Without saying a word, John dominated the room, and if he had the jitters, you’d never know it. His grin was warm and genuine. He had confidence and star power, and he was utterly charming. Part of me wanted to hug him as if he was an old friend.
‘I’ve been talking to some musicians for the band,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a guitarist now, but I’m getting someone else. His name is Richie Sambora, and I think he’s really great. Tico Torres from Frankie & The Knockouts is drumming. And Alec John Such, who was in Phantom’s Opera, is on bass.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘You’ve got this song on the radio. Are you getting out there? Are you playing any gigs?’
‘Not officially yet, but we’re setting some stuff up,’ he said. John was eager to demonstrate the new lineup, so he started to put together some shows and invited everyone he knew, including some local radio guys. ‘We’re doing a few songs at the Copacabana in Midtown Manhattan next week if you want to come see us.’
Curious to see whether he could win over an audience with his poppy hard-rock songs and good looks, I went to the club to check him out. His group played between two other bands, neither of whom are worth mentioning. I was tired and thinking of going home. As soon as John and the band stepped onstage and started working the room, but I was wide awake, and they had my full attention. Musically, they weren’t particularly great—no better than a lot of other bar bands without record deals—but they already looked like rock stars.
This was Richie Sambora’s first gig with the band, but he and John already had an amazing chemistry onstage, playing off one another like Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Just from looking at him, it was clear that John needed validation and adoration, and he wouldn’t stop until he got it. He had one radio-ready song. All he needed was more experience and more tunes, and then he could be a hero.
After the show, John and I were casually chatting, and he said something that struck me hard.
‘I want to be bigger than Elvis.’
I looked at him and smiled. I thought he was kidding. He didn’t smile back. He was deadly serious. At eighteen years of age, he already had this incredible drive to be the best. He didn’t have a clear musical direction yet, and the songs didn’t all flow together—one would be hard rock, the next would be kind of metal, and then there was stuff in between—but he had this presence, and everyone around him felt it. Having been in successful rock bands for twenty-plus years and having socialized with everyone from David Bowie to Ozzy Osbourne, I could tell the rock stars from the wannabes. I had no doubt John was the former. He exuded this very rare, almost intangible energy. It’s a combination of elements—a superpower, if you will—that you come across once every ten years or so and go, Wow, who is this?
I started to plan. If John and the band could put together some other songs as good as ‘Runaway,’ he could be one of the greats. His music was loud but fun. It wasn’t angry but it had edge. It was hard rock that could appeal to fans of AC/DC or Aerosmith, but it also had a vulnerability and heart that could appeal equally to men and women. If he could make all of those elements click with consistency, he would be the biggest New Jersey export since Bruce Springsteen.
I saw another show, and by that time, John and Richie had developed an even more memorable onstage rapport. Richie provided just the right combination of talent and friendly competition—a formula for success I knew from Gentle Giant (‘You, you think that’s not good? Well, I’ll show you’). In many ways, John’s band reminded me of the drive to succeed that Gentle Giant had when we were first finding ourselves. There was so much room for him to grow, and I wanted so badly to help him succeed.
I told John that I wanted to schedule a showcase for the rest of the team at PolyGram.
‘So, we’re gonna get a record deal?’ he said with a hint of swagger.
‘That’s the hope,’ I said. ‘We’ll see.’
We booked a show at SIR Studios and four other staffers from PolyGram’s rock department showed up. Bongiovi and his band played five songs. To be honest, I was glad they kept the set short. I don’t know why I expected them to suddenly be good enough to win over four jaded label staffers who would rather sit at the bar and down vodka tonics than stand up front and watch a band. I had confidence in Bongiovi, but as they played, it felt like the floor had started opening up. It was a hole of disappointment. ‘Runaway’ sounded good, and John and Richie looked as cool as ever. But they weren’t quite arena-ready.
My boss, Jerry, was skeptical. He realized John had potential, but so did lots of other bands, and not many of them get signed. I could tell why Jerry wasn’t as gung-ho as I was. John was wearing pink leather pants and shaking his ass in a way that you couldn’t tell if he wanted to be Rex Smith or David Lee Roth. I realized the band was not yet totally cohesive, but, to me, there was still no question that this was going to work. I was as determined to break the band as John was to be a star.
‘What did you think?’ I asked Jerry after the show.
‘Well, he’s definitely pretty,’ Jerry replied. ‘I think they’re okay, but they’re not really my thing. If you think it’s going to work, then go for it. Go ahead. Do your thing.’
I appreciated Jerry’s vote of confidence. A lot of guys in the industry are either too arrogant or insecure, or have such a narrow set of parameters regarding what’s good and what’s not that they won’t consider giving someone their blessings for something they don’t quite grasp. When ‘Runaway’ started to get national airplay from some major stations, I started working with Arthur Mann to put together a deal to sign the band. Before we worked out the terms, Bongiovi played a show opening for Scandal and invited PolyGram and other labels to attend. I could tell that if we didn’t pick him up soon, someone else would swoop in with an offer. With a radio hit as validation, there was nothing to prevent another label from pulling the trigger—though, at the moment, we were still the only ones courting the band.
I wanted to sign John because I knew he would be successful, but also because I liked him. He was charismatic but not a show-off. He was polite and friendly, and he treated everyone he met like he was interested in what they had to say. He made people feel good about themselves—another great trait for a rock star. Lured by the major label cache of the Midtown Manhattan skyscraper in which we were located, and excited by the opportunity to raid the label’s closets and pick up our latest releases on LP and cassette, John started swinging by the PolyGram office to hang out, and I enjoyed his company.
‘Derek, can I ask you something?’ he said one day. ‘What’s it going to take for us to get signed?’
‘Well,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘You’ve got “Runaway.” Getting Richie was a good move. You guys look great together. What else have you got? Are there more songs I haven’t heard yet?’
John said he and Richie were working on some new stuff and invited me to come to New Jersey to watch the band in their practice room and meet his parents. It was a strange offer, but it had a certain charm. Most label guys only courted artists who they were trying to win over from other bidders. Otherwise, bands sent them music and, maybe, met them for lunch. But I didn’t want to play by the rules. I wanted to have a real relationship with the artists I signed. So, I went to suburban Sayreville, where John grew up. This town of forty thousand people seemed to me to be a microcosm of the middle-class American Dream. It made me think of the John Cougar Mellencamp song ‘Jack And Diane,’ though Mellencamp was from the Indiana heartland, which is a far cry from Jersey. Still, Americana is Americana.
Sayreville is located on the banks of the Raritan River and was full of family-style restaurants, videogame arcades, and movie theaters. As pleasant as it is, a keen nose could discern two distinct smells: desperation and aspiration. John clearly exuded the latter, and I immediately understood his desire to be bigger than Elvis. What he and his bandmates wanted to do was to break out of their hometown and discover life outside of New Jersey. They were proud of being from Sayreville but absolutely determined not to get stuck there. Having grown up in Portsmouth, I understood the sentiment.