It was also interesting for me to see the dynamic of a (fairly) regular American family. John was close to his parents, who always supported his music career. His mom, Carole, was a real character—a former marine and ex-Playboy bunny—and his dad was a hairdresser who had done wonders with John and his friends (remember, this was the eighties, and long hair was nearly as important to rock’n’roll as hit singles).
I enjoyed meeting John’s parents. Immensely proud of their son, they were warm but wary. They knew that unscrupulous individuals often took advantage of musicians, and they were protective of John. After spending a short amount of time with me, however, Carole could tell I had integrity and good instincts (devoted moms can sense these things), and she wanted me to keep him from making decisions he’d later regret.
‘Please look after him, will you?’ she said. ‘He’s a good kid, but he doesn’t know about the business side of show business. I don’t want him to get hurt.’
I was honored that John’s parents entrusted me to be his counselor and friend. I told John’s mom I’d help steer him in the right direction, and, in a way, I took on the mantle of the patriarch. On my advice, Bongiovi agreed to be managed by Doc McGhee, and John and the band scheduled another big show for his growing New York-area fanbase, which was still loving ‘Runaway.’ For some reason, other managers came to the showcase, including David Krebs and John Scher. After the show, which was wonderfully energized and uplifting, these big-time managers were schmoozing with John. By then, Krebs had developed a reputation as a hot-shit hard-rock manager, having worked with Aerosmith, AC/DC, and Def Leppard. But to me, Doc was the right guy for John.
While McGhee was new to the scene, he had incredible charisma, he was easy to talk to, and he made everyone feel good. I met him when I was transitioning from promotion to A&R. He dropped by the PolyGram office to represent Pat Travers, and I was impressed by his style. He went from one office to another. In each case, he shut the door and stayed in there for a little while. Each time he left someone’s office there was laughter, a confident exit line, and a firm handshake. He made everyone feel like they ran their department, even if they were new to the company.
When Doc entered my office, we both knew Pat Travers was a hard sell and that he’d have to work on me to get anything out of the interaction. He knew I wouldn’t be lured by the promise of hookers and blow, so that was never a selling point. Instead, he made small talk about family and music before explaining what Pat wanted to do and how PolyGram could help him. Then, he made a playfully manipulative move.
‘Derek, I got this place in the Cayman Islands that would blow your mind,’ he said. ‘You know, if you and your wife Sharon would want to go down to see it—you know—when you go to see Pat Travers in Florida, you’re more than welcome to stay there.’
I knew he was trying to play me, and he knew I knew he was trying to play me, but that didn’t sour me on him. In fact, I respected him for it. His offer was sincere and tempting. And I’m sure the offers he made to other staffers—whatever they might have been—were equally inviting. Some folks took him up on his enticements. I never did, he knew I never would, and we understood each other’s position. I felt that if Doc was that good at making every PolyGram staffer feel like an executive, he could surely pull off the same magic with artists who loved having their egos massaged. He could make John feel like he was on top of the world, and then he would help him get there.
I met with John to talk to him about his management options and once again told him that Doc McGhee was his best bet. ‘Look, David Krebs has experience working with AC/DC and Aerosmith, but Doc’s gonna sell you like you’re the only singer on the planet. I really think you should go see him.’
John agreed, and, sure enough, Doc won him over. Krebs was flabbergasted that I would recommend McGhee, a newcomer, over him. For years, he told me that I fucked him out of working with Bon Jovi. I’d laugh and say, ‘Maybe, but it didn’t work out too badly for John, did it?’
With Doc on the team, I was ready to offer John and the band a record deal. For a young guy without any business experience, John had good instincts for the machinations of the music industry. He was funny, knew how to be humble and gracious, and was personable to radio DJs and journalists, who instantly took to him. I wouldn’t say any of that was a ruse. From the start, John was a genuinely nice guy. He was fun to be around and eager to learn everything he could. But, in truth, his drive to be the biggest included being the biggest asshole when he felt he needed to be.
John was never an arrogant shithead like so many artists whose heads inflate like parade floats when they suddenly rise to stardom. At the same time, John instinctively knew how to play hardball. In some respects, he was a shark, and I didn’t understand that side of him because I’ve always tried to treat people fairly, even if it meant less acclaim or money for me. On the other hand, I’ve seen so many artists in this industry get fucked over that John’s sometimes predatory nature was somewhat admirable.
‘So, I want a deal, but I don’t want my band signed,’ he said to me when we were discussing the details of his contract. ‘I want it to be me, and then they’ll have their own deal.’
Of course, that meant more money for John and less for his bandmates, which was a hardcore move—especially since Richie had proved he was crucial to the band and the songwriting. Having seen so much of John’s friendly side, I was taken aback that he didn’t want his bandmates to have the same deal as him. It felt like an underhanded maneuver, and it was something I never would have considered when I was in Simon Dupree or Gentle Giant. We were a band, and being in a band was supposed to be like being Musketeers: ‘All for one, one for all.’
I tried to talk John out of this. ‘Look, if you separate yourself from them like that, they’ll resent it,’ I said. ‘And I promise you it will cause problems down the line.’
He didn’t care. He stuck to his guns and said it was the only way he would sign with me. So, I gave in and we signed the band separately. It wasn’t fair, but that’s what John wanted. He was incredibly ambitious and tenacious, and he almost always got his way. I was starting to think I didn’t need to heed Mrs. Bongiovi’s request to take care of John. He was doing pretty well on his own.
Once we’d agreed to a deal, we started discussing band names. John really wanted to call the group Desire, but I knew that wasn’t the way to go, so I tried another approach that I knew would appeal to him. I stole a move from the Van Halen playbook, partially because I knew John loved Van Halen.
‘You’re John Bongiovi,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you call the band Bon Jovi? It has the same kind of ring as Van Halen. You can be John Bon Jovi. That way, people will think of you when they think of the band the same way they think of Eddie Van Halen when they think of Van Halen.’
John liked my idea, and we had a deal. Unbeknown to me, however, he also had a deal with Tony Bongiovi, which would cause some wrinkles in the contract. When John was working at the Power Station, he and Tony had made an agreement that was completely unfair on John. Once John started putting out records, the contract stated, Tony would earn a predetermined percentage of royalties that would last for the duration of John’s career. I got angry when I saw that. As a family, you should be happy for your relatives’ success. If you helped, you deserved to be paid for your contributions, but it’s greedy and rude to ask for a lifelong commitment in exchange for what was, at most, a couple of years of work.