he had successfully navigated his post–Ides of March and Survivor days and how he had sustained his career in an industry that many might call cutthroat.
I initially called to request a twenty-minute phoner, but I was incredibly pleased when Jim invited me to spend the afternoon in his recording studio, “Lennon’s Den” (named after one of his biggest heroes), to watch a session and to conduct a more extensive interview in his contemporary, sun-drenched home in the western suburb of Burr Ridge, Illinois.
For several hours I observed Jim, along with Larry Millas, his longstanding boyhood friend, fellow Ides of March band member, and engineer of the day’s session, at work. They overdubbed solos with several outstanding session musicians, and I then interviewed Jim for another seamless hour. Finally, we grabbed lunch at his favorite haunt, the Moondance Diner.
We touched on many themes that afternoon: songwriting, career building, and the production of his hits. Jim also relayed emotional challenges that he had faced as a result of growing up ahead of his peers. Though we went deep, the time went by in a flash. For that reason, I wasn’t too surprised, after I typed up my notes, that we had discussed enough for a comprehensive two-part interview.
Earlier this year, Jim got in touch and asked if I would help him write his memoirs. A project that could have been daunting—documenting a life!—was made endlessly enjoyable because of Jim’s charm, humor, and talent.
Before I came along, his life and music had already been immortalized through endless awards, discographies, and personal testimonies, but now I had the enviable opportunity to find out, through first-person narratives, how he had achieved his goals, and whether his journey would be better described as a struggle or a methodical game plan.
For Jim, I believe, this collaboration required incredible stamina and honesty; the courage to face memories that at times were painful, and the resolution to favor deep thought over superficial judgments. A life story is not an easy one to tell, but Jim’s high degree of emotional intelligence, and surprising ability to recall key events, make him a stellar narrator.
In my opinion, Through the Eye of the Tiger was not intended for a singular audience. It is a fascinating read for anyone looking to propel a dream, as well as for the obsessive rock music fan, music historian, or emerging songwriter.
Jim, aside from his accomplishments, remains, for many of his fans, the quintessential Midwesterner who resisted life on both coasts, the guy-next-door who married his dream-woman and life partner, Karen.
As the rare, remarkable artist who has reshuffled the deck of the American dream, Jim has redefined his talents, consistently, in an industry that is as unpredictable as the temperamental Chicago climate.
To enjoy Jim’s story, though, you must redefine the term “rock star” because, while it’s true that his flashy wardrobe stops passersby on any city street, the parallels end there.
This songwriter’s glories are not built upon endless visits to rehab nor dalliances with star-struck fans. Jim Peterik, the father, husband, brother, uncle, mentor, producer, performer, and singer/songwriter, remains aware that, with his celebrity status, he can offer creative inspiration to others, and he takes that precious gift seriously.
—Lisa Torem
THE PHONE CALL that shook my world came on an otherwise ordinary day, the way life-altering events usually do.
The ’77 VW Scirocco I had just picked up from a repair shop in Maywood, Illinois, should have had a Sunkist logo on it—that lemon had left me stranded all over the U.S. But now the old junker was finally fixed, and after a long afternoon fielding traffic, I pulled into the driveway of our ranch home on South Stone Avenue in La Grange.
I walked inside and gave way to my everyday ritual. I pressed “play” on my enormous answering machine.
“Jim, give me a call, it’s Alice Anne. What are we getting Mother for her birthday?” Click.
As I casually listened I laid my shoulder bag on the counter, and started shuffling through the mail. Lotsa junk mail as always.
Next: “Jim! Salzman. You gotta hear the new one by Rundgren. It’s sick. Call me.” Click.
I picked up a Les Paul Gibson and started idly picking. I was tired and only half-listening when I pressed the button to retrieve one last call.
“Hey, yo, Jim. That’s a nice message machine you got there. This is Sylvester Stallone. Give me a call. 604…” Click.
Rewind. Click. “Hey, yo, Jim. That’s a nice message machine you got there…”
Rewind. Click. “Hey, yo, Jim. That’s a nice …”
Time froze and I gathered my thoughts. Maybe it was a gag. It’s true that we had formed a new group, Survivor, and that by early 1982 we had established a good reputation with two albums under our belt. We had also toured with the likes of Jefferson Starship, Kansas, and Triumph. But, Stallone? What would he want with me?
Was it even Stallone? Or could it have been Sal, our Italian road manager, doing a dead-on impersonation? I had to find out. But first, I called up Frankie Sullivan, the lead guitarist in Survivor, and told him to come over right away. I explained that I thought I had just gotten a call from Sylvester Stallone!
Frankie came right over and we strategized. We manned two separate phones; I dialed the Los Angeles number and we got a quick response. “Yo!”
“Is this Sylvester Stallone? This is Jim Peterik and Frankie Sullivan of Survivor.”
“Yeah, but call me Sly,” he answered.
“Okay, Sly,” I stammered.
Speaking in his now trademark Philly accent he told us about a new movie he had just shot. It was the third in the Rocky series, Rocky III. The film was now finished except that they still needed to choose the music.
I hurriedly scrambled to find a piece of paper to write on until my hand landed on the Beatles Songs Easy Piano Series: Volume One songbook that Karen had been playing. I grabbed the thin book, still focused on every word Sly was saying, flipped it over to a mostly blank backside, and started scribbling notes as he spoke. I was jotting words, phrases, and concepts even as we went along. I wrote around another long-forgotten song I was working on called “Take These Memories” and put his phone number down next to the name Syvestor [sic] Stallone!
“Tony Scotti [CEO of Survivor’s label, Scotti Brothers] played me your song, ‘Poor Man’s Son.’” (It was a cut off of our 1981 release Premonition.) “That’s the sound I want for my movie’s title song. It’s raw, it’s street. It’s got energy and it’s got exactly what I need. Do you think you can help me out?”
By this time I felt like I was levitating and looking down at the room from a hundred feet.
“Ummm. Absolutely,” I answered.
Sly added, “I want something for the kids, something
