I once was lost
But now I’m found
I got my feet on solid ground
Thank you, Lord
If you believe within your soul
Just hold on tight
And don’t let go
You can make it! Make it happen
—“Make It Happen”
After a few months, the other girls from Sweden moved out, and it was Josefin and I. She helped me get odd jobs, but I was also beginning to pick up more background vocal work. For this work, I’d settled on my young singer ensemble: a little black knit tank dress, black tights, and fat, slouchy socks over a pair of white Reebok Freestyle sneakers (my mother’s hand-me-down black shoes having finally been reduced to shreds). Previously, Clarissa had encouraged me to ask my mother to buy me new shoes. My mother then asked Morgan, who, she reported to me, said, “She has to learn to do things by herself.” I was a teen living on my own in the city, but whatever. Eventually, reluctantly, Morgan did buy me a pair of white Reeboks (why not black, I wondered, which goes with everything—but I was grateful to have shoes that fit and were without involuntary air-conditioning). I wore this outfit to nearly every session; it was like my uniform.
Gavin and I were working on a song together. While we were recording, he introduced me to a producer in the city, Ben Margulies, who was hired as a drummer on the session for our song called “Just Can’t Hold It Back.” Ben had his own studio, and I had begun working with him occasionally during my singer-student Long Island commuter days. His studio was in Chelsea, on Nineteenth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. Located in the back of his father’s cabinet making factory, it was about the size of a pantry. It could’ve been a chicken coop for all I cared—and it honestly wasn’t far from that. What mattered was that it was almost a full recording studio, the place where I belonged. For me, the studio is part sanctuary, part playground, and part laboratory. I loved being there, writing, riffing, singing, dreaming, and taking risks. I’ve slept many a night on many a studio floor, beginning with this humble yet magical place.
Ben and I worked incessantly over the course of a year or so. Occasionally his partner Chris would be there, helping with the programming. I was coming up with a lot of ideas, and we were recording, but I still felt the guys weren’t going fast enough. I was hitting a new stride. I was coming up with all these lyrics and melodies and was frustrated because it seemed to me like it should be going faster. Maybe because I was only seventeen and extremely impatient, but I felt I was differently invested, like I was on a different trajectory than they were. Music was my whole life—so much of my belief system, my survival, was entwined in my songs. There was an urgency in my air, in the moment, and in me. This was my time, and I could feel it. I felt like I was running fast toward something or someone soon, and I was not about to let anyone or anything slow me down.
Ben and I were both excited by the songs we were working on but ultimately our sensibilities and ambitions were incompatible. I think he thought we were going to form a duo, like the Eurythmics, with him as co-lead, the Dave Stewart to my Annie Lennox. I was like, “Um, good luck with that; can we just focus on putting down my songs, please?”
We were able to create a full demo that I thought really showcased my songwriting and vocal styles. My most vivid memory of being in that studio is of me sitting by myself on the floor in the corner writing lyrics and melodies, or staring out the window dreaming of the day I would break through. Look, Ben was very committed and I spent a lot of time working with him, and we got a lot done. But I had a vision, even back then, that my career had the capacity to go way beyond what he or most people around me were even capable of imagining.
Ben suggested we have some “security” in place, by way of a formal agreement, so he photocopied a contract out of the book All You Need to Know About the Music Business (co-written by Don Passman, who would, ironically enough, several years later become my lawyer). With no parent, legal counsel, manager, or even a good friend, I signed it. I was maybe eighteen years old. Obviously I didn’t know much about contracts and deals then, but what I did know was that there was value in my lyrics and the songs. (I remembered seeing a documentary on the Beatles when I was growing up and being shocked that they didn’t have complete ownership of the songs, they’d written—the Beatles!) So I knew not to give away all my publishing. Some of the lyrics to songs like “Alone in Love” I had begun writing in early high school.
We started setting up meetings with record companies and things began to move fast. We got an initial offer from a major publishing company for a song called “All in Your Mind” to be placed in a movie. I remember they offered me five thousand dollars for the publishing.
Come closer
You seem so far away
There’s something I know you need to say
I feel your emotions
When I look in your eyes
Your silence
Whispering misunderstandings
There’s so much you need to realize
You’ll feel my emotions
If you look in my eyes
Hey darlin’
I know you think my love is slipping away
But, baby, it’s all in your mind
—“All in Your Mind”
I refused, even though back then five thousand dollars seemed like a million (which was how much I got for my first real publishing administration deal). Thank God I
