and proud, though he was so shy, he didn't show it as much. I was the first person in my family who had a job that didn't involve punching a time clock. And my cousins? They were roughly my age, so they were right there, screaming along with the other fans, jumping up and down, and yelling, "That's my cousin Patti!" The aunts and uncles shook their heads and said, "We knew she sang good, but..."

Of course having my mother at a show meant she'd get to see my act firsthand. Not surprisingly, she didn't really care about my outfit (after all, inside her conservative exterior beat the heart of the same wild woman who'd let my brother and me get a monkey). But she was horrified at my language onstage. She never swore, and saying the "F-word" was sacrilegious. For me it was like saying "the."

Georgia Ruel got a kick out of it all-the success, the image, everything. She was as proud as my parents. At one point, someone asked her, "I thought Patti was going to be a s.e.x ed teacher?"

"She is," Georgia answered with a wry smile.

Truthfully, though it had only been a few weeks, I was already getting tired of the image. It was already becoming one-dimensional, a boring distraction and the focus of what we were doing. That was never my intention. The girl who'd hiked up her school skirt as high as possible and p.i.s.sed off the Matron was long gone. In her place was a fiercely confident young woman who was only interested in making music on her terms. The image was mine; I made it up. Now I was done with it. It had served its purpose. I was ready to move on. The label was pus.h.i.+ng the look so much that it was getting in the way of the music. The artist in me didn't like that at all. Neither did the woman who was in a loving relations.h.i.+p.

Phrases such as "seductive vamp" have legs, especially when they are included in press releases that get picked up by radio and by print journalists. But every time I talked to management or the record label and said I wanted the s.e.x-kitten rhetoric toned down, my words fell on deaf ears. I was being sold as much for my image as for my music, and I was not not happy about it. happy about it.

WE TOURED ALMOST NONSTOP during that time and even took the show to Europe, where the crowds were just as big and just as pa.s.sionate. I'd never traveled outside of America, and I was like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time. We didn't have a moment to enjoy the success or rest on our laurels, though. The clock was ticking, and thanks to Chrysalis more recording sessions were just around the corner. during that time and even took the show to Europe, where the crowds were just as big and just as pa.s.sionate. I'd never traveled outside of America, and I was like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time. We didn't have a moment to enjoy the success or rest on our laurels, though. The clock was ticking, and thanks to Chrysalis more recording sessions were just around the corner.

My contract had what's called a suspension clause in it, meaning that I had to do my next alb.u.m in a certain time frame or they else could hold back royalties and delay payments. Any royalties or payments I was due would be frozen. That is a terrifying concept to a band just starting a big tour and dependant on any and all monies they can put together. Our recording schedule was at Chrysalis's discretion, and they wanted a record every nine months no matter what. It was unfathomable.

So while we were breaking our backs on tour promoting In the Heat of the Night, In the Heat of the Night, the label was already talking about a second alb.u.m. Being the front woman for the band, I found this especially distressing. All the radio and print interviews fell to me. If we had two days off, it seemed like I was scheduled round the clock for publicity photo shoots and in-store events. I understood that press and publicity helped keep the buzz alive. But to even think about making another record in the middle of the craziness seemed impossible. No thought was given to my physical or mental well-being. I was treated like a machine built to serve the record company's whims. the label was already talking about a second alb.u.m. Being the front woman for the band, I found this especially distressing. All the radio and print interviews fell to me. If we had two days off, it seemed like I was scheduled round the clock for publicity photo shoots and in-store events. I understood that press and publicity helped keep the buzz alive. But to even think about making another record in the middle of the craziness seemed impossible. No thought was given to my physical or mental well-being. I was treated like a machine built to serve the record company's whims.

Touring and promoting an alb.u.m are counterproductive to creating new material, and I've never been able to write when I'm in performance mode. Complicating matters was the fact that Spyder and I were just starting to seriously write together. It worked fine when we were off the road and had our heads clear. But writing wasn't something we could do on the fly. Because I wasn't a seasoned writer at the time, I didn't care as much about having a lot of my own songs on the next alb.u.m. However, that didn't mean I wanted to rush the writing process. From what I'd learned so far, I loved the process of writing, and I wanted more time to hone that skill. Meanwhile Spyder was already an accomplished songwriter, but what he needed was to have his work heard.

I wanted this second record to be better than In the Heat of the Night In the Heat of the Night. I wanted it to be more personal, more representative of us as a band and as individuals. We were determined that our next work would not suffer from soph.o.m.ore syndrome. We would not be a band with a smas.h.i.+ng debut alb.u.m that can't follow it up. Neither of us thought in terms of writing a hit hit song. We wanted to write songs that had relevance to where we were in our lives. If a hit emerged, that was great, but we wouldn't focus on that. Back then, we looked to outside writers to provide the hits. It was my job to sift through the box-loads of song demos submitted by songwriters, since that wasn't something that Spyder enjoyed doing. He always insisted that we were capable of writing commercial songs without compromising our integrity as songwriters. He was right, of course. song. We wanted to write songs that had relevance to where we were in our lives. If a hit emerged, that was great, but we wouldn't focus on that. Back then, we looked to outside writers to provide the hits. It was my job to sift through the box-loads of song demos submitted by songwriters, since that wasn't something that Spyder enjoyed doing. He always insisted that we were capable of writing commercial songs without compromising our integrity as songwriters. He was right, of course.

While we were on a short break from touring and getting ready to record in Los Angeles again, Spyder and I decided to move to California. I'd dreamed of beautiful beaches and tropical climates ever since the days I was on the grade school slide, making up stories about what my life would be like. So in February of 1980 we rented a small house in Tarzana. Our next alb.u.m would be recorded at Sound City, which is located in Van Nuys. (It was not exactly a tropical paradise, but it was California!) As far as Chrysalis was concerned, Mike Chapman was the obvious choice for producer. It didn't matter to them that he hadn't actually produced much of the first alb.u.m. Because his name had been on it, he was tied to its success. But although Chapman had a huge impact on the first record, I didn't think he would be the right choice for the next one. I hoped we'd record with Peter Coleman. After all, Chapman had turned the first record over to him when he'd left. Peter was never heavy-handed with us, providing the freedom we needed. Chrysalis didn't want Peter to produce the new alb.u.m, and instead they hired Keith Olsen. It seemed like a smart choice, because Olsen had an impressive background. He was an award-winning, platinum-record-selling, big-name producer who'd worked with bands like Fleetwood Mac and the Grateful Dead.

Despite the tight schedule, I was excited to get started and looking forward to working with Olsen. I was starting to write more, collaborating with Spyder and Zel, our ba.s.sist. Together, the three of us wrote one song I felt strongly about: "h.e.l.l Is for Children." The idea came from an article in the New York Times New York Times. Until I read that article, I knew very little about violence against children. My childhood might have been a little crazy once in a while, but my parents were nonviolent. They barely raised their voices at us. Growing up, Andy and I seldom got spanked, and if we did it was just a little swat on the b.u.t.t. I didn't know any kids who got knocked around either. I'd never known anyone who had to hide bruises or slap marks. Kids at school would have suspected if something bad was going on with one of our friends. At least I hope we would have, even as sheltered as we were. Reading that story, however, opened my eyes.

That morning, sitting at the kitchen table, it suddenly dawned on me that I'd been asleep for too long about this. Where had I been? How could I have been totally unaware that all this ugliness had been going on? I was crushed that anyone could harm children like that. Writing had become cathartic to me, so I started working on some thoughts, putting them down free-form. I wrote and wrote. When I started turning the thoughts into lyrics, Spyder was busy preparing the recording schedule, so I went to Zel, who by that point was the only person left who had been with me from the beginning. We'd written songs before, and I felt comfortable sharing these thoughts with him.

Zel started to write lyrics as well. Together the two of us refined it. I kept thinking that if we could put a message out there in song, maybe it would help raise awareness. Maybe it would inspire people to get involved. I didn't set out to be a crusader, but I did hope that people would listen. I just wanted to reach people and using my voice seemed like the best way to do that. When we'd written most of the lyrics, I talked to Spyder.

"Take a look at what Zel and I have been working on. I don't know what to do with it, because it's got nothing to do with the music we've been making. But I feel strongly about it and want to do something something. Can you make it into a song?"

Spyder agreed and wrote all of the music, taking our words and creating a chilling, wailing melody that turned all the pain and suffering in the lyrics into a searing rock anthem. In its original form, the song was about ten minutes long. We cut it back to five to fit it on the alb.u.m. Of all the songs I've recorded, it's the song I'm most proud of. Over the years, we've received thousands of letters from people who were abused as children, saying how much it helped them and how happy they were that someone cared enough to write a song about them, a song that reminded them they were not forgotten. Even today, we play it at every concert we do, in a show of solidarity.

"h.e.l.l Is for Children" was the first song we cut when we got to Los Angeles. I went into the session hoping for the best, and coming off such an amazingly successful year, we could see we were on the ascent. We had a hit record, but we didn't want this just to be a remake of the first alb.u.m. This needed to have a new approach, a fresh sound. We had spent over a year performing live, and the sound that had evolved was grittier, heavier. My voice began to settle and work together with the band, which had become a thunderous and raw wrecking machine. We wanted to capture that intensity on the new record. In terms of both sound and subject matter, "h.e.l.l Is for Children" would set the tone.

Problems with the recording began almost immediately. While we'd entered poised and confident to make this record, the fact that we had to contend with a totally new producer complicated things. The rhythm that we had established with Peter Coleman and Mike Chapman was gone. We had to start all over again with Keith Olsen. This was unnerving. Even though we felt we'd made tremendous strides in our playing, we were still neophytes with a lot to learn. We weren't ready to take on another record alone, and unfortunately that was what we ended up having to do.

At first Keith Olsen seemed like a great guy. His success was well doc.u.mented, and it made us optimistic that he would bring us closer to our goals musically. We were eager to learn what this new "mentor" had to offer. But as I watched him put down tracks for the songs, something appeared off. For one thing, he didn't seem to be paying attention to much of what we were doing. He was distracted and distant. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. If this was just his style of producing, I didn't like it. It was uncomfortable, as if there was no one at the helm. There always seemed to be something else going on that was commanding his attention, and that feeling of no one being in charge made me incredibly anxious.

One day Spyder was working on some songs, and he mentioned that he liked to write in his head while he's driving. Olsen threw him a set of car keys.

"No problem. Take my Porsche. I'll get Pat's vocals down, then when you get back we'll work on some overdubs."

Spyder was only too happy to drive around in that Porsche and write songs. Of course, the instant he left, the session turned bad. Olsen kept getting up and leaving-disappearing right in the middle of my singing. Peter Coleman and Spyder had done such an excellent job of recording my vocals on the first record. They knew how fragile the atmosphere was when you were trying to coax a performance out of someone. Singing is such an organic process: no amps, no instruments, just flesh and muscle and psyche. I was panic-stricken. I couldn't stand his half-a.s.sed att.i.tude, and the longer I sang, the more I felt that the session was going south. The vocals sounded horrible. By the time Spyder got back from his songwriting trip, I was in tears and Olsen was nowhere to be found. Spyder took one look at me and freaked.