"What's the matter?"

"I can't work with this guy. He doesn't understand my voice and he doesn't stick around long enough to find out," I said. "This alb.u.m is not going to work like this."

Spyder immediately took charge and calmed me down, setting up a vocal mix with Chris Minto, the engineer. Keith came back at that point. I went back into the booth and cut the vocal. Whether or not he was completely ready to take on the task, Spyder stepped up. Whatever anxiety he had about his producing talents was put aside for the good of that record. He knew it was going to be up to him. He continued his technical education on running the board with Chris Minto, taking everything that he'd learned from Pete Coleman and Mike Chapman and becoming a producer. Spyder never left the studio again.

As things progressed, Olsen showed up less and less, and when he was there, he was often asleep on the couch. Eventually we came to learn that his apparent disinterest stemmed from problems in his personal life that kept him perpetually distracted. It was unfortunate for all of us that it had to happen during our record. It wasn't that he was a bad person; he'd simply gotten himself into a situation in which it was hard for him to maintain his professional duties and sort through the problems he was facing elsewhere. When he saw that Spyder could handle things and that we were capable of doing what needed to be done, he left us to it. Still, Spyder's presence was no excuse for his detachment. We were all professionals, and we were supposed to be able to put personal things aside to get the job done. As the artists, it was certainly expected from us on a daily basis. He'd been hired to produce an alb.u.m, not deal with his s.h.i.t. Maybe the absentee-landlord technique works with some artists, but I loathed it.

It wasn't a good way to make a record-in fact it was downright awful. But as maddening as his disconnection was, there was a silver lining. It forced us to mature musically and vocally, while also thrusting Spyder into a job he was born to do. More than anything else, though, it cemented my relationship with Spyder in ways that neither of us could have predicted. Things had been intense between us since the beginning, but dealing with the emotional drain of recording that second alb.u.m deepened our connection in ways that Chrysalis would come to regret. Now more than ever before, we were partners in this. Everything I did belonged to him as well. Peter Coleman commented that he had never seen two people who connected musically like we did. It seemed like we were one person split into two.

Despite the drama with Olsen, those sessions led to some incredible material. Spyder might have just been starting out as a producer, but as musicians everything we were doing seemed to fall into place. "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" was a song that had been originally pitched to Rick Derringer. Spyder had liked it and kept a copy. It was written by Canadian writer/artist/producer Eddie Schwartz, and it would become his first big songwriting chart success. Chrysalis also had a copy of the song, and they pitched it to us. Spyder thought the song was catchy, but the demo didn't really show its potential. He started working with the band while we were still in New York and had his own demo version by the time we got to Los Angeles. So this session came together quickly. Even though it was pivotal in propelling the alb.u.m, I always joke about how much I hate this song. It comes from its being played incessantly when it was released.

Given our schedule, it's surprising that any of us in the band were able to write anything for Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion. In addition to the group effort that produced "h.e.l.l Is for Children," Spyder wrote "Little Paradise," and the two of us wrote "Never Wanna Leave You" and collaborated on "Out-A-Touch" with our drummer Myron Grombacher, who had come with us from the first tour. He was Spyder's closest friend; they were like brothers. Myron was the perfect complement to Spyder's guitar style, bringing the forceful drum sound that Spyder wanted for the band. Together the three of us made up the sound that became our signature. Rhythm guitarist Scott St. Clair Sheets wrote "Prisoner of Love," and at Spyder's suggestion, we did Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights" and Billy Steinberg's "I'm Gonna Follow You." We also did "You Better Run," written by Eddie Brigati and Felix Cavaliere of Young Rascals fame, which had been one of the songs I used to sing when I was on my own.

Listening to the playbacks was enough to give you chills. After all the stress and horrible s.h.i.t we went through recording this record, we'd done it. We'd made the record we needed to make despite all the obstacles. Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion reflected more of what we were about than reflected more of what we were about than In the Heat of the Night In the Heat of the Night. Between Spyder stepping in on the production end and our live band hitting its stride, it had turned out to be a great great recording. The band was solid and intense. Every one of them understood the sound that we wanted and delivered it. recording. The band was solid and intense. Every one of them understood the sound that we wanted and delivered it.

When we were finishing the alb.u.m, I told Chrysalis that I thought Spyder should be listed as co-producer on the record. After all, he'd done a lot of the work. I kept telling them that it wasn't fair to have him step in and save the record, then act like he'd done nothing. Not only did the label say no, but surprisingly Rick Newman agreed with them. When I asked Rick why, he was blunt: "Keith Olsen won't hear of it. Keith never shares producing credit with anyone." And just like that it was an across-the-board decision. I was dumbfounded. After the way he'd abdicated his role during recording, the arrogance of this was intolerable. Olsen knew what had gone on, how he'd stepped aside and let Spyder do his job. Olsen knew that everyone in the band had witnessed his abandonment of this project, but he didn't care. He was shameless. There would be no production credit for Spyder. Olsen had said no, and my manager and my label refused to back me up. I was livid.

While Chrysalis's lack of support was nothing new, seeing Newman's lack of support left me disappointed and confused. Suddenly my eyes were opened to how allied Newman was with the record company. In his mind, he was making necessary compromises, but I felt betrayed and angry.

When I started out in New York, I might have been young and somewhat naive, but I was never ignorant enough to trust just anyone. I knew enough to be skeptical of people and keep my guard up. But once I let you in, that was it: I trusted you. And that was the case with Newman. For years he'd shown himself to be someone I could rely on. He was a guy I expected to have my back. Now it was like I'd fallen off a turnip truck, a girl from Long Island with no concept of how the world worked or that your own people see you as simply a cash cow.

I never saw this one coming. All at once, the harsh reality of the music business began to rear its ugly head. Of course, I'd seen it at a distance since the beginning through my run-ins with Chrysalis, but this was different-more personal. Sadness and disappointment turned into defiance and contempt. I don't like confrontation and neither does Spyder. I'm normally an easygoing person. Just don't cross me. And absolutely don't try to hurt someone I love, because then I will jump right in the ring. I'd had b.a.l.l.s ever since I was growing up with all those neighborhood boys, but this was different; this new level of vileness would have taken more than anatomical correctness. They were officially the enemy, and this was going to take unrelenting retaliation.

I said fine, if not production credit, then production payment. If not, then they could put the alb.u.m on the shelf. Chrysalis didn't like paying money, but they also didn't like losing money. Shelving that alb.u.m would have cost them, because after the success we'd had with In the Heat of the Night, In the Heat of the Night, they knew this alb.u.m could be even bigger. So that was how the battle was won. Spyder got no credit publically, but he did get paid for producing. Of course, neither Chrysalis nor Olsen would foot the bill to pay Spyder. In the end, his payment came out of they knew this alb.u.m could be even bigger. So that was how the battle was won. Spyder got no credit publically, but he did get paid for producing. Of course, neither Chrysalis nor Olsen would foot the bill to pay Spyder. In the end, his payment came out of my my royalties. Olsen wouldn't even split the cost with me, and unbelievably, Newman went along with it. royalties. Olsen wouldn't even split the cost with me, and unbelievably, Newman went along with it.

It felt good for Spyder to be compensated, but it frayed relationships at all ends. I stayed mad and Spyder remained hurt. He didn't say much about it, but I knew he was. He's not the kind of person who demands praise or public recognition. He was never into self-promotion. It wasn't the credit that was so important to him; it was the principle of why they would treat him like that. To be denied that production credit was a slap in the face. It was an insult because it was coming from our own people. Furthermore, it's just not how either of us would have handled things. If the situation were reversed, we would have insisted the person be recognized for his work. No questions asked. Good work should be rewarded. That's how we were both raised, and that's how we wanted to do business.

This was the first time I started to understand just how different Spyder and I were from some of the suits in the music business. We were working-cla.s.s people, with working-cla.s.s standards. Treat us fairly and with some respect, and we'll work our b.u.t.ts off for you. In their world, we were just another revenue source. And to think my family was proud I wasn't punching a time clock. Working for this group of mercenaries was obviously nothing to write home about. I couldn't trust the label. When they had been haranguing us about our personal life, I'd hoped things might change. Clearly I was wrong.

THAT WAS JUST THE beginning of the s.h.i.t storm. beginning of the s.h.i.t storm.

For weeks, I'd been asking Chrysalis when they were going to set up a photo shoot for the cover. I couldn't figure out why they kept giving me the runaround and refusing to put something on the calendar. That started p.i.s.sing me off, because I had some definite ideas about the cover. The label knew this. I'd told them that I wanted to capture the energy of the live show on the alb.u.m cover. Remember, this was when we had large alb.u.m covers, not CDs, and certainly not MP3s. You could really make an artistic impact with an alb.u.m cover. Either a performance shot, or one of me and the boys. Either way, I wanted to establish what we were: a band. That's what I believed this alb.u.m proved.

"Wait and see," label head Terry Ellis said.

Wait for what? I thought. I thought.

One day, while we were in the final stages of recording the alb.u.m, Billy Ba.s.s, the head of marketing for Chrysalis, asked if he could come to our house to talk over ideas for the new alb.u.m cover. It was a strange request, given that we still hadn't finished the record, we hadn't chosen a t.i.tle, and I hadn't formally even told them what the alb.u.m was about. Normally, you choose a t.i.tle based on the content of the record, which in turn dictates what direction the artwork will take. You don't choose a cover in a vacuum. But that's precisely what they had in mind.

Billy came to our house that day with a stack of photos from a recent publicity session. Spyder was sitting with us and together we pored over the photos, all of which were of me in a tight tank-type top with skinny little shoulder straps. I didn't particularly like the pictures, but if they were just sending them out with a bunch of other press photos, I could live with that. He kept coming back to one in particular. Then he showed me a mock-up of the cover. It was the same photo.

While it was nice enough for what it was, it had absolutely nothing to do with anything. There was no link to the material on the record, and more important, there was no link to the collaborative process that had gone into making the record. My intention had been to elevate the band's position on the cover because they were such an integral part of what we were doing on the record. The cover art he brought that day only had photos of me-good photos, sure, but totally irrelevant to the content of the record.

Saying nothing about it to me, the label had picked a cover shot from these supposed publicity photos. I was stunned. How could you make an alb.u.m cover with no relevance to what had been recorded?

"We haven't done a cover shoot," I reminded him.

"You're going to love it when it's finished," he said. The back of the cover mock-up was another shot of me. No mention of the band. No names. Nothing. Seated next to me, Spyder didn't say anything, but we could both feel the tension building. I took a minute to keep myself in check before I really lost it.

"This isn't going to work," I said after a long pause. "At the very least, there has to be a photo of the band on this cover." That was not what he wanted to hear.

"Do you have any idea how stupid and naive you are?" he asked in his most patronizing tone. "No one wants to see the band. This is about you. No one cares about the band."

For a split second, I was speechless. Did he really just say that out loud? With Spyder, a band member, sitting right here next to me? Did he really just say that out loud? With Spyder, a band member, sitting right here next to me? It wasn't just the sentiment that surprised me. After all, everything the label had done told me they felt this way. It was the fact that he'd come here, to the living room that I shared with Spyder, and said those words to my face. In addition to being blatantly insensitive, it was disrespectful to both of us. There was absolutely no concern for Spyder and no concern for discretion. They were just dissing him to his face without an ounce of remorse. My anger, which had been building for weeks and months, boiled over. I threw him and his cover out of my house. We were done talking. It wasn't just the sentiment that surprised me. After all, everything the label had done told me they felt this way. It was the fact that he'd come here, to the living room that I shared with Spyder, and said those words to my face. In addition to being blatantly insensitive, it was disrespectful to both of us. There was absolutely no concern for Spyder and no concern for discretion. They were just dissing him to his face without an ounce of remorse. My anger, which had been building for weeks and months, boiled over. I threw him and his cover out of my house. We were done talking.

This was an issue for my manager to handle. It was his job to represent my interests in disputes with the label. Frustratingly, I got the same amount of cooperation on the cover issue as I had on the question of Spyder's production credit. None. Newman would not support me. Coming so soon on the heels of the producing debacle, I could see that he was caught up in record label politics. Something had changed. Newman was making the huge mistake of trying to stay neutral. He'd protect me only so far and stop short of offending them. While he did his best not to hurt me, he thought that he could straddle the middle ground without jeopardizing his relationship with either side.

As usual the only person forced to compromise was me. The front cover would remain of me alone, and the back would be a photo of the band. Contractually they had the advantage. Normally, after a success like we'd seen for our first record, the manager would have gone back in to renegotiate the artist's contract for the next alb.u.m, giving the artist more control over things like artwork and song choice. For some reason, that never happened with us. Chrysalis had total control over this alb.u.m cover, just as they did with the last one. I had no option but to keep the front cover they'd chosen, of me alone, and shoot the back cover with the band.

On the day of the photo shoot, the boys arrived dressed in the clothes they wore onstage, only to be told they were to change into the wardrobe some stylist had brought along. It was a bad day. The glammed-up outfits could only be described as lame. Rock and roll band? Please Please. The guys looked like they'd stepped out of the pages of GQ GQ magazine. The expressions on their faces in that picture are priceless. They were all thoroughly disgusted. From then on, the band and I referred to what would become my biggest alb.u.m as magazine. The expressions on their faces in that picture are priceless. They were all thoroughly disgusted. From then on, the band and I referred to what would become my biggest alb.u.m as Crimes of Fashion Crimes of Fashion.

It was too late to do anything about it, though. I didn't have one bit of control over what was done with regard to cover art, or much of anything beyond the music, at that point. I was the resident star, but that status got me nothing.

I like to think that I have a pretty good a.s.shole detector. But I realized then that I had been dead wrong about Terry Ellis. I liked him very much when we first met at Tramps. He seemed like a stand-up guy, interested in me as a person and in my music. Instead, he was turning out to be one of the most arrogant and overblown men I'd ever met. And with the exception of our one ally, Buzzard, Terry surrounded himself with people who were just like him.

The label wasn't finished p.i.s.sing me off. The biggest insult came as the new tour to promote the release of Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion got started. I picked up a copy of got started. I picked up a copy of Billboard Billboard in the Denver airport, knowing that Chrysalis had taken out a full-page ad to promote the alb.u.m. With no advance warning, no hint of what was going on, I saw myself practically nude on the pages of the most important music trade magazine in the nation. I slammed the magazine shut and tucked it under my arm. I felt like I'd been raped. in the Denver airport, knowing that Chrysalis had taken out a full-page ad to promote the alb.u.m. With no advance warning, no hint of what was going on, I saw myself practically nude on the pages of the most important music trade magazine in the nation. I slammed the magazine shut and tucked it under my arm. I felt like I'd been raped.

They had taken the cover photo to the alb.u.m and airbrushed off the tank top I was wearing. In its place, they'd put a sign over my seemingly nude chest that announced the release date of the new record. As if that weren't enough, they'd also given me a b.o.o.b job. So I was not only naked, but naked with cleavage. I am a very small woman. I do not have large b.r.e.a.s.t.s (I only weighed ninety pounds back then). In fact, I'm d.a.m.n near flat chested and that's just how I like it. But they'd drawn on b.r.e.a.s.t.s and cleavage, which was insulting and humiliating.

I kept thinking, Who approved this Who approved this? Not me. Not me.

Aside from being embarra.s.sing, the photo was stupid. Didn't they understand that people already knew how I was built? All people had to do was take one look at me and they'd know I didn't look like that. Were Billboard Billboard readers suddenly going to flock to my alb.u.m because I'd miraculously grown new b.r.e.a.s.t.s? It was s.e.xism at its worst, and I immediately broke down. Months of stress, exhaustion, and frustration came pouring out of me. I'd been going nonstop for so long. I'd toured relentlessly and promoted as hard as anyone could. In the face of numerous obstacles, I'd recorded an alb.u.m that I knew had enormous potential. I was on the cusp of something great, but in that moment, all I felt was shame. readers suddenly going to flock to my alb.u.m because I'd miraculously grown new b.r.e.a.s.t.s? It was s.e.xism at its worst, and I immediately broke down. Months of stress, exhaustion, and frustration came pouring out of me. I'd been going nonstop for so long. I'd toured relentlessly and promoted as hard as anyone could. In the face of numerous obstacles, I'd recorded an alb.u.m that I knew had enormous potential. I was on the cusp of something great, but in that moment, all I felt was shame.

I called my parents. I had to prepare them.

"I don't know if you've seen it," I began, "but I promise you that I am not naked in Billboard Billboard!"

I was a long way from short skirts and matrons now.

CHAPTER FOUR.

ROCK AND ROLL'S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET CHRYSALIS'S PROMOTIONAL TACTICS FOR Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion may have been questionable, but the music was a stratospheric success. may have been questionable, but the music was a stratospheric success.

Crimes of Pa.s.sion was both a critical and a commercial smash, with a lot of journalists picking up on what we'd been trying to do, pointing to the hard-rocking grit and interplay between vocals and guitars. It sold over a million records just on the strength of the debut single, "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," on its way to sales of over five million. was both a critical and a commercial smash, with a lot of journalists picking up on what we'd been trying to do, pointing to the hard-rocking grit and interplay between vocals and guitars. It sold over a million records just on the strength of the debut single, "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," on its way to sales of over five million. Billboard Billboard p.r.o.nounced me dominant among female rockers. The alb.u.m was nominated for a Grammy award for Best Rock Performance, Female. p.r.o.nounced me dominant among female rockers. The alb.u.m was nominated for a Grammy award for Best Rock Performance, Female.

On the heels of "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," "Treat Me Right" became the alb.u.m's second hit single. Meanwhile AOR (alb.u.m-oriented radio) started playing "h.e.l.l Is for Children," and the song got great reviews, including one from Billboard Billboard calling it "a stunning rocker." Given this initially warm reception, I couldn't have been more surprised when the song became controversial. calling it "a stunning rocker." Given this initially warm reception, I couldn't have been more surprised when the song became controversial.

To support the alb.u.m, we went out on tour that fall, and my first hint that anything was going on was when someone came backstage at a show and told me that there were some people picketing the venue. The protest was over the use of the word "h.e.l.l" in a song involving children. I was stunned. What was child abuse if not h.e.l.lish? And with all of the things going on in the world, was a song exposing child abuse really something to protest? I had written the song believing that I was helping to raise awareness of a major social problem.

Thankfully, the negative reaction from this one group wasn't shared by many. By the time we came off the first leg of the tour, the management office was receiving mailbags full of thank-you letters from people who had been abused as children. I sat there on the floor and read every one of them. Most were from adults who said that it had meant so much for them to hear the lines "You shouldn't have to pay for your love with your bones and your flesh."

But despite the critical raves and the instant sales, the year after the release of Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion turned out to be the worst of my life. It should have been a year of celebration, enjoying our success, and relishing that we were making music that people everywhere were embracing. Even though they loved what we'd done in the studio, the record label continued to mess with Spyder and me. Strange things started happening to Spyder when it came to things that Chrysalis handled. Spyder wouldn't get paid on time and would have to ask about his check. If the band members' names were listed on a marquee, Spyder's name might be left off. Often, he wasn't invited to meetings. turned out to be the worst of my life. It should have been a year of celebration, enjoying our success, and relishing that we were making music that people everywhere were embracing. Even though they loved what we'd done in the studio, the record label continued to mess with Spyder and me. Strange things started happening to Spyder when it came to things that Chrysalis handled. Spyder wouldn't get paid on time and would have to ask about his check. If the band members' names were listed on a marquee, Spyder's name might be left off. Often, he wasn't invited to meetings.

They treated him like dirt, and it was shameful. I could tell it was starting to wear him down, because it was also starting to wear me down. My desire for us to be seen as a band hardened even more. Over and over I was given the credit for what we were doing. And over and over I tried to counter that idea. I kept reminding everyone-the label, journalists, radio-that the success we were having was due to everyone, not just me. But people saw the name "Pat Benatar" and a.s.sumed I was the sole reason for the sound. This misconception was the gorilla in the room in our relationship, and I spent the next twenty years trying to undo this perception. (Today, after almost three decades, I finally feel that people know the real story of Spyder's contribution, but it's been a long, frustrating road.) I wasn't the only one who believed Spyder was being treated shabbily.

In October 1980, the same month that "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" entered the Top 40 chart, Rolling Stone Rolling Stone's Steve Pond noted that Spyder's position in the band appeared to be "tricky." Pond pointed out Spyder's significant involvement in the recording process, adding, "Not everyone wants his contributions publicized. On the back of her new alb.u.m [Crimes of Pa.s.sion], Benatar thanks him 'for all the heart and hard work in the Production of this Record. I love you.' But the current Chrysalis bio doesn't even mention that he writes songs."

The record label's att.i.tude started to fray the relationship between Spyder and me. He began to believe that mixing personal relationships and a band would would cause problems, just like Chrysalis had predicted. The frustrating part of it was that the label's treatment of us was causing trouble for the relationship; our relationship wasn't causing problems for the music. The real problem for them was that the difficulties with Olsen and cause problems, just like Chrysalis had predicted. The frustrating part of it was that the label's treatment of us was causing trouble for the relationship; our relationship wasn't causing problems for the music. The real problem for them was that the difficulties with Olsen and Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion had made us even closer than we were before. They couldn't get between us or around us. They lost whatever control they thought they had over me, and treating Spyder poorly was the closest they could come to payback. had made us even closer than we were before. They couldn't get between us or around us. They lost whatever control they thought they had over me, and treating Spyder poorly was the closest they could come to payback.

This tension was fueled by the label's continued inability to back me up when I needed their support. I had interviews and visits to the local rock and roll station in every city we played. I could just about count on half of the deejays or program directors. .h.i.tting on me, and not in a subtle way. I'd walk in and some jerk would pat his lap.

"You come right over here and sit down, honey. We'll see if we can't get that record played."

"f.u.c.k you," I'd fire back. Suddenly I was back in the Roaring Twenties Cafe with the men chomping their cigars. Only this time, when I said, "f.u.c.k you," n.o.body was laughing.

The label and Newman were in hysterics.

"You can't say 'f.u.c.k you' to radio people!"

"The h.e.l.l I can't. I just did." I never had to put up with that s.h.i.t from my band. I never had to put up with that s.h.i.t from guys at Catch a Rising Star or other places I'd played early on. Why would I put up with that trash from some radio guy?

But Chrysalis didn't see it that way. There was a double standard for women in this business and they were all too willing to remind me of that. If a guy said "f.u.c.k you" to someone it was rock and roll; for a woman to do it was disrespectful. This was rock and roll's dirty little secret: it was 1980, the women's movement had been around for almost twenty years, and yet overt s.e.xism and misogyny were alive and well. With all its posturing as a crusader for liberal beliefs, the music business was overrun with chauvinism.

There were so many different ways that the issue would rear its ugly head. While there were the blatant things, like my image and being hara.s.sed by radio DJs, it was also more subtle. We'd be pushing to get airtime for our songs, and radio programmers would say things like, "We'll definitely put the single in heavy rotation at the end of the week, but we can't right now. We're already playing a single by a girl." When the guys at radio stations weren't hitting on me, they were bringing out some s.e.xy poster and wanting me to sign it to them, to write some personal note. I knew they didn't do that with the male rockers who visited their stations, and I was livid.

I've sometimes heard people say that I was exaggerating about this. Maybe it wasn't happening to them. Maybe their people did a good job of insulating them from what was going on. I can only speak for myself and my experience, but it was happening to me on a daily basis and I was out there alone. No matter what I was doing, the s.e.xual implication was always there. I wondered what would happen if I uglied myself up-quit wearing the tight pants, put a jacket on. The whole idea of being a pretty girl who could sing wore on me.

While I was well aware that the s.e.xy image was something I'd created, I never meant for it to be the focal point. What I wanted was the image of the attractive-yet-capable woman that I had made up. My problem was not that people thought I was s.e.xy, it was that Chrysalis only only wanted the s.e.xy part. It was offensive but also boring-typical of most men's thinking in postfeminist America. wanted the s.e.xy part. It was offensive but also boring-typical of most men's thinking in postfeminist America.

I started to question whether I was cut out to be a star. Celebrity can be a terrible thing. Your life is no longer your own. Boundaries that were once respected are torn down. And if that happens quickly, it is overwhelming. Now before you start that "poor little rock star, five million records sold and she has to sign a few autographs" s.h.i.t, understand this: sudden stardom really is difficult. Anyone who says different is lying. That doesn't mean it's not fun or totally worth it, but no matter how much you want to be in the public eye, no matter how grateful you are to have been given the opportunity, nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for celebrity. It changes your life in ways you can't predict. It happens so quickly that you spend all of your time trying to adjust and all of your energy goes into finding a graceful way to navigate this new addition to your life.

I was clueless that we'd become celebrities until it was so blatant it was unavoidable. It was all happening so fast, and I was too busy rehearsing, doing press, and performing to really take notice. But we were playing a show in Gainesville, Florida, that fall when I learned just how strange this whole fame thing could make people act.

It was right at the beginning of the Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion tour, and with only one other tour under our belt, we were relatively new at this. Gainesville is where the University of Florida is located, and we were staying in a hotel not far from the school. We hadn't yet graduated to the Four Seasons or the Ritz Carlton, so the hotel was a pretty cheap setup. The morning of the gig, we woke up, took showers, and went off to the venue, where we spent most of the afternoon tucked away in our dressing rooms. Eventually one of our crew members went outside for a smoke and noticed a tent that was set up in the parking lot with a sign that read, "Pat Benatar Souvenirs." Curious, he walked over to see what it was about. tour, and with only one other tour under our belt, we were relatively new at this. Gainesville is where the University of Florida is located, and we were staying in a hotel not far from the school. We hadn't yet graduated to the Four Seasons or the Ritz Carlton, so the hotel was a pretty cheap setup. The morning of the gig, we woke up, took showers, and went off to the venue, where we spent most of the afternoon tucked away in our dressing rooms. Eventually one of our crew members went outside for a smoke and noticed a tent that was set up in the parking lot with a sign that read, "Pat Benatar Souvenirs." Curious, he walked over to see what it was about.

Lying out on a table were little pieces of fabric and other odds and ends-not much to look at, let alone buy, but then he found out where they came from. It turned out that some college kids bribed the front desk at our cheap hotel to find out what room we'd stayed in. They unscrewed the windows, snuck in, and stole our bedding and our trash. They had cut up the sheets and pillowcases we'd slept on into little squares and they were selling them. They were also selling our garbage-old Kleenex, used Q-tips, and razors. Of course, management went out and confiscated everything, but they'd already made a good amount of cash.

Needless to say, the change of public awareness that we'd felt during the tour for In the Heat of the Night In the Heat of the Night was nothing compared to what happened after "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" was released. Photographers hid out everywhere. You start to feel like you are being chased every time you leave the house. It was especially hard for me, because I never wanted to be rude to was nothing compared to what happened after "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" was released. Photographers hid out everywhere. You start to feel like you are being chased every time you leave the house. It was especially hard for me, because I never wanted to be rude to anyone anyone.

And that was the trouble: I remained the same person I had always been. Private. Polite. Generally accommodating. This wasn't just because of the speed with which fame had hit. It was just who I was. It was almost impossible for me to be a jerk to total strangers, to act rude or brush off people. Especially when I knew they were following me around because they were fans. I never wanted to act like an a.s.shole. Still, the attention had driven me almost over the edge, and the breaking point drove up in the form of a VW bus.

We were at home in Tarzana between touring and promotional appearances. I got up one morning, threw on a robe, and walked outside to get the newspaper. A bunch of kids in a VW van jumped out and started taking pictures of me with flashes flaring. I was startled and felt invaded. This was my own house. I was in a f.u.c.king bathrobe.

I knew then that I couldn't live there any longer. I was going to have to find a secluded house, maybe in a gated community, a place where I could have some kind of privacy. Up until then I would have laughed at the idea of my having to live behind fences. But that's how quickly things were changing.

BETWEEN S SPYDER BEING INSULTED, the s.e.xed-up image problem, and the reality of fame, Spyder and I found ourselves increasingly on edge. For the first time since we'd come together as a couple, I felt a s.p.a.ce opening up between us. We hadn't put it there, but that didn't matter-it was there nonetheless. I was going crazy trying to tour and fulfill the publicity demands. Every city meant more interviews, more radio visits, and more anger from me about being treated like a s.e.x object. Chrysalis's only response was to tell me to keep quiet about it.

In many ways it was much worse for Spyder. For one thing, Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion was being heralded as brilliant, and he was getting no credit for it. Continual slights from the label not only insulted him but hurt him. He is such a good-hearted, was being heralded as brilliant, and he was getting no credit for it. Continual slights from the label not only insulted him but hurt him. He is such a good-hearted, nice nice person. I'm very quick to say that he is person. I'm very quick to say that he is much much nicer than I am. Nice people feel things, whether they b.i.t.c.h about it or not. It's there. In addition, the celebrity angle was as hard for him as it was for me. When we were together, it was a circus. Spyder could still walk down the street, go to a store. But when I was along, it was a different story. nicer than I am. Nice people feel things, whether they b.i.t.c.h about it or not. It's there. In addition, the celebrity angle was as hard for him as it was for me. When we were together, it was a circus. Spyder could still walk down the street, go to a store. But when I was along, it was a different story.

The tension between us began to mount more and more, eventually building to the point that when I was nominated for a Grammy Award, Spyder didn't attend the ceremony with me. The show, which honored work done in 1980, was held on February 25, 1981, at Radio City Music Hall in New York. Spyder didn't come with me, so Rick Newman escorted me instead.

I wasn't sure whether winning would be a good thing. The Grammy is a mainstream award, and back then some in the rock and roll world believed winning-or even being nominated-damaged your credibility. If you did happen to win, it was understood that you should not act too thrilled, or gush, or bounce up to accept the prize. At that time I was concerned about giving the appearance of selling out. I'd heard a few rumblings that some people thought we were a "corporate ent.i.ty." Ridiculous as that was, getting that label would have been the kiss of death in rock and roll.

Establishment event or not, I was giddy that night. I "dressed up," wearing the outfit I would later wear on the cover of Precious Time Precious Time-a purple coat with tight black pants. Although it was televised, the Grammys didn't have the red-carpet fashion show in those days, and no self-respecting musician would have partic.i.p.ated if they had. That was just fine by me. My excitement dimmed somewhat when I got there and learned that the category I'd been nominated in, Best Rock Performance, Female, wouldn't be seen on the regular telecast. My whole family was watching.

Even though the rules of rock dictated that I wasn't supposed to act thrilled to be there, I was incredibly proud. More than anything else it showed how far I'd come in such a short time. A little more than two years ago, I'd been singing other people's music at Catch a Rising Star. Now I was there with the giants of the business, in an audience filled with many of the most talented and respected people in the industry. I wasn't starstruck (it's not my way), and while I was awed to be in that seat, I wasn't surprised. This was something I'd been working toward, something I'd planned all along. It was vindication, compensation for all the s.h.i.t that the label had put us through.

Christopher Cross had historic wins. It was the first time any artist had ever won all four of the general categories: Record and Song of the Year for "Sailing," Alb.u.m of the Year, and Best New Artist. Bette Midler won Best Pop Performance, Female, for The Rose The Rose. There was a pall over the night, though. The music community was still reeling from John Lennon's death on December 8, 1980.

That had been a horrible day. I had been at home in Tarzana when Myron called and told me the news. I immediately called Spyder, who was mixing a live performance at a studio in Hollywood. We were devastated. I turned on the TV and sat transfixed as the details emerged. This was happening in our peer group, our music community; unlike Elvis, who had died a few years earlier, Lennon was our contemporary. Making things harder was the fact that I adored Lennon. My earliest memories of music were tied to him. He'd been a regular part of my musical life ever since I got that red transistor radio for Christmas. I loved his voice. All throughout high school, as I'd been learning to sing, I'd always felt the impact of how he performed. I don't think there was anyone making music then who wasn't influenced by him (and there probably isn't now). It was an emotional night for everyone who cared about what he'd done for music.

I had a terrible migraine on Grammy night. Flying often gave me awful headaches, and this was no exception. The medication that I took for these headaches was administered with a shot, which had made me sick to my stomach on top of the headache. Before the awards started, I went into the bathroom and threw up. As I crouched there over the toilet, I heard someone else in the bathroom, and it jarred me.

Oh no, what if they think I'm doing drugs? I can hear it now: "Pat Benatar must be an addict-she's throwing up in the bathroom."

I came out of the stall to find the previous year's female rock winner, Donna Summer, washing her hands. Donna cast a hard look in my direction.

"Ugh! You're just the person I wanted to see!" she said to me in an exasperated tone.

Oh c.r.a.p. I didn't know Donna, had never even met her. What had I done? I didn't know Donna, had never even met her. What had I done?

"Why?" I asked.

"My kid plays that record of yours every minute of the day! I know every word of it, and to tell you the truth, I'm sick of it!" She said it with a smile.

I had to laugh, thinking of when I was a kid playing the Beatles and my mother had said almost the exact same thing. And it made me feel good knowing that I was pleasing kids and driving parents just a little bit crazy. It was the first time I'd heard someone complain that my music was being played too much.

By the time they announced the nominees for Best Rock Performance, Female, my headache was gone. I think it was the kid in me, the excitement, the antic.i.p.ation. I was completely caught up in the whole thing. There was something incredibly satisfying about knowing that even after all the c.r.a.p Chrysalis had done to make life h.e.l.l, they couldn't spoil this moment. I'd found a way to keep the joy of it all locked away in a safe place, somewhere they couldn't touch. They read the names of the nominees: Grace Slick for Dreams, Dreams, Marianne Faithfull for Marianne Faithfull for Broken English, Broken English, Joan Armatrading for Joan Armatrading for How Cruel, How Cruel, Linda Ronstadt for "How Do I Make You," and Pat Benatar for Linda Ronstadt for "How Do I Make You," and Pat Benatar for Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion. They took the winner's envelope and opened it. "And the-"

"Don't be mad if I don't win," I whispered to Rick.

"-winner is Pat Benatar, Crimes of Pa.s.sion Crimes of Pa.s.sion!"

I bolted out of that chair like there was a spring up my b.u.t.t. I went flying up to the podium, all worries about being seen as a sellout gone. I was so thrilled.

I was hyperventilating. All plans of being ubercool and nonchalant vanished as soon as I heard my name. Looking back on it now, I can't remember exactly what I said, but I'm pretty sure I gushed-not exactly Sally Field's "You like me" speech, but probably close. Then, when I walked offstage, I took a real look at the award. It was set on a wooden block, but the little Victrola was plastic. I remember thinking, Wow, plastic! That's kind of chintzy! Wow, plastic! That's kind of chintzy!

Chintzy, maybe. But thrilling nonetheless.

CRIMES OF P Pa.s.sION WAS WAS still a top ten alb.u.m in the spring of 1981 when Chrysalis started pushing us to get back into the studio for a new record. It was insane to think that we had to make a third alb.u.m while the second one was still being promoted. We should have used the leverage we'd gained from still a top ten alb.u.m in the spring of 1981 when Chrysalis started pushing us to get back into the studio for a new record. It was insane to think that we had to make a third alb.u.m while the second one was still being promoted. We should have used the leverage we'd gained from Crimes of Pa.s.sion, Crimes of Pa.s.sion, taken control, and avoided jumping right back into the studio. But once again Chrysalis invoked the suspension clause of our contract. They had the right to request a new record even though we were still promoting the last one. At least we were starting from a small base of material. We had a few songs that had been recorded but not used on the second record that we planned on carrying over to the new project. Unbelievably Chrysalis brought Keith Olsen back in to produce; however, this time they offered Spyder co-production, with producer credit and full pay. While Chrysalis had fought us every step of the way about giving Spyder credit, the irony was that they saw the talent that he had for producing. They loved his actual input, which was why it was so mystifying that they didn't want to acknowledge his contribution. Depending on how you looked at it, this was either a peace offering or a consolation prize, but it didn't hurt that he got his own attorney. taken control, and avoided jumping right back into the studio. But once again Chrysalis invoked the suspension clause of our contract. They had the right to request a new record even though we were still promoting the last one. At least we were starting from a small base of material. We had a few songs that had been recorded but not used on the second record that we planned on carrying over to the new project. Unbelievably Chrysalis brought Keith Olsen back in to produce; however, this time they offered Spyder co-production, with producer credit and full pay. While Chrysalis had fought us every step of the way about giving Spyder credit, the irony was that they saw the talent that he had for producing. They loved his actual input, which was why it was so mystifying that they didn't want to acknowledge his contribution. Depending on how you looked at it, this was either a peace offering or a consolation prize, but it didn't hurt that he got his own attorney.