We were getting ready to come out with that record and Van got wind of it. His attorneys took him off that record so fast. We had to go back in at the last minute and start from scratch on that song.

About two years later-Van's still my hero, but I never talked to him again-I went to the Mill Valley movie theater. Betsy and I buy our tickets and go stand in line. Guess who's in front of me? Van Morrison and his girlfriend. I didn't want to say anything to him, because he was shining me on. He had his back to me so hard. Within thirty seconds, he grabbed this woman. "Let's get out of here," he said, and they were gone.

The Plant always had people like that coming and going. Sly Stone had a room at the Plant they called the Pit. We worked in the room for a while-that's where the engineer did that c.o.ke and nitrous mix of "All American"-and we were told we had to move to another room because Sly was coming. One night, it was raining like a motherf.u.c.ker, and I needed to get two guitars out of my car. Sly Stone pulled up in a Rolls-Royce while I'm getting my gear out of the car. He was wearing a big fur coat, floppy hat, and had an entourage around him. One of his guys goes up, hits the buzzer. As soon as the door opens, they hold it open. Sly goes in last. I run for the door. It's pouring rain and I'm carrying two guitars. "Hey, hold the door," I said.

Sly looked right at me and let the door slam shut. I was p.i.s.sed. I was in a bad mood about something anyway. I went off. I started kicking the door, yelling and screaming, hitting the buzzer. Mr. Nitroushead at the front desk opened the door and I steamed past him. Sly was standing with his guys in the lobby. "You motherf.u.c.ker," I said. "You could have held that door open. It's raining outside."

"People hold doors open for me, motherf.u.c.ker," Sly said.

His big bodyguards swung around and pushed me against the wall and Sly walked off. I was all by myself. What a p.r.i.c.k.

There was a girl who also worked behind the reception desk sometimes, who was always doing c.o.ke. "You want some?" she would say. She was there one night when I came staggering out of the studio after singing seven hours straight. My head was killing me. "I've got a singing headache," I told her.

She came around from behind her desk, undid my pants, and started blowing me, right there, in the lobby, about two in the morning. She wanted to take me in the Jacuzzi, but I didn't go for that. I wasn't that promiscuous then, but when a chick unzips your pants and starts going down on you, it's really hard to say no. That's the kind of place this was.

When I got my record deal from Capitol, they gave me $50,000. Before then I'd been broke-flat down to nothing and getting unemployment. The next week, I got the check for fifty grand. When I told the unemployment people about it, they said, "What about the next week? Are you getting paid?" They gave me my checks. And I've got a Porsche parked out front.

Because I was using a Capitol Records in-house producer, all the recording costs went on their budget and I got to keep the whole fifty grand. I was living good. This was the most money I'd ever had. Of course, I had to pay band members. I had to pay roadies, if I wanted to use roadies. I had to rent trucks. But the studio time and the musicians' studio pay was all covered by Capitol. They were running a tab, though I didn't realize that.

Anyway, my first alb.u.m, Nine on a Scale of Ten, Nine on a Scale of Ten, got done and came out in May 1976. I went out on tour almost immediately with Joe c.o.c.ker, Ted Nugent, lots of others. I opened for everybody. They pulled the plug on that record at 27,000 copies. It went out of print. Not because it was dying. It didn't do that great, but there was some kind of behind-the-scenes politics with Dee Anthony, who still thought I owed him money from Montrose and managed to wield considerable power in the industry, that killed it at the label. got done and came out in May 1976. I went out on tour almost immediately with Joe c.o.c.ker, Ted Nugent, lots of others. I opened for everybody. They pulled the plug on that record at 27,000 copies. It went out of print. Not because it was dying. It didn't do that great, but there was some kind of behind-the-scenes politics with Dee Anthony, who still thought I owed him money from Montrose and managed to wield considerable power in the industry, that killed it at the label.

As a result of this, I parted ways with Jerry Berg and signed for management with Ed Leffler, the man who would handle my career for the rest of his life.

I'd first met Leffler when I was auditioning for Capitol in Hollywood at the Starwood with my new band, which I was calling Sammy Wild and the Dust Cloud. A dust cloud is the beginning of a star. I was still on the Bowie kick, and I was going to be from another planet. I was going to be from Mars. I was appearing on a showcase gig that Jerry had helped put together with Back Street Crawler, a new band led by Paul Kossoff of British rockers Free, whose "All Right Now" was a favorite of mine. Leffler ended up at the showcase because he managed the red-hot British teen pop band the Sweet, and he'd come looking for a good opening act for his band when the Sweet hit the Santa Monica Civic the following week. He caught my show.

"There is no way I'm going to let that blond-haired energetic motherf.u.c.ker open for my guys," he said. He hired Back Street Crawler instead, only Kossoff died the next day of a drug-induced heart attack on a plane to New York and I got the gig anyway.

At the show, I'd done everything I could. I'd run out into the audience. I'd pulled every trick I knew. I really worked that show hard and we drew a huge encore-a band without even a record deal. Backstage I overheard Leffler reaming out the vocalist for the Sweet. He was bombed, probably on drugs, and Leffler laid into him. He was worried that the band, which was huge in England and had "Fox on the Run" on the charts in this country, was too poppy for America. When we talked later, I told him I already had a manager, but I wanted to go with Leffler. I still owed Jerry Berg the $10,000 he'd paid for the showcase date in Hollywood. He maxed out his credit card to pay for it. Leffler covered the $10,000 and took over my management from then on.

Instead of f.u.c.king around, we went straight to England, to Abbey Road, and recorded my next alb.u.m, Red Red. When we were getting ready to head over, Carter found a guitar player called Scotty Quick, who had a bad cocaine habit, although I had no idea. I didn't know anything about cocaine in those days, other than I'd done it a couple of times to little effect. At this time of my life, I was not into drugs at all. I didn't drink. I didn't do drugs. I didn't even drink wine. Nothing. Scotty Quick was a good guitar player, but he couldn't remember the songs. We'd rehea.r.s.e them one day, everything was great. The next day, it was like a brand-new song. We were getting ready to go to England to record and he kept f.u.c.king up.

One night he came to me in my dream and I told him off, but he was vague, hard to reach, and I couldn't communicate. Next day I found out that he'd OD'd shooting c.o.ke in a Union 76 gas-station bathroom. Real quickly, we lined up a new guitarist. My drummer Scott Mathews recommended some guy he knew, named John Lewark. I took Lewark, Mathews, ba.s.sist Bill Church, and Alan Fitzgerald from Montrose on keyboards and went for six weeks to make a record in England.

We were all on a shoestring. It wasn't like I was some big star. I had the record deal, but there were all these guys that looked at me like, "I'm better than him, how come he has a record deal?" I was working my a.s.s off. I got a record deal because I went to bed at night writing songs. I woke up in the morning writing songs. I spent every second of my waking hours trying to write songs. I really wanted to be a songwriter. Mathews and Lewark looked down at me; "I can play guitar better than him," or "I can write songs better than that." There were guys around me every now and then that would come into my world, trying to make a little money, have a job, but at the same time didn't respect me. Those guys never played with me again.

Carter had just signed Bob Seger. He sent me a demo of some song Seger wrote but didn't like, called "Night Moves." I listened to it, worked on it for a day or so, but didn't feel it. I wanted to rock. Carter thought Seger's song was a hit, but I gave it back to Carter and he made Seger do it. Carter was always trying to get me to do hits, and every time anything seemed like a hit to me, I hated it. He wanted me to do "Catch the Wind," and I loved Donovan, so I did that, but I always wanted to be heavy metal. I wanted to rock hard. Carter was trying to get me a pop hit.

Before I went to England, I'd sold my Porsche for $5,000. I'd bought it for $5,000 and I'd sold it for $5,000. I'd heard that you could buy a Ferrari in England for about half what they would cost over here. In those days, you could go to Europe and buy European cars-Aston Martin, Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati, Jaguar-pay to ship them back and still double your money. I'd never even really seen a Ferrari up close. J. Geils took Ronnie and me for a ride around Boston one time in his, a 250 Lusso. That blew my mind-the way it sounded, the way it smelled, the whole thing about it. I had an infatuation. I was always a car guy.

With my $5,000, I bought a Ferrari 330GT 2+2 that belonged to land speed record holder Donald Campbell, my first Ferrari. Right-hand drive, four-seater, four headlights, bluebird blue. I bought it the first week we got there, and that p.i.s.sed off Scott and those guys, too. It had four seats in it. Every day we drove to the studio in my right-hand-drive Ferrari. I was driving it all over England on days off. Betsy and Aaron had come with me to England, and I took them to Stonehenge one day. I drove to Scotland another. Betsy and I stayed out by Wembley, in a kind of apartment, so I was always driving to and from the studio. For six weeks, we went everywhere in this Ferrari. Then, right before I left, I shipped it home.

It broke down a couple times. One time, the radiator hose vibrated loose, hit the fan belt, and drilled a hole in that son of a b.i.t.c.h in the middle of London. I was underneath the thing in the thick of traffic, Betsy and Aaron sitting on the side of the road. The car got so hot, it vapor-locked. I fixed it with a makeshift hose and a borrowed screwdriver.

Capitol paid for everything, but I was digging a hole with them. They paid for making the records. Then they would put me out on tour opening for anybody and everybody and they had to pay for that, too, since I was only making $500 to $1,000 a night as an opening act, and it took about $1,200 a day to be on the road. So Capitol had to pay the difference, which was why, even though I was doing everything cheaply, I still wasn't making any money.

AS WE WORKED on the second alb.u.m, I wrote the song "Red." Carter tightened up some of the lyrics. He was good with lyrics, so I would listen to him. He was more lyrical than me. "Crimson sin intensity" is one of Carter's lines. I thought that was clever, kind of deep. I started wearing red, painted my guitars red. I just started going red, red, red. on the second alb.u.m, I wrote the song "Red." Carter tightened up some of the lyrics. He was good with lyrics, so I would listen to him. He was more lyrical than me. "Crimson sin intensity" is one of Carter's lines. I thought that was clever, kind of deep. I started wearing red, painted my guitars red. I just started going red, red, red.

I realized at some point that I really love the color red. I was still into numerology from that book that I found in that trunk behind my house; between that and the dream I'd had with my father right before I heard about his death, I'd started seeking out the mystical. Somewhere it came to me that the color red was my color. That was the magical color. Red was everything.

Red is fuzzy, if you look at it. You light red with a red light, it doesn't have hard edges, like most colors. It turns into fuzz. It isn't like a defined circle. It gets deep. It looks soft. Yet it's aggressive as h.e.l.l. It's blood. And it's energy. It means so many different things. Red is my color. It means everything for me. I dream in red.

I took it to numerology. R is a 9, E is a 5, D is a 4. Red's a 9. I became the red/9 guy. That was it. They both mean the same thing. They have a power. Red has a rhythm. I put red as my color, nine as my goal. I want to raise my consciousness to the nine. I changed the name of my publishing company from Big Bang to the Nine Music, wrote the song "Red," and started dressing in red. I thought this was going to represent what was going on inside of me. If I put on a pair of red pants, red shoes, red shirt, red guitar-that's Sammy Hagar. I just felt it. I believed it. No one told me to do it. It was what I wanted to do.

Years later, David Geffen told me he thought I should lose that red thing.

I got along really well with Geffen. He was a strange creature, that's for sure, but he is also as smart as they come. But, by the time I got to those guys, they didn't quite understand where I was coming from. I was deep into it by then.

Right before the January 1977 release of the Red Red alb.u.m (official t.i.tle: alb.u.m (official t.i.tle: Sammy Hagar Sammy Hagar), I got offered the Kiss tour, very big deal, at the last minute. I was added to the bill that February at Madison Square Garden in New York so late I wasn't even advertised on the show. People started booing before I walked out. I had never played New York except with Montrose. They didn't even know me. I looked out and the whole place was dressed like Kiss. They've all got their makeup on. They were booing and flipping me off.

"Hey, what the f.u.c.k do you people think you're doing booing me?" I said. "You haven't even heard the music yet. You don't even know what the f.u.c.k you're talking about."

All dressed in red, I played the first song, "Red," entirely unknown to the crowd. I played "Bad Motor Scooter"-pulled some Montrose out of my a.s.s. I could hear the crowd between songs: "f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.k you." Then I went into "Catch the Wind," the Donovan song that was the single off Red, Red, and in the middle of it, they drowned me out with boos and started throwing s.h.i.t onstage. I stopped. and in the middle of it, they drowned me out with boos and started throwing s.h.i.t onstage. I stopped.

"I'm so happy that they flew in this special audience for me from Los Angeles," I said, and the place went nuts. They charged out of their seats. They wanted to kill me.

"f.u.c.k you," I said and dropped my pants, pulled out my d.i.c.k, and smashed my f.u.c.king '61 Stratocaster to pieces onstage. What an idiot. Demolished this vintage guitar and walked offstage.

Standing in the wings, of all people, was Bill Graham, holding his face, going, "Oh, my G.o.d. Sammy." He followed me into the dressing room. "What is wrong with you? Don't ever do that! You could have won over those people."

Bill had been riding in a limo on his way to the airport when he'd heard on the radio that Sammy Hagar was opening that night for Kiss at Madison Square Garden. I often wondered if Graham was the Bill that the psychic Miss Kellerman asked me about. Graham, the promoter behind all those historic sixties concerts at the Fillmore Auditorium and the boss of the San Francisco music scene, had taken a personal interest in my case. He was working me up the bills at Winterland, his home base of operations through the seventies, and was one of the first concert producers to act like I might have a shot.

When Graham heard on the radio about my show with Kiss, he turned around and came straight to the concert-just in time to walk in and see me pulling down my pants.

As I was standing there with Bill, Paul Stanley from Kiss came in. "What happened?" he said. "That was terrible. I can't believe it."

I told everybody to shove the Kiss tour up their a.s.s, and never did another date with the band. It was the worst experience I ever had onstage and it ruined me in New York. They didn't even know who I was. They hated me before they heard me.

I was just beginning to figure out who I was. Shortly after the Red Red alb.u.m was released, I did a $1-admission concert called the Rising Star in Seattle, a radio station promotion run by some disc jockeys in the Northwest. It worked well for me. I sold out and the Northwest became one of my first big areas. alb.u.m was released, I did a $1-admission concert called the Rising Star in Seattle, a radio station promotion run by some disc jockeys in the Northwest. It worked well for me. I sold out and the Northwest became one of my first big areas.

The reviewer covering the Rising Star concert in the paper called me "The Red Rocker, Sammy Hagar." Some kid came up to me with the newspaper, and he asked me to sign it. "Will you sign it 'The Red Rocker'?" he said. I was happy just to sign an autograph. A few days later, I was walking down the street in Texas and somebody yelled out, "Hey, it's The Red Rocker." And it hit me-hey, that's me.

6.

I CAN'T DRIVE FIFTY-FIVE I found a home in Mill Valley. I had been renting this place, but when the lady who owned the house decided to sell, I knew I had to buy it. My heart and soul were already in it. Leffler arranged for Capitol to give me an early advance on my next alb.u.m after Red, so that I could put the down payment on this architectural wonder of a house. It was on top of Mount tam in Mill Valley, called tamalpais Pavilion, and I could barely afford the house, but I knew I wanted to live there. A Frank Lloyd Wright protege named Paffard Keatinge-Clay, a British-born architect, built the place for himself, got divorced, and lost it. He built this house out of cement and gla.s.s, and steel-reinforced concrete-the first prestressed concrete house in architectural history. He built another one just like it in Switzerland, and he built a bank in Pasadena that's exactly double the size. And that was it. found a home in Mill Valley. I had been renting this place, but when the lady who owned the house decided to sell, I knew I had to buy it. My heart and soul were already in it. Leffler arranged for Capitol to give me an early advance on my next alb.u.m after Red, so that I could put the down payment on this architectural wonder of a house. It was on top of Mount tam in Mill Valley, called tamalpais Pavilion, and I could barely afford the house, but I knew I wanted to live there. A Frank Lloyd Wright protege named Paffard Keatinge-Clay, a British-born architect, built the place for himself, got divorced, and lost it. He built this house out of cement and gla.s.s, and steel-reinforced concrete-the first prestressed concrete house in architectural history. He built another one just like it in Switzerland, and he built a bank in Pasadena that's exactly double the size. And that was it.

Gla.s.s all the way around, eight concrete columns hold everything up. the roof is sitting on top of it. It's not bolted down whatsoever. I sc.r.a.ped up the $60,000 down payment from Capitol and the owner carried me for the other hundred grand. I didn't know how I was going to make the payments, but I managed. I still live there today.

When it was being built, a filmmaker named John Korty lived down the street and watched the endless parade of cement trucks driving past his door. He wrote a script about a guy whose house burned down. An earthquake destroyed his next house, and then another one the termites ate and he was a termite inspector. He freaked out and built this cement house that was bulletproof. That's the story of Crazy Quilt, Crazy Quilt, a kind of cult cla.s.sic among early American independent films. That's my house in the movie. a kind of cult cla.s.sic among early American independent films. That's my house in the movie.

The Red Red alb.u.m had a little success. It sold about 100,000 alb.u.ms. After the tour, Carter and I went straight back to England to make alb.u.m had a little success. It sold about 100,000 alb.u.ms. After the tour, Carter and I went straight back to England to make Musical Chairs Musical Chairs. That alb.u.m had a sort of Top 40 hit, "You Make Me Crazy," that was me trying to write like Van Morrison.

When it was time to hit the road in support of Musical Chairs, Musical Chairs, I landed the Boston tour. The group was the big new rock band of 1977. First, they went out opening for Black Sabbath, but quickly graduated to headliner. Boston hired me as the opening act for the whole tour. The first leg lasted nine months, with a break for Boston to go in and record their second alb.u.m. While Tom Scholz and the rest of Boston did that, I went out and did a miniature headline tour and did pretty d.a.m.n good. Small arenas, three- and four-thousand seaters in Texas and Southern California. Then I went back and did the second Boston tour for eleven months starting in fall 1978, opening every night, two and three nights in every venue in America. I landed the Boston tour. The group was the big new rock band of 1977. First, they went out opening for Black Sabbath, but quickly graduated to headliner. Boston hired me as the opening act for the whole tour. The first leg lasted nine months, with a break for Boston to go in and record their second alb.u.m. While Tom Scholz and the rest of Boston did that, I went out and did a miniature headline tour and did pretty d.a.m.n good. Small arenas, three- and four-thousand seaters in Texas and Southern California. Then I went back and did the second Boston tour for eleven months starting in fall 1978, opening every night, two and three nights in every venue in America.

There were only a few places where I could pull that off: San Francisco, San Jose, Santa Cruz, Santa Monica, San Bernardino, and San Antonio, Texas. Those were the six markets where I could go make five grand. Leffler would put me in those markets while I was out touring, opening for other people, and do quick little headline shows to keep me alive.

On that first little headline tour, I did the craziest thing. I made a live alb.u.m, All Night Long, All Night Long, and that became my next release in 1978. Oddly enough, the live alb.u.m sold about 250,000 records. and that became my next release in 1978. Oddly enough, the live alb.u.m sold about 250,000 records.

I was starting to break. You could see it. My record was selling with no singles, no radio airplay, no nothing. Just twenty-one months of nonstop touring.

On my next alb.u.m, Street Machine, Street Machine, I parted company with Carter and decided to produce it myself. For years, Carter had been giving me these dumb songs, always trying to get me a Top 40 hit, trying to get me to do covers like "Dock of the Bay." When I'd finally bent over backward and done "Dock of the Bay," covering Otis Redding, for G.o.d's sakes, with guitarist Steve Cropper, who wrote the d.a.m.n song, it didn't even work. I'd brought the guys from Boston over to Wally Heider's Studio in San Francisco after a May 1979 Day on the Green concert we played across the bridge in Oakland before fifty-five thousand fans, and they sang background vocals. That was supposed to be a shot at a Top 40 thing, but even KFRC in my hometown would not touch it. I was already headlining concerts in the Bay Area for promoter Bill Graham, but they wouldn't play my records on the radio. I'd given Capitol "I've Done Everything for You" on my live alb.u.m, a song that two years later was a Top 10 hit for Rick Springfield, but they hadn't been able to get one radio station for me. To Top 40 radio, I was a heavy-metal guy. I parted company with Carter and decided to produce it myself. For years, Carter had been giving me these dumb songs, always trying to get me a Top 40 hit, trying to get me to do covers like "Dock of the Bay." When I'd finally bent over backward and done "Dock of the Bay," covering Otis Redding, for G.o.d's sakes, with guitarist Steve Cropper, who wrote the d.a.m.n song, it didn't even work. I'd brought the guys from Boston over to Wally Heider's Studio in San Francisco after a May 1979 Day on the Green concert we played across the bridge in Oakland before fifty-five thousand fans, and they sang background vocals. That was supposed to be a shot at a Top 40 thing, but even KFRC in my hometown would not touch it. I was already headlining concerts in the Bay Area for promoter Bill Graham, but they wouldn't play my records on the radio. I'd given Capitol "I've Done Everything for You" on my live alb.u.m, a song that two years later was a Top 10 hit for Rick Springfield, but they hadn't been able to get one radio station for me. To Top 40 radio, I was a heavy-metal guy.

By the time I went into the studio to record Street Machine, Street Machine, I was over trying to get a Top 40 hit. That record sold about 350,000 when it was released in September 1979. After years of opening concerts for everybody and their uncle, people started to think I could be a headliner. Louis Messina of Pace Concerts in Texas packaged me with Pat Travers, who was on the charts with the hit "Boom Boom (Out Go the Lights)," and the Scorpions, the German hard-rock band who were just starting out in this country. We sold out everywhere. It was unbelievable. We were doing ten, twelve thousand seats. It was a low ticket price and it was a package deal, but it was the first time I did a headline tour. I was over trying to get a Top 40 hit. That record sold about 350,000 when it was released in September 1979. After years of opening concerts for everybody and their uncle, people started to think I could be a headliner. Louis Messina of Pace Concerts in Texas packaged me with Pat Travers, who was on the charts with the hit "Boom Boom (Out Go the Lights)," and the Scorpions, the German hard-rock band who were just starting out in this country. We sold out everywhere. It was unbelievable. We were doing ten, twelve thousand seats. It was a low ticket price and it was a package deal, but it was the first time I did a headline tour.

But Capitol Records still didn't get me. I had just done a headline tour, selling out arenas, and they couldn't get me past 350,000 records. My business had quadrupled, not just the box office but T-shirts, everything. I was becoming a genuine rock star onstage. In England, I was on the cover of Melody Maker Melody Maker and and New Musical Express New Musical Express. They took a picture of me in shorts, high socks, tennis shoes, and a tank top with my Trans Am and my Explorer. I looked f.u.c.king mean. One headline said, "Van Halen, Look in Your Rearview Mirror." We sold out fourteen theater shows in England before we even left this country.

My last alb.u.m for Capitol, Danger Zone, Danger Zone, released in June 1980, simply reinforced that Capitol did not know what to do with me. It sold another 350,000 copies, even though I was packing venues all over America. I sold out the Oakland Coliseum Stadium that Fourth of July. Originally, Tom Scholz, the genius guitarist behind Boston, was going to produce. He came out and did preproduction, but his record company decided he should be working on another Boston alb.u.m, not somebody else's record. They were going to sue him, so he left. The next day, I hired somebody I knew, named Geoff Workman, at the last minute, because we were already kind of in the studio, ready to go. Workman, an engineer who worked with Queen's producer, had just finished recording an alb.u.m with Journey and their new lead vocalist, Steve Perry, and I liked what I heard. Scholz was upset that I replaced him so quickly, but I told him I didn't have money to burn. I needed to get going and get back on the road. That's when I really broke wide-open. Touring in support of released in June 1980, simply reinforced that Capitol did not know what to do with me. It sold another 350,000 copies, even though I was packing venues all over America. I sold out the Oakland Coliseum Stadium that Fourth of July. Originally, Tom Scholz, the genius guitarist behind Boston, was going to produce. He came out and did preproduction, but his record company decided he should be working on another Boston alb.u.m, not somebody else's record. They were going to sue him, so he left. The next day, I hired somebody I knew, named Geoff Workman, at the last minute, because we were already kind of in the studio, ready to go. Workman, an engineer who worked with Queen's producer, had just finished recording an alb.u.m with Journey and their new lead vocalist, Steve Perry, and I liked what I heard. Scholz was upset that I replaced him so quickly, but I told him I didn't have money to burn. I needed to get going and get back on the road. That's when I really broke wide-open. Touring in support of Danger Zone, Danger Zone, I saw it was really starting to happen for me. I saw it with my own eyes. At every concert, people were singing my songs. They knew who I was. I could see it coming every night. From the time I began playing music, I'd put my nose to the grindstone, head down, rolled up my sleeves, and went forward. I'd never made it and I'd never had any money. When I came back, my accountant told me I had $300,000 in the bank. "What do you want to do?" she said. I saw it was really starting to happen for me. I saw it with my own eyes. At every concert, people were singing my songs. They knew who I was. I could see it coming every night. From the time I began playing music, I'd put my nose to the grindstone, head down, rolled up my sleeves, and went forward. I'd never made it and I'd never had any money. When I came back, my accountant told me I had $300,000 in the bank. "What do you want to do?" she said.

I'd made an alb.u.m a year for the five years at Capitol, while I was touring constantly. I would come off the road and go in the studio. If I wasn't touring, I was making a record. The label paid tour support, but because my records weren't selling that well and I was constantly on the road, I wasn't earning out the expenses. I had done well in England and other European countries, but Capitol never paid me a single royalty. In fact, they told me I owed them $175,000. I had a really bad record deal. I was getting about twenty cents a record. I was spending more money on tour than I was earning. I decided to sue Capitol.

John Kalodner, the big-cheese A&R man at Geffen Records, wanted to sign me to the label David Geffen had just started. At that point, he had only signed John Lennon and Donna Summer. They offered me a million-dollar deal. I was getting fifty grand a record from Capitol and owed them money, but the money Geffen gave me paid for the lawsuit. One day, we walked into court at Marin Civic Center and the judge told Capitol, "I think you folks have made enough money off this young fella." He let me out of the deal. I walked away a free man.

Geffen broke me on the charts. I finally had hit records that matched my box office on the road. Capitol never managed that. Capitol didn't market me. They didn't give a c.r.a.p. It was especially sweet when I signed with Geffen and shoved it up Capitol's a.s.s with my first gold and my first platinum alb.u.m. That was the beginning of a sixteen-year streak of million-seller alb.u.ms.

Kalodner was the greatest A&R guy. He got Jimmy Peterik of Survivor to cowrite a song with me, "Heavy Metal," and sold it to the movie even before my alb.u.m came out. Jonathan Cain of Journey and I cowrote a song, too. Kalodner tried to put me together with different writers, but I didn't like writing with other people. I was not that confident to be sitting around a guy I didn't really know and show him my ideas. I would start tightening up. I didn't feel like I could express myself well enough. Besides, I take everything personally. But I wrote twenty-eight songs for the alb.u.m. Kalodner suggested Keith Olsen as producer and I liked that idea. Olsen produced Fleetwood Mac and Pat Benatar. We made a great record, Standing Hampton, Standing Hampton, no question about it, with an instant Top 40 hit, "I'll Fall in Love Again," when it was released in January 1982. Went out on tour, headlining arenas, double nights in a lot of places, and I became rich and famous right then and there. no question about it, with an instant Top 40 hit, "I'll Fall in Love Again," when it was released in January 1982. Went out on tour, headlining arenas, double nights in a lot of places, and I became rich and famous right then and there.

After Geffen signed me, everything changed. The turn of fate that happened in my life was unbelievable. I had plenty of money from my record deal with Geffen, and Kalodner didn't want me to even think about going on the road. For the first time in my adult life, I was home for almost a year. Since I started in the business, I'd never been home. Betsy was as happy as a lark. I built a swimming pool for my house. I grabbed my old pal David Lauser, who was with me in the Justice Brothers, and put a band together. I had money. I had a band. I had a crew.

For years, I'd been working my a.s.s off. Family life was something that just sort of happened to me. I'd barely noticed. I got married and had a baby while I was struggling with the band. When my son was a child, I went out on the road. I couldn't always afford it, but even after I could afford it, taking Betsy and a small child was never easy. When Aaron was older, we put him in a boarding school, North Country School in Lake Placid, New York, and Betsy started going on tour with me. But she couldn't stand touring. She hated flying. She didn't like hotel rooms and living out of suitcases. My marriage was always a struggle. If she wasn't on the road, every night calling home meant arguments. I was messing around a lot, as much as I could. I still wasn't doing drugs or falling down drunk, but I started living the life a little bit. I tried not to get involved in anything serious. That way I could at least convince myself that I wasn't really doing any damage.

Almost across the street from Aaron's school, on the highway, there was this log cabin that was for sale and wasn't expensive. It was a log-cabin kit with a big loft, five acres in the back. I bought it and we tried to spend as much time as possible there, but I was always on tour. We'd go back there for Thanksgiving. That was the law. They didn't allow students to go home for Thanksgiving, because they had this big-deal Thanksgiving feast that the kids prepared. We went back there for Thanksgiving. That was about it.

SUCCESS REALLY MOTIVATED me. Ed Leffler was amazed. "You're different than anyone I've ever met in this business," he told me. "Fame and fortune inspire you. You get better. I've never known anyone in my entire life like that in the music industry. The more success you have, the better you get. You jump on that stage now. You're so much better than you were when you were hungry." me. Ed Leffler was amazed. "You're different than anyone I've ever met in this business," he told me. "Fame and fortune inspire you. You get better. I've never known anyone in my entire life like that in the music industry. The more success you have, the better you get. You jump on that stage now. You're so much better than you were when you were hungry."

When I was hungry, I lacked confidence. I was afraid to let my heart and soul out. I was hiding. I was faking it. It seeped through. You could hear it in my voice. My actions were not true and honest, so they didn't connect. I was bluffing, acting the part. It took fame and fortune for me to become myself. That gave me the confidence I needed to bring out what I really have to offer, whatever it is. I started to get more real.

I took what was left of that big money advance from Geffen and started buying property in Fontana. I didn't think I would have that much longevity as a rock star, and I never wanted to be poor again. My mom instilled that in me-you've got to have something to fall back on. I started building apartment buildings in Fontana. I went to my brother-in-law, James, who was an electrical contractor, and had gotten a contractor's license. My nephew also became an electrician, and one of their friends became the plumber. I made them all partners. We built nine apartment buildings. I bought the old houses we rented when I was growing up. That was my first entrepreneurial effort and we did really well.

Shortly after we'd started building the apartments, the fire department came to my brother-in-law and said he needed to put a fire hydrant in front of every apartment building. He told the fire department that his plumber could put fire sprinklers in the building that would be more effective for about the same price. The insurance companies went along, because sprinklers put out fires before fire departments could even get there, but the fire department needed some convincing. We staged a demonstration for them. We bought one of my old houses, sprinkled it, and then lit a fire in a trash can. We waited for the neighbors to call the fire department, which was parked, waiting, right down the street, and, by the time they got there, the sprinklers put everything out. The house was still totally cool. Fire sprinkling is amazing. It really saves lives. The city pa.s.sed an ordinance and gave us some money. Before long, we had 180 employees and ran the second-largest fire sprinkler company in America, Fire Chief Inc.

The next thing I did was the travel agency. I started a travel agency because I was traveling so much for tours that I was paying my travel agent a small fortune. I decided to start my own, Steady State Travel in Mill Valley, hired the two ladies that used to work for the old travel agency, and gave them a piece of the action. It didn't make a lot of money, but it also didn't cost me anything when I went on tour.

Photographic Insert I [image]

My dad, Bobby Hagar.

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The Hagars before I was born, 1945.

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Bob Hope and Bobby Hagar (holding me as a baby) in Palm Springs, 1948.

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Baby Sam.

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The Hagar kids (from left to right): Bobby Jr., my sister Bobbi with me as a baby, and Velma (with cat), 1947.

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My fourth grade photo.

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With my stepdad, Mike, at my mom's place in Cucamonga.

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My high school graduation photo.

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The Fabulous Castilles in my Anastasia Street backyard in Fontana.